a list for myself and you containing standout fics in multiple fandoms. if you find your fic or tag here and wish to be removed, please let me know
Red Dead Redemption 2
kieran duffy
series
Sweet Thing, I Want You by @pistolprinc3ss on here and by same name on A03 (wip)
my favorite kieran series. so wonderfully written and a beautiful blossoming friendship to lovers arc that left me so impressed. characterization is amazingly done, and the two love interests being so smitten with each other is such a chef's kiss bring back no drama relationships
arthur morgan
one-shots
soot by @fleurdelucienne (and their other related works)
arthur seeks comfort in a final gentle touch
charles smith
one-shots
as you wish by bluebellhairpin on a03
charles quietly adoring and devoting himself to you while you remain in denial
an inch away from more than just friends by roseghoul on a03
you and charles go hunting, finding some trouble in the deathly cold of colter. huddled up to converse warmth, feelings come to light
The Pitt
jack abbot
one-shots
bite the bicep by @esotericcherub
bicep fics always win. had me giggling wiggling my toes
DC
dick grayson
dick drabble by @fancy-possum
dick is upset your mii won't marry him (so cute so cute)
author has many many works that are great, this is my introduction to them 🩷
“Do you think we’re best friends in every universe?”
The sudden question has Damian raise his brow, his head turning slightly towards you as he tilts it to the side in confusion. You two sit side by side, legs dangling over the edge of the building.
“What a bizarre question,” he mumbles, watching as you take a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth, “what brought it up?”
“Dunno,” you shrug, placing the small cup of ice cream beside you, “I read somewhere that if you dream about someone, and they look slightly different, you’re getting a small glimpse of them from a whole different universe.”
“You dream about me?” Damian asked, stunned, mouth slightly open as he pointed at himself. He hears you hum, nodding along with a small cheeky grin on your face.
“Yeah!” You laugh, legs loving back and forth as the balls of your feet come in contact with the brick walls, “a few times actually. You were a girl in one of them. You’ll make a very pretty one by the way.”
“Oh, how lovely,” he groans, head turning to the side to avoid eye contact. His skin feels warm, and he’s sure his ears have a slightly red hue to them by now. “I assume this is something that’s been popping up on your for you page on TikTok?”
“Yep!” you nod, taking a glance at him one last time, before your eyes avert up towards the moon. To Damian, you look much more relaxed, and there’s a long pause before you continue, “I think we soulmate a little too hard in this universe, that the other universes had no choice but to make us best friends in others!”
soulmates.
Damian’s heart skips a beat at the single word.
He says nothing, eyes glancing at the side of your face as you smile up at the moon. He clears his throat softly—catching your attention. Your head snaps towards him, eyes shimmering from the moonlight. Damian finds himself smiling at you, and his fingers find yours. You don’t pull away, always giving him a confused look—smile never leaving your face as you do so.
“Is that what you truly believe?” He asked, his grip tightening slightly, no hesitation as you nod at him. Smile widened as you let out a breathy laugh.
“Yeah! It’s a little crazy, but I like to believe it’s real!”
Summary: You’ve made plenty of bad calls, like trying to pet Bill’s horse or surviving on Pearson’s "mystery" stew, but stealing a treasure map from the O’Driscolls might be the one that finally finishes you. Now, you’ve managed to drag a skeptical, grumpy, and distractingly handsome Arthur Morgan into the wilderness for a three-day expedition. Arthur’s convinced it’s a wild goose chase. You’re convinced you’re going to be rich. Neither of you expected the "treasure" to be quite so... complicated. Between wobbly legs, ruined maps, and shared bedrolls
Tw: eventual smut, p in v, forced proximity, shared bed, rom com esque vibes, slowburn, grumpy x sunshine, reader is female
Notes: i wanted to write a rom com vibe fic for a while and I finally started. I hope youll enjoy following along with these twos shenanigans as much as I enjoyed writing them. This is definitely a new writing style for me so let's see how this goes 🙂↕️🙂↕️ part one is finished and will be up shortly!
biggest thanks to my baby @thundermartini for all you're support and making this moodboard and lovely divider. I love you sm ❤️💙✨️ thank you to the goddess you are @sydnastyyy for reading for me and being the sweetest love youuu my pretty angel 🩷😘 and thank you to @morganscampfire for letting me ramble about this you are the sweetest ever 🥰🤍
Chapter Index:
Part One: The Map, The Man, and The Mud
The one where you steal from Colm, face-plant in front of Arthur, and convince him that gold is better than Tahiti.
Part Two: Coming Soon
The one where the weather turns, the O’Driscolls catch up, and there’s only one dry bedroll between the two of you.
— Dolly Parton, Linda Ronstadt, Emmylou Harris / "To Know Him Is to Love Him"
⋆˙⟡♡ pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader
⋆˙⟡♡ tags/warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, age gap, devoted reader, Arthur being loved to death, emotional intimacy, protective Arthur Morgan, heavy yearning, unrequited love, childhood crush, Arthur Morgan moves on, reader is Mary Linton's younger sister, more gentle Arthur, fluff and angst, reader is LOVESICK for outlaw Arthur, soft ending, gnawing at the iron bars of my enclosure
⋆˙⟡♡ word count: ~5.7k
Shopping for ribbons has never been your favorite pastime, and it shows in the way you've been slouching since Mary started pestering you about it.
"Bonding," she said.
"It's what ladies do," she said again.
Now, you're having this one and that explained to you by a woman more patronizing than the word itself.
"Is there really much difference?" you ask the shopkeeper, staring between two that look just about identical, not a single standout thing about them.
"This one is made of fine silk, imported from—"
"And that one?" you point.
She looks scandalized by the sudden interruption, likely used to talking the heads off of her customers in hopes they'll simply take both and be done with it.
But not you. Never you.
She looks between you and Mary, your sister clearing her throat delicately, glancing at you with pleading eyes.
Go easy on her, they beg.
"That would be velvet, Miss Gillis."
You sigh, reaching out to run your fingers along the soft face of it.
"I suppose it'll do. Does it come in green?"
The woman brightens instantly, Mary exhaling a breath of relief as she saunters off. "An excellent choice, indeed," she exclaims, the words clinging to the air where she once stood like dewdrops on a cool morning.
"I'll finish up here," says Mary, coin-purse in hand. "Will you see to the tailor in the meantime?"
You're halfway to denying her when a figure passes just outside, your gaze tracking him until he disappears from view.
Was that...?
You're gone from her side before your absence registers in her mind, no doubt looking every bit as crazy as you feel, chasing ghosts through winding thoroughfares like it'll do you any good.
Only when the road opens wide, the main street a few short steps from your feet, do you falter.
He's a ghost alright—one that was never yours, but you wanted to haunt you all the same.
Arthur Morgan, looking every bit as handsome as the very first day you laid eyes on him.
Older now, broader than you've ever seen him. But the eyes are the same—so is the way he carries himself, the way he stands like the world's heavy on his shoulders and he's managing it just fine.
Your hands move before the rest of you does—fingers patting at your hair, tucking away what doesn't belong and pulling at what does.
You smooth your dress, pat your cheeks just shy of painful to get them red as a summer rose, taking stock of your appearance in a nearby window.
A man passes you by, looking more dumbfounded by the moment as you mutter the possibilities of the exchange to yourself like a common drunkard.
Maybe he won't remember you.
Or he will, but it won't matter.
He only ever saw Mary, after all.
"No," you say vehemently, shake the thought free from your mind, startling the onlooker enough to send him skittering on his way.
You take a deep, steadying breath, wring your fingers, wipe the dampness from your palms on your skirts, and wish yourself all the luck in the world.
Because that's what it'll take to win the affections of a man like him, isn't it?
Luck.
More than you've ever had at least.
Your feet step out ahead of you, closing the distance in a few easy strides.
"Arthur?" you ask, voice wavering slightly.
He turns, catches sight of you, and to your dismay, there's not a flicker of recognition in his gaze.
At least, not until you step that much closer, his eyes flickering across your face with a looming familiarity that warms you to the bone.
Then he makes for his hat, lifting it from his head and pressing it to his chest.
"Miss Gillis."
You smile, exhaling sharply from your nose, pulse stumbling over itself.
"My... it really is you," you say in thinly-veiled awe, looking him over like you've been awarded sunshine for the first time in days.
He nods, making for your elbow as if he can't well help himself, dropping his hand at the last second like he thought better of it.
"Been some time," he utters.
That drawl of his always did have a way of messing with your mind, wrapping itself around your better judgment and casting it aside.
You nod. "That it has."
You rock on your heels gently as the silence settles, interrupted only by the hustle and bustle of Saint Denis at the height of day.
Everyone moving about, carriages filling the roads, chatter in the air that doesn't find you both so readily.
He glances over your shoulder, toward the mercantile, then back to you.
"Mary with you?"
You look at him, hesitation taking the place of the sliver of hope you'd been clinging to.
"She is," you say, face screwing up as you try for amusement. "Seeing about some ribbons."
"Sounds about right."
"Asked if I could see to the tailor," you blurt then.
You glance down the street, in the direction of the discreet shopfront, then back to him. "You mind...?"
"No, ain't a problem," he says gruffly.
You walk ahead, slow down just enough to fall into step beside him, glancing sidelong at that handsome face like there's nowhere else to look.
"So... you talk with Mary much these days?" you ask, trying for casual and missing by a country mile.
It isn't worth it. You don't need to know.
Still, you tilt your head, watching his expression shift just enough for you to notice.
"No, ma'am."
Your back straightens—imperceptibly, you hope, but you know well you haven't an ounce of subtlety in your whole being.
"No? Thought you were sweet on one another."
He sighs, a heavy thing that tells you it's a sore spot you're poking and prodding at.
"Was a long time ago. Ain't much worth talking about now."
"I don't speak with my father anymore, you know," you say calmly, watching a carriage go by, loud laughter spilling out as it passes. "Me and Jamie both, but... Mary's still holding on."
His boots slow, gaze finding you before returning to the road ahead.
"Can't say I blame you. Your father ain't a nice man."
You smile. "Never were fond of him much, were you?"
He huffs, shakes his head. "Fond ain't the word I'd use, no."
In a moment of boldness that surprises even you, you allow yourself to inch closer, your shoulder brushing his.
It's more comfortable than you could've imagined, being by his side. Best of all, he doesn't ask after Mary again—only you. Doesn't pull away much either.
"You still draw?" he asks suddenly.
A quiver of excitement ripples through your stomach, stirring something in you long thought dormant.
He remembered.
And not just any old thing, either—something he taught you as a girl. When he'd guide your hand and pat your head for a job well done, and you'd look at him like he hung the moon.
Much like you are now.
Some things never change.
"Well now," you say, clasping your hands behind your back, a sudden spring in your step. "You taught me everything I know. Wouldn't be right if I didn't."
His laugh—a small exhalation that shakes his chest, crinkles his face—stokes a fire right at the heart of you, the beat of it a thunderous thing in your ears.
"That so?"
"Uh-huh. And I appreciated every lesson," you say in earnest, voice softening impossibly so. "Never did thank you back then, so..."
You look to him, smiling gently. "Thank you."
He doesn't look quite so tough now—not nearly as scary as your father always made him out to be.
His eyes lighten in a way you've never seen, the stiffness in his shoulders lessening until he's just a man, standing beside a woman he's known just about her whole life.
"Wasn't nothin'," he says, his hands fumbling at his sides. "You were a quick study, is all."
"I kept everything you drew for me."
"All of it?" he asks in surprise.
"All of it," you say with certainty, glancing at him. "Especially the deer. Hung it up in my room, I loved it so much."
"You got bad taste, little lady," he says, a hint of a smile on his lips that tells you he isn't at all stricken by the thought.
A brief silence lingers in the air between you, and when curiosity grabs hold of you, you find yourself asking, "You still keep the same company?"
He looks everywhere but you, suddenly more interested in the stones paving the road, then the blue of the sky overhead.
"Yeah... Still with 'em," he says slowly, no doubt waiting to be scolded.
But you're no Mary.
You don't need him to change a thing.
You give him a pat on the arm—a sweet, gentle thing that has him staring openly now.
"Always have been the most loyal man I've ever known."
He doesn't say much else the rest of the way, a thoughtful look on his face all the while. You think you might've said too much, spoken too soon—but then, he's there.
A hand hovering at your lower back to steady you when you lose your footing on a craggy old stone.
A gentle hold around your wrist to pull you in when a drunkard draws too close to where you stand.
His fingers staying put when you brush your own against them, worrying your lip between your teeth in hopes he doesn't notice.
If he does, he doesn't speak a word of it.
Arriving at the tailor, he offers his hand, helps you up the steps. When your eyes find his, you fiddle with the clasp of your reticule, holding it tightly in front of you.
You both speak at the same time, voices overlapping. Heat licks at your cheeks, turning them crimson as you duck your head, gesturing for him to continue.
"Well, it was—" he says slowly, fumbling over his words until he lands on the right ones, shifting his weight.
"It was real nice seein' you. After all this time."
"Yes," you say quietly, a little breathless. "Far too long."
You don't move to leave—neither does he. Instead, you hold his gaze with all the tenderness you can muster as you say, "It was good to see you, Arthur. Really."
His jaw works, tightening just so before he turns to leave.
But you can't bring yourself to leave it like that.
"Arthur—" you call out.
He turns to face you, and the question leaves you like something long overdue. Like it's been waiting there on the tip of your tongue for the day you could utter it aloud, slipping free in a hurried breath.
"If a girl wanted to pay you a visit," you say, "where might she find you?"
He watches you, hands finding his belt as he leans his weight onto one leg.
"'Spose I'd advise her against such a thing," he says after a moment.
You scoff, lips turning up at the corners. "You sound like my father."
His do the same, a barely there grin forming despite himself.
"Well then," you say, before he can get a word in. "Where can I find you?"
He pauses, tips his hat back to see you better. Takes his sweet time answering, like he knows he's starting something with all the momentum of a runaway train.
Finally—
"Just south o' Rhodes for now."
You nod slowly, let his words settle as he explains further.
"You expect to be there this evening?" you ask, tilting your head.
Too soon, you think to yourself, but he says, "Sure... If you're thinkin' of comin' by."
He looks you up and down—at your dress, your shoes. The parts of you that say you aren't made for the life he lives.
"Ain't no place for a lady like yourself."
"I'm a woman grown, Arthur," you say, holding your chin high in defiance. "This evening, then."
"Alright," he relents, watching you disappear inside without another word.
The carriage leaves you at Shady Belle at half past six o'clock, an old plantation house in Lemoyne that looks worse for wear.
Musty old paneling, hollowed out windows, vines crawling their way to the roof like they've got something to prove. It's not a sight for sore eyes, that's for certain.
But you're here for Arthur.
You'd sooner walk headfirst into the swamp itself for an evening in his company. What's a little overgrown grass?
He must not have expected you to make good on your word, because the moment you move to descend, half of his gang has drawn their guns. A proper carriage in the middle of outlaw business must look awful funny.
"Would y'all put those damn things away?" Arthur chides, waving his hand about as he approaches where you sit, waiting to descend.
He offers his hand, warm and steady around yours, helping you to the ground with the care of a man who's got no business being such a gentleman.
"We hostin' tea parties now?" asks one of the men, sitting on an overturned crate, bottle in hand.
"Shut it, Bill—" Arthur begins to say, but you interrupt him before the sentiment can take shape.
"I would hope not, Mister," you say, hands working to smooth your skirts once your feet touch solid ground.
You look him over with a discontent hum. "If we were, you'd most certainly be underdressed."
Another man with two halves of a mustache and a hat that sits just right slaps his knee, barking out a laugh.
"Oh," he says, accent smooth around every syllable. "I like this one, Arthur."
Arthur grunts in what sounds like approval, mutters a quiet, "Jesus..." that makes you bite back a grin.
You give his hand a squeeze before releasing it, subtle enough he may think he imagined it—his eyes wandering along the rouge dusting your cheeks, painted lightly across your lips.
"Well now," says the lead man, smooth as silk, descending the front steps with a theatrical little smile. "And who's come to grace our humble accommodations?"
The man is nothing short of a jackal—you know that much. The name comes to you before you can connect his face to memory, from sheer feeling alone.
"Mr. van der Linde," you say in greeting. "It's been some time."
"This is Miss Gillis," Arthur says, a silence taking hold of the group, like he's just announced the second coming of Christ himself.
You feel his hand brush the small of your back then, his quiet repositioning of himself half between you and the others making something crackle in your chest.
The sounds of the bayou filter in like sunshine through lace curtains—a chorus of frogs croaking, bugs chirping, and swamp dwellers humming low.
"Ah," says Dutch, a wolfish gleam in his eyes. "Mary's sister."
You nod politely.
"Your daddy know you're out here?" asks Bill, glancing at Arthur in mild disbelief.
"Don't know. Didn't much care to ask," you say calmly.
Arthur's voice comes low then, a warning laced in every word.
"If you'll excuse us, thought I'd show the Miss around."
"Oh, don't let us bother you, Arthur. We were only saying hello," Dutch counters, hands going up in surrender.
Arthur leads you up the steps, showing you inside until the door shuts heavily behind you, punctuating the quiet.
Your gaze sweeps the room at once as you step in further, seeing the deep cracks in the plaster, the tired lines etched into the wooden bannisters.
Your fingers trace them neatly, expression unreadable when he speaks.
His hand finds his nape, rubbing there like the gang took all the life right out of him.
"They ain't exactly known for their manners," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder like they might be listening in.
"They were just curious, that's all," you say, turning to him. "I ain't bothered."
He visibly relaxes, calm easing its way back into his eyes as he gestures at the state of the entryway.
"Place ain't in the best o' shape," he adds gruffly, looking more and more like he wishes the floor would give way and take it with him.
"It's plenty fine," you defend.
"Oh, you don't mean that," he disagrees. "Paint's peelin' up, ceiling's got holes in it. We get a little rain, whole place—"
You hesitate only briefly before your hand finds his chest, pressing it to his heart, relishing it thumping something awful beneath your palm.
You pat once, twice, then drop it back to your side.
"It's where you stay," you reassure. "I like it plenty."
You see something ease in him then—watch it give way for a softness you don't think he's shown in ages. It makes you smile, watching him fondly.
"Show me," you say, catching his gaze. "I wanna see the house."
He exhales slow, scratches his jaw in that unsettled way of his.
"...Ain't much to see."
You simply shrug, like it doesn't take much out of you to hear. Not much at all.
"Then it won't take long."
He shows you the first floor—the kitchen, the empty saloon save for a dusty old grand piano, the living room you can almost picture filled with opulent furniture, now scattered with the gang's belongings.
He mutters in disapproval all the while, eyes cutting to you more than once to read your expression, expecting disgust at the rickety state of it—
Only to see you bright-eyed, finding beauty where it might have once existed.
In the fireplace that kept the room warm in the coldest of winters, the evening light spilling into what must have been a sprawling kitchen, and in the grooves worn smooth along the bannister by hands long gone.
The bones are sturdy despite the wear, reminding you more and more of the man at your side—still standing, somehow, in spite of everything.
Halfway to the stairs, you glance back at him. He's wavering now, coming to a stop beside them, something conflicted in the slight furrow of his brow.
"Where do you sleep?" you ask, cheeks warming at the subtle implication in your words.
He watches you, your feet already ascending the steps in earnest.
His fingers carefully catch your wrist, his thumb brushing along it just firmly enough to send your heartbeat lurching against your stays.
"You don't wanna see that," he says, releasing you quickly like the touch singed his skin. He averts his gaze, busies himself with adjusting his gun belt, already sitting perfectly at his hips.
"I do."
The silence is a heady thing, swallowing up the air and leaving you both short of breath in its stead.
"I'm here, ain't I," you say, tilting your head as you regard him, eyes warm.
He breathes, slow and deep, stares at you like there's nowhere else to look.
"Well..."
He relents.
"Alright. Just for a minute."
He opens his door with a quiet sigh, stepping aside to let you enter before he does.
You don't move quickly, hands clasped as you take in the sight—the smell of him mingling with damp earth from the swamp beyond, spare boots arranged neatly beside his bed, boxes of bullets resting untouched atop an old barrel.
Sparse, but practical.
So very him it sends an ache from the pit of your stomach, up past your lungs until it settles heavily in your throat.
Your attention catches on a small cluster of photographs, nestled in a worn hutch just beside the window—edges softened with age, corners curled from years of being moved and handled, again and again.
Drifting toward them without thinking, you look them over.
The first you reach for is older than the others, image slightly blurred with the passage of time.
A woman stares back at you—dark hair pinned neatly, gentleness etched into her features, and eyes so familiar, they stop you cold.
You pick it up carefully, fingers just barely tracing the shape of her face.
"Your mother?"
Arthur clears his throat, shuffles on his feet. "Yeah."
Your gaze lifts to him, really looks, then drops back to the photograph in your hands. A soft smile touches your mouth as your thumb brushes its worn edge.
"You've got her eyes."
He doesn't answer straight away, but you don't need him to say a thing.
You set it back down where you found it, already moving to the next, stopping still when you see her.
Mary.
Pretty as always, staring off like she hadn't a clue the man she left behind would preserve this image of her for years to come.
Something in you gives way for the pesky green-eyed monster to take root, a cold hurt flooding your chest until your mouth goes dry.
He shifts on his feet, looks at the ground like he can't bring himself to see what it did to you.
Then, choosing kindness—or cowardice, you can't quite tell which—you leave it untouched, crossing the space to sit on his bed.
It's a rickety thing, one that boasts the same level of comfort as a bed of nails—but it's his. And with that thought alone, you find you don't mind it.
It creaks beneath your weight, shifts and settles to accommodate you.
He doesn't move, doesn't make to join you. Just remains where he stands, like he can't tell where you want him to go after that.
"Arthur," you say softly, patting the bed beside you. "Sit with me."
Lifting his head, he looks at you, brows drawn up tight.
"...Don't think I should," he says hoarsely.
"Please?" you ask then.
Not a hint of anger in your eyes—only the gentle pleading of a woman asking something impossible of an honest man.
He stands there another moment, shoulders tense, every line in him a lesson in restraint as he plucks the hat from his head and sets it aside.
Then something in him finally gives, and he crosses the room slowly, unhurried, the bed dipping under him when he finally settles in beside you.
You don't rush to touch him. Don't dare to break the delicate thing that hangs between you, fragile as a thread.
Instead, you allow the quiet to stretch, thick with the sounds of evening beyond the walls—the low hum of voices around the fire, a sudden burst of laughter from below, crickets beginning their ballad in the bayou.
But you never were very good at self-control, and your hand moves before you can help yourself.
The backs of your fingers brush his where they rest against his thigh—a barely there touch that sends jolts up your arm and right to the stubborn heart of you.
He goes still, gaze tracking the movement. But he doesn't dare pull away, doesn't tell you this isn't what you think it is.
So you gather what little courage you can muster and turn his hand, sliding your fingers into his—lacing them slow enough he can stop you if he truly wishes to.
He doesn't.
Your thumb traces along the rough ridge of a scar near his knuckle, memorizing the shape of it, and the words are out before you can tell yourself they're too foolish to give voice to.
"I know I ain't Mary."
Arthur exhales heavy through his nose, stare fixed somewhere along the floor at your feet.
"No."
You swallow against the sudden dryness in your throat.
"Just..." you murmur, voice catching. "Hope I'm enough as I am."
He turns to look at you—roving across your hair, your face, the stubborn set of your lips as you fight a pout—and something in his expression changes then.
Raw and aching, nearly wounded in its intensity.
"Ain't askin' for Mary," he says roughly, free hand rising to tuck a strand behind your ear, thumb brushing the shell of it before falling away.
Your heart is a traitorous thing, pounding incessantly against your chest, breaths catching in your throat.
You stare at him, lips parted, searching his eyes desperately for any hint of insincerity—only to find a sweet truth looking back at you.
"Then ask for me," you whisper, your thumb stroking over his knuckles once more. "And I'll answer."
"Can't ask that of you, darlin'," he murmurs, his forehead dropping to yours, voice harsh on the way out. "Ain't right."
Your free hand rises to cup his jaw, brushing along the rough stubble there, eyes assessing every detail of him like a picture you want to memorize.
"If I got a chance at you, I want it," you argue, soft but certain.
Your fingers tighten around his as you lean in and press a lingering kiss to his cheek—not teasing, not chaste, either. Something quieter, more profound than either of you know to do with.
Intimate in a way you've never known how to be—and if the way Arthur stills beneath your touch is any indication, perhaps in a way he hasn't known much, either.
His eyes slip shut like a man who's been starved for being wanted all his life, a surrender that makes warmth unfurl in the pit of your stomach.
You linger there for a heartbeat longer than you ought to, the feel of his skin beneath your lips, the sight of him this close near dizzying.
When you pull back just barely, your noses brush, and you notice then the change in his breathing—the change in yours.
"Arthur," you whisper, hovering there only a second longer before you press your lips to his.
His free hand finds your waist with hesitation, fingers curling around you like he still means to stop this if he can.
But the dam's been broken since the moment he caught sight of you in Saint Denis, and he knows as well as you do that there will never be a world in which you don't want him.
Before doubt can take hold, his hand is at your jaw, thumb at the hinge beneath your ear, tilting your face up to meet his.
When you don't make to pull away—your arms slipping around his neck, head angling just right to deepen the kiss—he pulls you closer with a sound in his throat that steals the breath from you.
Moments later, you're half in his lap as his mouth moves against yours, taking every little thing you offer, quiet sighs of pleasure filling the empty room.
It isn't until laughter sounds from outside that you finally part—lips swollen and red, cheeks burning bright.
He brushes along your jaw, still pressing kisses to your face as you begin to pull away.
You giggle, chiding him with a gentle swat to his chest. "Anymore of that and we'll be at it all night."
He huffs, "Wouldn't hear any complainin' outta you."
"Well," you rise, gathering yourself before offering him your hand. "I think we ought to be polite and join 'em."
"That what ya want?" he asks, staring up at you with affection, plain as day.
"Mhm," you nod, wagging your fingers at him. "Come on."
Stepping out of the front door, you're greeted by the smell of woodsmoke and Arthur's people sitting around, drinking and chattering amongst themselves.
A few of them stop to stare as you and Arthur approach, their watchful eyes taking note of how his hand holds yours.
Like you're his woman, and they all can see that now.
The gentleman you learn is named Javier holds out a bottle for you to take, a foul smelling swill sloshing inside that makes your nose turn up.
"Hey," he laughs, "Don't knock it till you try it, amiga."
"You don't gotta drink that," Arthur says, voice low as he moves to take it from you. You pull it away at the last second, looking up at him with a sly smile as you take a sip.
You regret it as soon as the liquor hits your tongue—like fire, harsh and mean all the way down.
Your face twists before you can stop it, Javier snickering in amusement as you cough, dignity abandoning you halfway through the endeavor.
And then Arthur laughs.
Not just a huff, that little breath through his nose that tells you when something landed with enough humor to coax it from him.
A real laugh—hearty and warm and gone too quickly, but there all the same. You stare at him like you've just witnessed a miracle, the sound hitting you square in the chest.
A thing you think you might fight wars to hear again.
He shakes his head, reaching to pry the bottle from your fingers before you poison yourself proper.
"Now what'd I tell ya?"
When the gang returns to their conversations and the novelty has faded, paying the two of you no mind, you pop a kiss to his lips—there for a moment, then gone again.
"What was that for?" he asks, stunned still.
You laugh, leading him to an empty seat, his eyes not leaving you for a second.
"Best get used to it," you say simply, kissing his cheek without a care in the world who sees it.
Arthur offered to take you home.
No fancy carriage, he warned—just his horse and a rough leather saddle the whole way back.
As if you'd mind this.
He's at your back, strong arms around you to keep hold of the reins, and you're giddy with drunkenness, leaning into it like there's nowhere else you'd rather be.
You sigh, a content little sound as you rest against his chest—smelling him all the while as the night air cools your skin.
His scent is pine and tobacco, worn leather and musk, and something so indiscriminately Arthur it warms you clean through.
"You smell nice," you mumble, eyes shut as you tuck your face into the crook of his neck.
You nose at him, peppering kisses that make a shudder wrack through him, the rumble of it felt against your back.
"Stop distractin' me," he mutters gruffly, all while arching into every kiss like his body disagrees with him.
"Mm," you hum, eyes blinking open to gaze at him, his own fixed on the dark road ahead. "Can't help it."
He looks down at you for a moment, searching your face, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
"Look tired," he comments, voice the gentlest you've heard it.
He tucks his chin over your head, holds you closer.
"I'll wake you when we arrive."
You pout, groaning softly. "But I wanna keep you company—"
Your yawn overtakes you then, exhaustion settling in before you can force it away.
"Reckon I'll survive, darlin'," he says quietly. "Sleep."
You nod, lying back into him, his arms keeping you steady the whole way home.
You wake just as he's rearing the horse to a stop, not but a few feet from the front steps.
"Made it in one piece," he remarks, a hint of amusement lacing his words. Enough to make you smile back, anyway.
He helps you dismount, hands lingering at your waist longer than propriety allows.
And you—adoring every second of his attention—press adamant kisses to whatever skin you can reach, giggling at the way the tips of his ears turn rosy in the moonlight.
"Alright, up you go," he mutters, helping you to the door, one firm hand around your hip to keep you from stumbling.
"Oh, I had a real great time, Arthur," you say softly, the drink finally leaving your system long enough to not have you slurring over every other word.
The swill was horrible, but the wine Dutch offered you was just right.
Arthur is silent for a moment, running a hand across his hair as he looks you over.
He lingers on your flushed cheeks, the dazed look in your eyes, your kiss-swollen lips that have yet to return to their original state.
But beyond that, he sees nothing but fondness and warmth—the kind that says you've found the one thing you've been missing all this time.
He grunts, nods his head, unable to hold your gaze much longer. "Glad to hear it."
You beam, reaching up to caress his cheek before dropping your hand away.
"Don't be a stranger now..." you murmur, tugging lightly at his shirt. "You gotta promise."
He softens, shoulders dropping slightly.
"Yeah... I promise."
You pause, biting at your cheek.
"Supper?"
He frowns in confusion.
"Come to supper tomorrow," you blurt, the words leaving you in a rush. "I'll cook—make you somethin' nice."
Then, because you've always been too honest for your own good, and the drink isn't helping none, you add, "Just wanna see you again."
He hesitates, looks around for a minute before he speaks, hands tightening where they grasp your waist.
"Don't wanna impose."
"It isn't imposing if I'm offering, now is it?" you say, chin lifting, lips pursed like there'll be no arguing the matter.
A sharp exhale leaves him as he glances back at his horse, its tail swishing where it stands, then back to you.
"What time?"
You, not expecting such open acceptance, stand a bit straighter, eyes going round as a doe's.
"'Round noon?"
He nods, mulls it over in his mind.
"Tomorrow, 'round noon... but don't trouble yourself with cookin'—"
"Gonna make you a whole damn potluck," you say, your smile the biggest he's seen from you all day, your breathless giggle catching in the wind, echoing softly in the breeze.
"Jesus, woman," he chides, lips curling at the edges, head tipping toward the house. "Go on up to bed."
You just stare, look at him like you'll never get the chance to memorize his face like this again—head tilted, lingering on every line etched into his skin, every fleck of blue you can see in his eyes, the sheer sturdiness of him.
"Goodnight, Arthur," you whisper affectionately.
To your surprise, he leans in—lips to your hair—and presses a kiss to the top of your head.
"And to you, Miss Gillis."
a/n: this was written for this request, and i had SO much fun writing it, i was giggling and blushing the entire time. Arthur is soooo ♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧⋆⭒˚｡⋆ but i hope you loved this as much as i did, and thank you for all of the love on my last few works. it means the world to me :') okay, love you, byeeeeee
You keep the last voicemail Ryland ever left you. Just a 20 second piece of him shuffling around, apologizing about being late for dinner and that he’s running about 10 minutes late but still can’t wait to eat some Ramen with you. You’ve listened to it so many times you start to hear the faint sound of his keys jingling as he locks his classroom door. The way that his breath hitches slightly as he says your name and even the background hum as he steps outside into the parking lot. It’s the sound of a normal Tuesday, and it’s something you would give anything to hear again.
You keep the last text message you ever got from Ryland. Just a small little thing about a new exhibit opening up downtown about the Andromeda Galaxy. It was meant to be used as bait to get him to take you on a date there. “This looks awesome! I’m free Saturday, if you are! Let me know if you want to go!” You never answered. You got busy at work, but you were going to. You were going to type ‘Yes!” with a million and one exclamation points. Now, the message sits there, a digital ghost of a future that was planned but never arrived, the promise of a Saturday you wanted more than anything.
You keep the movie ticket stub from the last movie you saw together. It was for some Z-List cheesy sci-fi blockbuster he insisted on, claiming the effects and physics were “offensively bad but hilariously so”. You had spent the entire movie listening to Ryland whisper corrections until an usher had to shush him. He had folded the stub into a tiny, imperfect crane that looked more like a blob that he left on your bookshelf. You found it there two days after he’d gone missing, its delicate, creased wings feeling like the only thing holding you to the Earth anymore.
You keep the worn-out hoodie he left draped over a chair in your living room. It sits there for the longest time, still smelling like Ryland and too painful for you to hold in your hands. Until one day, when it was bad and the loneliness was all consuming, you tugged it on and curled up on your couch. The sleeves were too long, but you pulled them down over your hands and pretended they were his arms wrapped around you. It was a flimsy shield against the silence that crept into your apartment, a place that no longer had Ryland in it.
You keep the single, slightly blurry photo on your phone from your last date. It’s a selfie Ryland took, his face scrunched up and laughing too hard at something you had said, you were just a swipe of motion in the corner, turning to look at him. It’s admittedly not a good picture of you, but it’s the perfect picture of Ryland. Alive, happy and completely unaware that in this moment, was the last photo you’d ever get together. You stare at it sometimes, tears in your eyes, trying to memorize the lines around his eyes when he smiles because you were terrified of waking up one day and forgetting.
arthur morgan platonic series where he begrudgingly looks after a kid (us) because i just read the greatest oneshot of my life and sobbed to it and he's father figure now
Ryland Grace’s face is the last one you ever expected to see here on the Vat. Well, maybe not the last face, but not the first, or second, or even the hundredth person. Yet, here he is, standing in front of you, explaining how he discovered astrophage breeding.
What?
The last time you remember seeing him was when he was moving out of your shared apartment because he was too head sure to admit he was wrong, and ran all the way to the bay area to escape his exile.
Leaving you alone. Alone with your stupid research and a 7 year long relationship down the drain.
Whatever.
So while he talks, explaining his stupid discovery in his own stupid way, you aren’t really listening. Just staring at him blankly, Stratt next to him.
Did she bring him onto this? How did she find out about him? Was it through you? You had helped him publish his life ruining paper, did she see your name attached? You had been smart enough to call it quits when you did, resulting in the end of your relationship in Denmark.
Your career survived because you knew when to call it quits.
Ryland didn’t.
Stratt had found you due to your specialization in extraterrestrial lifeforms. Had dragged you on as an expertise, and recruited you as an astronaut for Project Hail Mary. It’s not like you had anything to lose, you stopped the whole “relationships” thing when Ryland ran.
Fate is cruel, you think. Whatever God that’s there is cruel, only a cruel one would bring your ex-fiance to your glorified funeral.
You had already imagined the last time you would hear from Ryland, he’d see you on the news and realize you were going up into space to save everyone. He'd say something stupid, and thank you for what you were doing, maybe apologize for what happened. You’d send a thumbs up back and that’d be that.
Instead, while looking out at the sea, you feel someone stand next to you, staring at you with sad eyes. You don’t have to turn your head, you don’t even need to think twice.
“Seeing a ghost?”
You can almost imagine his frown worsening, and if you didn’t spend months crying into pillows about him, you’d feel bad.
“I didn’t think you’d be here. Stratt… recruited me, due to our-... my paper. Which, I’m sure you know, is still useless, but I uh… was able to learn some stuff anyways. Stratt has kinda made me an expert in Astrophage. So… I guess we’ll be working together.”
Great. You’ll be working together.
You keep your eyes on the water, it’s calmer than you feel. There’s jealousy in your chest.
Ryland shifts beside you, hands fidgeting, tapping against his thighs, like his body can’t keep up with his brain. Some habits don’t change, apparently.
“Look...”
You beat him to it. “If this is an apology, you’re several years too late.”
He exhales, a soft, wrecked sound. “Yeah. I know.”
Silence again. It’s the kind that used to be comfortable, that used to mean everything was understood without saying it. Now it just feels wrong.
“You left,” you say finally, still not looking at him. “Not just the apartment… or me. You left everything. Your research, your colleagues, your life.”
“I didn’t leave my research,” he says quietly. “That was the problem.”
That gets you to look at him. He looks… older. Not in a dramatic way. Just worn down around the edges. Like someone sanded him a little too hard. There are lines you don’t remember, a tightness in his jaw that never used to be there on his soft features. If you were a stupider person you’d try to smooth it out.
“You blew everything up.”
“Yeah.” A humorless huff. “That too.”
You shake your head, turning back to the ocean. “You didn’t even fight for us. You just decided you were right, and that was it. You were done- with me and your job. No discussion. No compromise. Just… gone. You just left.”
“I thought if I stayed, I’d drag you down with me.”
That wasn’t the answer you expected.
“I was already going down,” he continues, words coming faster now, like he’s been holding them in for years. “The paper, the backlash- I knew it was going to get worse. And you… your career was just starting to take off. You were getting cited, invited places, people actually respected you. I couldn’t-” He breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I couldn’t be the reason you lost that. The reason you lost what you always told me you wanted so badly.”
“So your solution was to make that decision for me?”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“Well, congratulations,” you snap. “You did a great job. Really. Nothing says ‘protection’ like running away without a real conversation and letting me find out you moved across the country through facebook like a coward.”
He flinches. Good.
“You don’t get to rewrite it now, you don’t get to turn it into some noble sacrifice.”
“I’m not trying to,” he says. “I screwed up. I know that. I’ve known that for a long time.”
“Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”
That lands harder than anything else. You can see it in the way he freezes.
“I wrote… letters,” he admits after a moment. “A lot of them. I just… never sent them.”
You stare at him. “That’s not better, Ryland.”
“I know.”
God, you hate how easily he says that now. Like he’s had years to practice admitting fault, just never to your face. Another wave crashes against the vat below. The wind picks up, tugging at your clothes, your hair, filling the space where words should be.
“You don’t get to fix this,” you say eventually. “Not now. Not here.”
“I’m not trying to fix it,” he replies. “I just-” He hesitates. “You deserve an explanation. I didn’t expect to see you again. Not like this.”
“Yeah,” you mutter. “Funny how that worked out.”
A humorless almost-smile flickers across his face. “Yeah. End-of-the-world reunion tour.”
You huff despite yourself. It’s brief and involuntary. You hate that it feels right.
For a second, something like the old Ryland is there… lighter, softer, the one who used to make you laugh in the middle of arguments just to break the tension. It’s gone just as quickly.
“I didn’t know you were on the project either. Not until I got here.”
You believe him. You’re not sure why. Maybe because lying was never his problem.
Being *right* was.
Another long pause settles in.
“You’re really doing it?” he asks softly. “Going up there?”
You shrug, like it doesn’t matter. Like you didn’t already say yes to a one-way trip into the dark. “Someone has to.”
He nods, eyes dropping to the ground. “Yeah. That tracks.”
You study him for a moment.
“You?” you ask. “Are you volunteering too, or are you sticking to ruining things on Earth?”
He lets out a quiet breath. “They haven’t asked me to go.”
“Would you?”
He looks at you then. Really looks.
And for a second, it feels like being seen again in a way you haven’t let yourself be seen since he left.
“…I don’t know,” he admits.
Honest. At least that hasn’t changed.
“Figures,” you say, turning back to the ocean. “You always ran when it mattered.”
That one hits.
You know it does.
But instead of snapping back, he just nods slowly, like he’s accepting the blow.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
The wind carries the words away before you can decide what to do with them.
You cross your arms, staring out at the endless stretch of gray-blue water, and wish, just for a second, that this was any other reunion. But it isn’t.
It’s this one, and he’s here, and before you know it, you won’t be.
Years pass faster than they have any right to. It’s not because time is kinder here, quite the opposite actually. It’s harsher, measured in simulations failed, candidates lost, bodies that couldn’t adapt, minds that couldn’t hold. But routine has a way of dulling sharp edges, and proximity has a way of wearing people down into something… softer. Or at least something quieter.
You and Ryland have not fixed things.
You have schedules that never quite overlap unless Stratt forces it, meetings where you both speak, but never to each other, papers passed back and forth with clinical notes, stripped of any kind of personality.
Then one day, somethings different.
He makes a mistake in a calculation, something simple, something old Ryland would’ve caught instantly. You point it out without thinking, scribbling over his work with a muttered, “You dropped a factor here.”
When he stiffens you expect defensiveness, maybe an argument.
Instead, he just says, “Oh. Yeah. You’re right. Thanks.”
And it feels like how you both used to work together, what brought you together and then tore you apart. It feels right, which is all too wrong.
And it happens again, and again. Conversations become less like landmines and more like… negotiations. You’ll still snap sometimes. He still shuts down sometimes, but neither of you runs anymore. You’re figuring out how to know the new versions of each other, and something about it makes your heart ache.
It’s months before launch now, and you find yourselves alone in the lab at 2 a.m., surrounded by equipment and the dim glow of samples pulsing like captured starlight. You both are exhausted, which is probably why you fall into conversation.
“You’re holding it wrong,” he says, nodding at your setup.
You don’t even look up. “I’m not.”
“You are. The thermal gradient-”
“I accounted for it.”
“For the old model,” he replies, stepping closer. “We updated the parameters after-”
You shove the tablet at him. “Then show me where I’m wrong.”
If this were a year ago, you’d argue, he’d give up on the conversation and you two would call it a day. But he just… takes the tablet, leaning in beside you, though not quite crowding you. Your shoulders brush, which should make you feel nothing.
Apparently nothing is right today.
He scrolls, frowning in concentration. “Here. This assumption… see? It doesn’t hold if the replication rate spikes under radiation stress.”
You follow where he’s pointing, and… he’s right.
“That’s new.”
“Yeah.”
“...Good catch. Thank you.”
He glances at you, checking for sarcasm that isn’t there.
“…You’re welcome,” he says.
You fix the model together, movements syncing in that old, familiar rhythm you swore you’d buried. Passing tools without asking. Finishing each other’s thoughts before they’re fully formed.
You both recognize the familiar dance but don’t say anything to break it.
By the time launch is close enough to feel real, the distance between you has changed. It’s a gap now, one you both stand at the edge of, neither quite willing to cross.
You eat in the same room now, almost together. Conversations happen, not about either of you. Never about either of you. Instead, about work, about the mission, about stupid things like whether Stratt has ever slept in her life.
(“She doesn’t blink enough.”
“She blinks.”
“Name one time.”
“…That’s not the point.”)
You almost let yourself think things are like they were.
The night before final simulations lock, you’re staring out at the water.
“Hey.”
You don’t turn right away. “Hi.”
He comes to stand beside you, closer than he would’ve before. Not touching. Just… within reach. For a while, neither of you speaks, and it’s almost that same comfortable silence it used to be.
“That’s it, huh?” he says eventually. “We’re actually doing this.”
“Looks like it.”
“You’re… ready?”
You shrug. “As I’ll ever be for a suicide mission.”
He exhales softly. “Yeah, that’s… that’s fair.”
Silence settles again. You’re both anxious, you messing with your necklace under your shirt and him twiddling his thumbs.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say,” he adds.
“If this is another apology-”
“It’s not.”
You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just out at the water, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“I meant what I said back then,” he continues. “About not trying to fix it.”
“Good,” you say. “Because you can’t.”
“I know.” A beat. “But… I also meant that you deserved an explanation. And I gave you one, but-” He hesitates. “It wasn’t the whole truth.”
You sigh, turning fully toward him now. “Ryland-”
“I was scared,” he says, cutting you off, “I told myself it was about your career, about protecting you, and part of that was true, but mostly… I was scared of being wrong.”
You blink.
“That paper, the backlash- everyone looking at me like I’d lost it. I could handle that. What I couldn’t handle was you looking at me the same way.”
“I never-”
“I know,” he says quickly. “You didn’t. But I thought you would eventually. And I didn’t want to watch that happen. So I left first.”
The words hang there.
“…Running away is a terrible strategy,” you finally come up with.
He lets out a quiet, breathy almost-laugh. “Yeah. I’ve had some time to reflect on that.”
“You think?” You stare out at the ocean, before sighing, “So what, now you’re not scared anymore?”
He considers that.
“No,” he says. “I still am. I’d still run. But I feel… I feel like I’m moving in the right direction.”
There’s something in the way he says it that lands differently than anything before. You nod slowly, like you’re filing it away.
“Good,” you say. “That’s… good.”
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“If things were different…”
You shake your head, a small, firm motion. “They’re not.”
“I know.”
Silence.
The kind that says more than words could.
After a while, you let out a breath. “You know, for what it’s worth… you’re not the same person you were. So… if things were different. Yeah.”
__________
It’s been a month on the Hail Mary, and you and Ryland have gotten to know each other pretty well. He’s a bit dorky, kind, and witty. You have to imagine you were friends back on earth from the way you two get along.
It feels like you two were two parts of a puzzle, no wonder you were chosen for this mission together. A team like this? It happens once in a lifetime.
You’ve managed to be set up pretty well as you approach Tau Ceti, Ryland’s sleeping now, you technically should be too, but you wanted to finally look through your personal things. Ryland had already seen his, including the lone photo of himself. You assume your belongings might be similar, and they are for the most part. The only difference is you have two other photos, one a photo of you grinning next to a woman you remember as Eva Stratt, holding her in a bear hug, and the other…
The other photo.
You and Ryland, with your left hand held up to the camera where a ring is being shown off on your left hand. You two look much younger, and he’s holding you close and staring at you with something in his eyes.
Like you created the earth itself.
Your hand reaches for the necklace you have on, the ring hanging off it.
Weird.
Guess you were close friends?
_______________________________
A/N: Part 2 if I feel like it maybe either way reqs open so if anyone has ideas lmk!!!!
You know, with the open ending of Hidden Truths, I always imagined that she obviously left and remarried. She ended up in another advantageous marriage, with another powerful Great House. She spent the rest of her life genuinely happy with a loving, devoted husband. She died surrounded by her children and grandchildren, long after Cregan and Sara were gone.
Meanwhile, Sara died alone and forgotten. At some point, her son discovered the truth and ended up hating both her and Cregan.
Cregan never remarried, mostly because he already had an heir. But as the years passed, Cregan became senile and started looking for his ex-wife, the only woman he ever truly loved. As his dementia got worse, Cregan kept calling her name and asking for her, but nobody around him even knew who he was talking about anymore.
Over the years, Cregan also started collecting clothes and toys for both boys and girls because, deep down, Cregan never really gave up hope that she would come back, they’d reconcile, and finally have children together, which, of course, never happened.
I think Cregan even gave those imaginary children names. Cregan would ask his heir (Sara’s son) about them, calling them by name and demanding to know where his wife was. When people told him they had no idea what he was talking about, that those people didn’t exist, Cregan would become furious and violent. In his confused state, Cregan genuinely believed his heir had done something to them, that he had somehow taken them away or even killed them.
So, in the final stage of his dementia, Cregan would constantly ask to see his children. Children that obviously never existed.
It’s kind of like Bridgerton season 1, with King George III and Queen Charlotte, that heartbreaking kind of confusion and longing, except darker and far more tragic.
https://youtu.be/cDhDC3Lc4Wg?si=d-a8QgFOKyWKvmV1
oh my god this is so much worse and more devastating than anything i could've imagined freaking genius
of course, we all know our main girl gets her best and happiest life, no matter what. born of a good house, educated, pretty, and no longer putting up with men's bullshit or family drama
but i didn't consider the bastard, sara truly might have gotten the worst end of the stick. not for anything undeserved, unfortunately
they always are forgotten, especially the women who can't make their names as knights or great advisors. instead, because of her one-night tryst with a man of a house that would refuse to accept two bastards in, she suffers the curse of a lonely and forgettable death. she has no son and no husband. just a brother, a nephew, and a house full of servants and advisors who despise her
cregan gets off easier—at first. he has hope. he has an heir and the love of his people. but as time passes, the old wolf grows and decays body and soul.
the poor bastard heir has no one in his adulthood. Just the knowledge he must take the mantle from a father that grew resentful towards him and bitter in his old age and a 'mother' that remains unknown to him to this day. he is a disgrace to the powerful stark name. the sole choice for heir because of cregan's decision and the one the council advising the wolf of the north would never have chosen if there had been the option of a trueborn son.
cregan's one and final consolidation (condemnation) is seeing her in the last years of his life. still the lord of house stark til his death, he attends all necessary meetings in the north. unknown to him that his ex wife landed herself in a place like the crownlands, riverlands, or stormlands he finally sees her one day in a meeting amongst every great house of westeros.
she's as beautiful as the day he lost her
old age suits her well. smile lines grace her wrinkled face and the sun has clearly kissed her many a time in her lifetime. she holds the arm of a man their same age, who smiles so gently and feverently down at her that it makes the wolf sick with grief. older children surround the two of them, doting on their parents with admiration and love as they pull out seats for them.
he has nothing to live for besides his regret and shame, and his bastard nephew can only look on at his father's first signs of cognitive awareness in months. he meets the eyes of the lady, who's face falls for only a moment at the sight of the boy and his father.
the moment passes as quickly as it happened. she smiles once more, waving her hand in a polite and genial greeting to him and only him.
an apology, or an acknowledgment. for the life he has been forced to lead. one he does not understand or piece together. the boy smiles stiffly back, nodding firmly and sitting his father down like dead weight as the meeting commences.
she has won the game. and he isn't even a piece within it anymore.
You Sleep, I Yearn.
( Ryland Grace x Reader ) Part One.
Title: You Sleep, I Yearn.
Pairing: ( Implied ) One-sided - Ryland Grace x Reader.
Rating: K. ( sort of..... agnsty please im sorry. )
Words: 4.7 K.
Summary: You and Rocky have a much needed heart-to-heart and some things are said that can't be unsaid.
Ryland Grace Masterlist.
PART TWO: Strawberry Fields.
PART THREE: Broken Hourglass.
It was quiet on the ship. Not a terrible thing for your ears to be blessed with, the faint hum of the electronics whirling around you is familiar and now comforting after such a long while in space.
Ryland, the blonde haired, sometimes-in-the-cloud Molecular Biologist was asleep in the dormitory where you also were, sitting on the floor and propped against the xenonite enclosure that belonged to the five legged Eridian who had the same Petrova Line issue as Sol.
You could hear the soft taps of his claws against the floor, the resonant tones that exuded from his carapace. All welcome as your eyes feasted on Ryland’s breathing, almost in perfect sync with Rocky’s movements. You knew you should have been asleep as well, you could just hear the computerized voice scolding you.
More efficient if Grace, (Last Name) sleep at same time. Waste time if spread out.
You’d heard it from Rocky many times before, given time was of such high value, more to Earth than to Erid. Their Petrova Line, while a problem, wasn’t going to cause such drastic issues as soon as your planet would.
You envied him in that way. He had so much more time, he could spend it researching and diving into aspects of the Tau Ceti system that you and Ryland could only dream of and unlock more mysteries than just the unfortunate circumstances that rested in the Petrova Line itself.
But Earth was dying. People were dying. You were on a mission, and unfortunately, spending an extra 29,000 seconds sleeping when you could just combine it with Ryland’s 29,000 seconds didn't tighten into good enough logic.
Your lungs drew a small breath in, co-mingling uncomfortably as your ribcage expanded. Not satisfactory in any way, just to keep yourself grounded. Without Ryland there to talk through the stillness, your own pervasive thoughts would consume, the notions of Earth’s demise during the time it took to get to the Tau Ceti system and the ultimate fate she and her people would face if you weren’t to succeed this mission.
There was something off about the emotional weight in the air. About the way that Rocky was moving, which sounded crazy, but hey. Spend enough time around an Eridian who relies on echolocation to even sense your presence and you’re bound to pick up a few things about reading the room. And hearing the room. His usually scampering noises were muted today. Softer, more subdued. Definitely less energetic than usual.
You exhaled softly, letting your head tilt back against the xenonite. “Hey, Rock.”
Quiet.
Rocky didn’t answer right away as you readjusted your body, leaning more against the wall so you could look over at him in the dim casted light of the dormitory’s lowest luminance setting. With parted lips anticipating speech, you watched him. Limbs moved with the same careful precision over his work, the choice today being the chain to be used in your fishing excursion above Adrian in a few days, but…
There was a pause between motions that normally wasn’t there. Your eyelids squeezed shut before re-opening, making the assumption that… Your vision was faulty, and not Rocky’s movements. Maybe you did need to sleep. You thought and looked at his three-digit, five-claw tactic and still saw the same languid stanza between motions.
“Hey…” You repeated, softer this time as it drew more into empathy. Maybe he was homesick, like you were. Given your estranged evolutions leading you down the same paths, it made sense to think that Eridians had a similar basis of thought-provoking emotions and attachments.
There was a low chord that answered you this time. It sounded almost… Heavy and was so resonant that the computer didn't bother to even pick it up and offer you a word in response. Something about it made you feel sad, a frown tugging at your face.
“You okay?”
There was an intention to pause this time. You could see Rocky moving his carapace so he was facing towards you instead of away which was previously the case. Your eyes softened at that, though, the emotion was imperceptible to the genius engineer. He had to know though, based on the hushed tone of voice you were using what the general consensus was with your expression.
His fingers clicked together like they so often did when Rocky was searching for the correct words. He was quick witted most of the time, so for him to sit and contemplate was… Mildly concerning.
“State not optimal.”
You straightened a little once your brain processed the implied meaning. “What’s wrong?”
“Today ♫♩♩♩♪♬♬ with Adrian.”
You blinked, mouth opening and closing a few times as you looked at the computer to make sure you weren’t mistaken. That was a word that had never come up in any form since your time meeting Rocky. The tonal shifts and riffs used to express it seemed complex, notes layered upon chords and you tilted your head.
“I don’t… understand that word, Rock. Can you explain it?”
Rocky shifted slightly closer to the wall as if the sounds he was making were going to wake up Ryland. “Time-cycle acknowledgement of mate selection.”
It took you a moment to unravel that one. Sometimes, talking to Rocky was like talking to a philosopher who talked in code. A very specific code and you weren’t allowed to have the legend to decode. Humming softly, you tilted your head against the xenonite and let the coolness seep into your temple.
“Is that… important?”
Your voice hesitated, an idea of the meaning floating around but like the true back and forth of two different life forms communicating, you needed more information before coming to the conclusion. Rocky was faster at it, a point of contention at times when you and Ryland took longer to put puzzle pieces together and Rocky was… Impatient. But… Rocky seemed like he wanted to talk about this, he was just going around it carefully.
He went quiet for a moment, his claw motions coming to a languid pace. “Significant marker of continued shared existence.”
Smiling more to yourself, you nodded, “Like, a celebration?”
“Not celebration.” That was adamant. “Recognition of bond persistence over time.”
It finally clicked for you as you leaned over, typing with one finger into the computer.
ANNIVERSARY.
“We call that an anniversary, there’s different types but the basis is the same.” Your voice was intentionally gentle and whether Rocky cared about that or not, you didn't know but you were sharing what you would consider to be a tender moment so the harder vocal tone wouldn’t have felt right.
“It’s a measure of time, annually for Humans, to mark a significance in their lives that altered their choices and futures. Sometimes it can be as simple as moving jobs, or more complex like the date of birth.” That had its own conversation you’d explain when you had time, but you pressed forward.
“In the case, it would be…” You hesitated, “A romantic intent.”
Rocky clicked before letting out a low chord, something thoughtful but also something a little… Sad. He reached up almost subconsciously and let his claw graze against the beautifully colored dual circular mark on one of his arms. Wedding band, your mind went straight to that conclusion, eyes admiring the chic and gorgeous color even in the dim light. You wished you could touch it without his atmosphere burning you.
“Concept aligns. Is anniversary with Adrian.” Rocky concluded.
“That must be hard. Being away for it. From them.” You were hushed, readjusting your shoulders so you could look at him properly. He’d stopped working at this point, setting the chains down on the ground.
“Yes.”
The computer chimed simply but you could hear the melancholy in the way the sounds were coming from his carapace. He tilted towards you as if seeking some sort of comfort and there was a twist in your stomach at the fact that you were only able to give comfort in the form of words.
“Mate bond reinforced at these intervals. Physical presence is preferred.”
You let out a quiet breath, huff of sorts at that. So, your kinds were not so different after all. But, Erdians were still Hermaphrodites and you did wonder if the physical presence indicated the next start of an egg cycle. Not the time and place to ask, you filed it away to ask later when Rocky wasn’t so… blue.
“I understand.”
It got quiet again, the hum of the ship sinking back into the forefront mixed with the continuation of Rocky working xenonite into chains. You found your gaze back towards Ryland, his front side facing you, propped on his side as comfortably as he could in the otherwise uncomfortable plush of the Hail Mary bedding.
You could see the tuft of his blonde hair peeking out from under the blanket that he had rather cutely tucked over his face to block the light, but honestly? It was more to block Rocky’s gaze even though the echolocation assured no true form of privacy. Ryland had to know that, but still, watching him sleep was… Endearing.
Different from Rocky who looked at it as a necessity, a social norm to keep alive. Your heart did another shift in your chest at that thought. About the 23 other Eridians that made their way to Tau Ceti with him but died. The days and nights, all blurring in the concepts of space, he watched them sleep and then not wake up. It felt selfish to think you were alone when Ryland was with you.
Rocky… Truly was alone for so long until the Hail Mary showed up, and he was missing his anniversary to save his planet. There was something oddly poetic in that and you respected the Eridian that much more for it.
“Question.”
There was a shift in resonance as Rocky moved a bit to get back into your line of view as you had been staring at the scientist across the room. The tone used that mixed with the computer program was changed, back to curiosity but seemed to still carry that quiet weight.
“Yeah?”
You whispered, forcing your eyes from intent focus to glance at the alien next to you who was clattering his digits together as if trying to tie together some complex calculation. You smiled at that. Maybe he was, he was able to focus on more things than once so maybe this conversation was just a secondary action.
“(Last Name) have mate, question?”
The question should not have surprised you but something about it landed softer than you expected. Deep and cutting without intending. You heard from Ryland a few days ago that, while in the ‘Don’t Go Crazy Room’ he had been asked the same thing.
And while you deeply yearned for the conclusion from Ryland regarding that, you didn't press and kept it tied-up professionally as he explained to you that Rocky did in fact have a mate. Seems like it was a heady topic on board a ship were there was very little gossip.
There was no point in pretending. You shook your head curtly and glanced down at your socked feet, letting one of your hands reach down to fiddle with the extra fabric. You must have grabbed a pair of Ryland’s without thinking, they were a little big.
“No. Not really.”
“Clarify.”
“I mean I…. Spent time with people, cared about them a lot.”
The idea of having to explain dating was not on your bingo card for the day so you found yourself tip-toeing around certain phrases that you knew he would understand with implications involved. “But nothing permanent. Nothing like what you have with Adrian.” You turned towards him again with a smile of encouragement at his very long lasting relationship.
Rocky made a contemplative note as if he were trying to figure out what to say without sounding… Offensive. “No stable pair bond formed.”
“Right.”
“(Last Name) desire one, question?”
That required you to really sit and think. Hesitate wasn’t the word as you rolled the idea through your head over and over again. Obviously, you went on a suicide mission. You weren’t going back to Earth and had to cut ties with the desire that Rocky mentioned, but he was still in the dark about it. You and Ryland agreed to tell him just… Never agreed to a time or place. It was never just a you decision anymore, it was a ‘You and Ryland’, and there was less of a lonely solace in that as you nodded.
“Yeah… I think I did. It just never worked out.”
“Unsuccessful attempts?”
You huffed softly, closing your eyes and shrugging your shoulders. Rocky didn't know how he came across sometimes, you couldn’t blame him for moments of brashness. In fact, they were often another source of comfort and kept the mission grounded when it needed to be.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“You are currently without mate.” Rocky said.
The bluntness should have rubbed you the wrong way, but as you trailed your eyes back towards Ryland and the steady nature of his breathing, one of his hands now curled against his chest, his upper half pointed towards you still, peaceful and so far gone in whatever dreams fluttered behind his eyelids, his lower half somehow contorted and pressed against the mattress.
There were a few strands of his blonde hair in his face that you felt your fingers twitch at the desire to brush them aside and let your touch graze against his sharp cheekbones and trace the curve of his dark eyelashes.
Worst of all, you… Wanted Ryland to actually let you do that. You dug your fingernails into your thumb and tried to get that out of your mind.
Rocky shifted slightly, thoughtful as he observed the stagnant air and stare your body was exhibiting towards Ryland. “You experience distress due to this.”
“Sometimes.” You admitted.
There was another long pause and for a moment, you thought that Rocky was done and that he had gotten all of the information he needed and came to his own conclusion on things without saying he was done.
It happened sometimes, and life would go back to normal. As normal as it could so far from home, with a five-legged alien who could see through walls. It felt like your skin was a bit prickly at the fact that… Rocky was still pointed towards you, and there seemed to be a minute shift to his carapace towards Ryland.
This silence was different, your shoulders drawing in on themselves. It felt heavier, shaped by everything he’d shared with you about Adrian.
“Suggestion,” Rocky said, cutting the air with a metaphorical knife. “Grace is viable candidate for mate bond.”
The words hit the air and didn’t quite land like Rocky expected, you could tell. Not from his face - Eridians didn't really have expressions in the human way that you were used to, but over time and extreme proximity, you could read him like a book.
It was simple, really based on how his arms moved his carapace, how the shift of rock-like structures at the top shifted and how he twisted himself. It was like a subtle recalibration of sorts, equal to if the ship had briefly lost gravity and then found it again without major consequences.
Something about the way he looked at you told you clearly that he meant what he said and that there was no translation error from the computer system.
The faint hum of the Hail Mary suddenly felt too loud, too aware of itself. Even Ryland’s steady breathing behind you seemed to pause in your perception, like your mind had decided to listen to everything at once and now it was a loud mess of culmination at what the Eridian just threw scientifically into the air.
You’d say recklessly, but nothing Rocky did was reckless. It was always based on observations… Your eyes widened. What did he observe that drew him to that conclusion?!
“Y…” You scoffed a bit, shaking your head, not too adamantly but enough to get the point across, “I think you’re misunderstanding something, Rocky.”
Rocky didn’t backtrack. He rarely did. He was… Stubborn.
The way your throat tightened at the words felt painful and every breath that came into your lungs was pointed like a knife. “That’s not…”
You began slowly, carefully, but the words died in the air. It was so much easier to deflect than to answer truthfully, you knew, but even deflection came at a cost. “You’re wrong. There’s nothing between Grace and I. I’m a little… Offended you even brought it up.”
“Explain. Rocky made logical assessments from many variables noticed over time. (Last Name) have no assessment mentioned. Stupid debate.”
A quiet breath came out of your nose, almost incredulous, caught on the edge of a laugh but it didn't quite make it there and you sounded like a strangled animal but still remained fragile. You were yelling at yourself not to look at him, if you had even a second’s control over your own thoughts.
But of course you did.
Your gaze found Ryland again, drawn to him like it always was, like he was the only thing in the room full of a thousand buttons that did a million different things.
The slow rise and fall of his shoulder beneath the blanket felt almost hypnotic, like a rhythm your body had learned without asking permission to remember. Your eyes lingered longer than they should have and decided to take in the delectations he had to give.
The way the dim light caught against his tanned skin, the way it played against his beard and captivated hairs to appear more golden than blonde, the subtle shift in his breathing pattern, the… Gravity of his entire presence. Known to you for so long, but you chose to shove it aside. And now? It felt ridiculous really, how easily your brain was about to unravel around the simplest him. How the noises that were in your head became gentler.
“I do care about him.”
The words come carefully and quietly, like admitting them to anyone but yourself might break something that had been non-spoken for so long. Out of your peripherals, you could see Rocky cease. Not silent, never was, but still in the only way that you imagined he could be. And nothing about his stance yelled at you that he was going to gloat about being right in the first place, or laugh at you for crumbling so easily.
That urged you to continue, the lack of judgement, your voice lower now as if the other human in the room would wake up if you spoke too rashly. And yet, there were still flickers of raw fragility around the edges of your chosen words that hurt you more to say than anything.
“Ryland, I mean…I--- I care about him a lot. More than I probably should, considering the circumstances of the mission.”
You fingers began anxiously picking at the seam of your sleeve. “He… Makes it easier, you know. Being here. Being… myself.”
A small exhale escaped your lips, shattering into the air. “I guess I… didn't realize how much I needed him..” The words dies in the air but you both know what was to be said.
I didn't realize how much I needed him until right now…
You stop talking for a minute and let your eyes trail towards some part of the room where Ryland wasn’t. You couldn’t say what you were going to say looking at him, guilt tearing you apart from the inside as it flashed against your lungs like an ugly whip. “I can’t… Do anything about it.”
Rocky tilted slightly. “Cannot care?”
You shook your head immediately. “That’s not the problem, Rock. I do care.” Your voice caught in your throat, it was barely a whisper but the Eridian detected it without issue.
There was a brief second where you wondered if Rocky would understand the infliction in your voice at that and the undertones of which it implied. You cared for Ryland, that was the problem.
The confession hung there, suspended between you and the hard xenonite wall behind you. You picked at the sleeve a bit more aggressively, feeling the twinge of string come undone. The truth came out in a steadier thread, your voice collected and even despite the truest desire to scream in confliction.
“I think… If we try to define it like that… If I turn it into something like what you have with Adrian…” There was a hush in the air as you drew yourself into a ball, your knees against your chest, leaning against the wall that captivated two atmospheres, “I don’t know if I could survive it going wrong.”
Rocky clicked behind you - echolocation markers to check your status, along with Ryland’s though… Something told you this was more about yourself at the time. Your gaze flickered down to the metallic floor and you forced yourself to trace the patterns there, seeking some distraction.
“And it would go wrong, Rock. It always does. Especially in cases like Ryland and I. Cases of forced proximity and loneliness. Humans are pack animals, we desire the connection others give us. It wouldn’t be fair to Ryland… To…” You swallowed hard and squeezed your eyes shut. “Force him into something that he wouldn’t even think about on Earth. So I just don’t… Call it that. I don’t call it anything.”
Rocky processed your emotional dump in silence. There was no point in him interrupting it, you would have just gone on and words would have gotten tied together. He was trying to do what he did best. Shape the words you shared with him into logical and relatable pieces that he could metaphorically hold and understand that way. There was still no judgement, no harsh resonance from him as if he… Understood the emotional depth of which you were coming from.
And maybe he did.
“Love.”
You stiffened at that, glancing your glassy eyes towards the computer to confirm that it was what you heard. You swallowed back a small lump in your throat at the thought that Ryland had a discussion with him and had to go into the deep fundamentals of human nature to even begin to describe that.
You wanted to be in the room when it happened, just to have an excuse of why Ryland even brought it up in the first place. There was a pang in your chest. Probably talking about some old flame, someone he left behind on Earth…
That was the cynicism talking. Love itself had so many realms, and you were immature to think it only held true to one type. But this… You squeezed your knees softly. You wanted to think about it. How Ryland would describe that, what examples he would use, if you would come up in any shape. You wanted that personal lesson and for a split second, your irrationality got the best of you and you felt… Jealous of Rocky because he got it instead of you.
“That is not…” You started reflexively, but it was pointless as the denial felt sour on your tongue. You couldn’t bring yourself to even finish.
All because your eyes betrayed you again, drifting towards Ryland. Towards the absurd, grounding fact that he was even there at all, alive, real, tangible, asleep two meters away from you in a metal coffin drifting between stars. Earth’s two saviors. A brilliant Molecular Biologist, and a stupid, underqualified fool who couldn’t even keep their emotions in check.
You exhaled shakily, comparing the motions to Ryland’s smooth breathing that kept themselves uniform and tight.
“Maybe…” You admitted finally, barely audible.
The word felt too big in your mouth like you might gag on it; too dangerous to leave unguarded because it would choke you to death. You forced another round of saliva down your throat, trekking into a mandated steadiness, like your voice was a system you could stabilize with ease.
“But I’m not doing anything about it.”
Rocky’s claws resumed their slow tapping, softer than before. Not work this time. Just rhythm. “Why not pursue if (Last Name) feels emotional distress due to adamant denial of complex human desire for mate, question?”
A humorless breath escaped your parted lips. “Because we’re here to save Earth.”
Your voice was a touch above a whisper, tears threatening to come from the corner of your eyes at the confession that would never see the light of day. “And because I like what we are right now… even if it hurts a little. I don’t want to ruin it trying to turn it into something it might not survive.”
Silence enveloped the ship once again, but this time, it wasn’t empty. It felt like a… Shared understanding between you and Rocky, slowly forming a shape in a language neither of you fully spoke but somehow understood. He shifted once, and then settled against xenonite a little bit closer to you. You followed suit and readjusted yourself to lean against it more purposefully.
“Human behavior strange.”
You smiled slightly, tired and far away as you brought a hand up and wiping a stray tear off your cheek. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Grace sleep with proximity to (Last Name) often.”
Your face warmed instantly. “Yeah…”
“Behavior suggests trust bonding.”
“I know what it suggests.”
Rocky didn’t reply right away. The faint, rhythmic clicking of his claws continued behind you—soft against metal, precise, almost soothing in its consistency. It echoed just enough in the small space to remind you that you weren’t alone, even as everything else seemed to fall quiet.
“He doesn’t know, and… I’d like to keep it that way.” You explained to the Eridian.
“Would knowing alter mission parameters?”
“Probably.” That hurt. Your voice cracked, “Yeah.”
“....Understand….”
“Thanks, Rocky.”
And that was the part that scared you the most. Not the possibility of rejection, you’d get over that, or even the prospect of reciprocation, as exciting as that would be. Just… Change. Everything between you and Ryland was supposed to be steady and focused. And you were alive just long enough to matter and to save Earth. End of story.
Your eyes pulled back to Ryland without permission.
Still on his side, still half-wrapped in that patch-work blanket that never seemed like enough, a relic from home, his shoulder rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. The dim overhead lighting softened everything about him, including your gaze as you silently said goodbye to the idea of ‘what could have been’.
Your arms tightened slightly around your legs, the fabric of your sleeves bunching under your fingers as you held yourself there. The air felt cooler the longer you sat still, brushing faintly against your face, your hands, the tip of your nose. You barely noticed it compared to the warmth that came from just… looking at him.
“I can live with a little hurt.” That was low enough that it almost blended into the hum of the ship, imperceptible to most everyone, except Rocky. “I can’t live with losing him.”
The words settled into the space between you, heavier than anything Rocky had said, heavier than anything you’d been trying to avoid. For a moment, all you could hear was the ship, your breathing, his breathing—separate, but close enough to blur if you didn’t think about it too much.
And for a sweet moment, all you could hear was your breathing intwining with Ryland’s. Separate, but close enough to blur if you didn't think too much about it. And you chose not to.
Behind you, Rocky’s tapping slowed, then stopped altogether.
There were no more interruptions. No more logic, or questions. Just… Quiet. You swallowed, your throat tight, and let your eyes stay where they wanted—on the steady rise of Ryland’s chest, on the small, unconscious movements that proved he was still there, still within reach, still something real in a place that rarely felt like it.
“I’ll just watch him sleep… That’s enough for me. And hey, Rock?”
“Yes, question?”
You smiled softly, letting your head rest on your knees. “Happy anniversary.”
I just re-read hidden truths AND I GOT ANGRY ALL OVER AGAIN
😂😂😂
That scabbed riddled dog looking wolf I can’t believe he was such a BITCH I hate him!! AND SARA TOO
😂😂😂
I know that fic was closed and all, I guess I was looking for something like “where are they now” kinda thing Jejeje
Love you! Love your amazing stories!
LMAOOOO this is tew funny dude 😭😭😭
where are they now? 😵💫 she got away and married a much more suitable man for sure. people keep saying ben/davos blackwood or one of the princes but it could honestly be anybody! anybody who wouldn't lie to her face is a better option atp, but in my heart her ending would be to remarry a good, kind, and honest man who is attentive to her and THEIR eventual children who later take care of them in their old age after outliving sara and cregan 🫶🏻
I'm still low-key salty sometimes too, who was i when i wrote my beloved husband like that hahahah
Targaryen!reader who is more fluent in high Valyrian than the common Tongue
This is for my bilingual queens
...
Cregan always thought it was charming, the way your southern tongue slipped over northern words. You'd spent a lifetime learning your mother language. And now it felt as if you had to learn all new phrases about your husband's home.
Currently, he was recalling a story to you of a Wilding encounter at the Wall a few months back before you'd married. "Full of deepwood, that one, fucking mors." he pauses, "Sorry, m'love. Don't mean to curse like that."
But you're staring at him through your vanity mirror like he has two heads.
"I didn't hurt your feelings, did I?" he asks, suddenly worried. "Swear to the Old Gods, I didn't mean it."
"No, I am not mad. I..." Your head tilts. "I just do not understand what you are saying."
He loved the rigidity in the way you spoke the Common Tongue. So precise in that little southern accent of yours. "Did I speak too fast for ya? I can slow down."
"I am sorry," you sigh. "I am trying to keep up, but you use words I do not know."
"Oh. What parts?"
"How can you be full of deep woods? That does not make sense to me."
He can't stop the way his lips quirk up, even as he actively tries to fight it. "Just an expression, sweet girl. He's... uh..." He thinks for a moment, trying to decide a good explanation for an expression he was so used to. "...full of shite."
He sees the panic that swirls in your eyes. "And what is that?"
"Fuck. Forget that one. Hogwash," he snaps, proud of thinking on the spot. "You know hogwash?"
There's no recognition in your mind. Just increased panic.
"Don't cry over this, m'love," he says, immediately moving towards you when he sees tears brimming in your eyes. "Look at me, eh?"
When you turn to look up at him, it's a pitiful sight. Your bottom lip trembles. He curses to himself, bending down next to your stool to be eye level with you. "'s alright. I'm bad at explaining things is all."
"I... I am so smart," you begin to cry. "If you could hear me in Valyrian--"
"I do hear you--"
"No, really hear me," you sob. "If you could hear me in Valyrian, I would not seem so... so s--"
"Do not finish that," he warns. He cups your cheek with practiced ease. "I know how intelligent you are. I have to explain a few words to you. Doesn't change anything."
You sniffle. "I just w-want to understand you."
"And I want to understand you," he comforts. "You slip back into that dragon language sometimes. Always when I so desperately want to know what you're saying."
"I... sometimes," you acknowledge. "But it is different."
"Teach me," he softens. "We can be even. I can be utterly lost in High Valyrian and you can then not understand a few words in the Common Tongue."
"That is not even at all."
He leans forward, laying a kiss to your forehead. "'s even enough, m'love. C'mon. Give me my first lesson."
You gawk. "W-What do you want to say?"
"Something easy. Like... I love you."
Finally. Something you were exceptional at. "Avy jorrāelan," you quickly say.
He blinks. "What?"
"Avy jorrāelan," you say again.
"Right. Again, but slower."
"Avy," you drag out.
His eyes are on your lips, trying to see how you form the sound. "Ah-ve," he tries.
"Avy," you correct.
His northern tongue keeps him from getting even close, but he tries nonetheless. "Ah-vy."
"Jorrāelan," you sound out.
He tries, even as your hands come to his mouth and help form the sound. It's a pathetic sound, but an effort all the same.
"Avy jorrāelan," you begin to smile.
"So beautiful when it comes from your lips. You're just beautiful to me."
Your cheek grow warm and you try to look away. He follows you, moving into your line of sight again. "The way you speak, m'love, it ignites something in me. Must be all that dragon speech."
You run a hand through his hair. "Lykiri (be calm)," you whisper, then hearing a sound close to a moan break through his lips.
"You're mors, you are," he warns lowly.
Your brows twitch, and he become amused. He leans in, lips brushing against yours. "Means you're fucking unbelievable."
Warm and hungry, his lips meet yours. Though your tongue is southern, and his stubbornly northern, they have no problem meeting in the other's mouth.
Now that you've taught him even that simple phrase, he recognizes it between your scattered Valyrian whines and moans the next time the two of you are making love. You claw at his shoulders, back arched, and it spills from your lips so softly, "Kessa, kessa. Avy jorrāelan. Sīr sȳz. (Yes, yes, I love you. So good.)"
He kisses the corner of your mouth. "Love you too, my girl." Your cunt clenches in delight at his praise.
He made a mental note to continue lessons if it pleased you that greatly.
Could you do something for Charles Smith a loud, snarky reader? picture Tony Stark type yammering and arguing. I feel like it could be a very comedic contrast for Charles
OOOO YES!!! I LOVE THIS REQUEST AHHHHH!!!
Oh, for a Plan to be a Sonnet
pairings: Charles X reader
warnings: FLUFF. no use of y/n, established relationship.
wc: ~1.3k
You huffed as you swung off your horse and into camp, with Bill following close behind. You didn't even wait for the dust to settle before your hands were up in the air, gesturing wildly at the empty space behind you.
Your eyes were darting around in search for your boyfriend Charles. When your eyes final met him, he sat on the long log by the fire and had his head buried in his work on one of his arrows. You stomped towards him.
"I'm officially done, Charles!" You announced as you plopped down next to him. "I'm hanging up my hat," you threw your hat to the ground, "and moving to a deserted island where the only company I have is a coconut, because at least a coconut has the decency not to argue with me!"
"Can I come?" Charles didn't look up from his work.
You slapped him against his shoulder.
Charles head shot up and turned to you. "I take it the scouting trip with Bill didn't go according to plan?"
You let out a sharp, theatrical laugh, tossing your head back. "Charles, in my head, the plan was a masterpiece of efficiency. It was beautiful poetry, a sonnet. Music, even. Bill's plan, however was a 'see man, shoot man', and then, 'wonder why thirty more men showed up.' I'm honestly impressed he manages to put his boots on the right feet in the morning."
Charles let out a soft laugh, but before he could respond, Bill overheard your rant and rushed up to you.
"Hey!" Bill spat. "Don't you go blamin' me for your own loud mouth!" He barked, his face turning bright, beet red. "We got the job done, didn't we?"
You looked up at him with daggers in your eyes. "Bill, you ignorant fool! You barely think, don't you? You could've gotten us killed!"
Bill leaned in, his voice low. "If you spent half as much time shootin' as you did analyzin', we would've been back earlier!"
You shot up and stuck a finger in Bill's face. "For the record, Bill, my mouth was trying to explain that sound travels. You think you just shot one man, but you rang the dinner bell for every O'Driscoll within five miles."
"Why you—" Bill started as he stepped forward with a huff.
Charles stood up between you and Bill, his tall, big frame acting as a barrier.
"That's enough, Bill." Charles said, his voice smooth and calm. "Everyone's in one piece. Let it go."
Bill wanted to argue, but staring up at Charles was a losing game. He muttered something under his breath before stomping off toward the stew pot.
You let out a huff and Charles took your arm and lead you out of camp. He usually does this so you can let off some steam. It got way to hectic at camp with everyone and their business. It was nice to step out for a while to recollect.
After a few seconds of walking along the outskirts of camp, you leaned your head against Charles's shoulder, the heat of the previous argument beginning to dissipate into the cool evening air.
"He's exhausting, Charles." you muttered.
"I know that." Charles responded.
"It's just…when I talk to him I feel like I'm talking to a wall. A very angry, very sweaty, and for some reason red, wall. I think it's due to blood pressure, I don't know. I don't like it."
Charles let out a small chuckle. He shifted his arm so he could pull you a little closer to his side. "Bill…well…Bill is Bill." The sheer diplomacy in his voice making you snort. "But you know he doesn't have your patience."
"But for this it's different. It's life or death!" You insisted, though the bite was gone and replaced by the familiar comfort of Charles presence.
You looked up at him and squinted your eyes playfully. "And don't you start with the middle ground talk. I'm the genius here, remember? I'm the one who figured out how to fix the wagon's axle last week."
Charles smiled. "I know, you are smart." He stopped near a cluster of trees, turning to you. The dappled light from the rising moon caught the steady, amused warmth in his eyes. Charles reached up, his large, calloused thumb brushing softly against your cheek. The gesture was grounding and made your brain stop whirring. You felt your cheeks and your ears burn up.
"You're most brilliant person I've ever met." he murmured, his voice dropping into almost a whisper. "Most people here don't know what to do with someone who thinks faster than they can blink. But I think that's what attracted me to you."
You looked down at the ground. Your smile widening with Charles's words.
"You're so strong, and logical. You think before you say or do anything, and I think more people can learn from you than anything."
You shrugged slightly, the smile never leaving your face. "Well in that case, I should probably tell you my plan for reorganizing the camp's ammunition storage."
Charles let out a quiet laugh, and leaned down to press a brief, firm kiss to your lips. Your eyes widened at the action, before closing your eyes to enjoy the intimacy.
When he pulled away, Charles still had his hand resting on your cheek. "Tell me all about your plan. We can walk slow back to camp."
"Before I tell you that, can you kiss me again?" You asked, looking up at him with big, begging eyes.
Charles smiled wide. "You don't have to ask me."
He leaned in and kissed you, this time slower. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck and pulled you flush against him. The feeling of his lips on yours made your mind go completely blank, blissfully silent. He was the only person that could make you feel that way.
He hummed softly as his lips moved in perfect rhythm and his hand that rested on the back of your neck massaged your scalp.
When he eventually broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours. You could feel his steady breath, a sharp contrast to your own slightly hitched racing heart.
"Wanna tell me about your plan now?" His voice was beautiful and breathless.
'What?" You asked and shook your head to clear your confusion.
Charles let out a small laugh. "About reorganizing the ammo."
"Ah, yes." You smiled. He gave you his arm so you could wrap yours around it.
"Want me to start now?" You asked as both of you headed back into camp.
"Yes, walk slow." Charles reminded you.
You nodded and slowed down your steps. You sighed and gazed into his sparkling eyes,"Yes. Okay, step one: we stop letting Bill…"
a/n: I had so much fun writing for this request!
Finals for me are THIS WEEK (AH!). EXPECT MORE LONGER POST SOON HEHE.
a list for myself and you containing standout fics in multiple fandoms. if you find your fic or tag here and wish to be removed, please let me know
april is obviously my rdr2 month i see
Red Dead Redemption 2
series
her father's daughter by @bluealiveirredeemible
my desc: recently widowed by the very gang that 'took' her in, Clara finds herself living the exact opposite as she had for her entire life as a lady of new york. no more are the high society parties, fine living standards, and dubious husband. instead, she finds herself in the company of the van der linde gang and their ruffian outlaw lifestyle. with arthur morgan as one of her only refuges, she might even grow to like this life.
arthur morgan x reader
of love and loss by ColterMorning on A03
a young woman loses her parents in a sudden carriage incident off a bridge. arthor morgan finds her and decides to help her find her family. unintentionally, he also helps her find her will to go on again. such a beautiful slow burn that had me thinking about it for days.
arthur morgan x reader
weep and call it singing by StarlightAnd Whiskey on a03
colm o'driscoll's niece is tasked to spy on and lead a double life amongst the van der linde gang, leading her to the realization that not everything she's believed her whole life is true.
arthur morgan x reader
one-shots
guardian angel by @essielovesarthur
three times arthur saves you and one time you save him
Hunter x Hunter
series
requiem imperium by @osarina (also on a03)
chrollo lucilfer x kakin prince! reader
truly a kind of indescribable fic. such a delight to read and look forward to updates. if you like hxh in any capacity, this work is a great piece of art to enjoy, and i am the biggeet sucker for relucant soulmates and lore heavy plot
A Knight of The Seven Kingdoms
one-shots
the second son by @entitled-fangirl
this whole concept. maekar marries his elder brother's widow to keep her safe and close to her family, unknowing as to the feelings that might eventually catch up with duty
hard to say. I'm abt 5k words into it right now, just edited it after like 3 weeks of not even opening the doc 😵💫 just have to add like two more big scenes
