Pairing: Gender-neutral carrier ("You")/Gender-neutral partner
Theme(s): Pregnancy, lovers parted by war, unexpected pregnancy, generic fantasy/historical setting, fluff, fade to black intimacy
The town’s been abuzz with the news of the end of the war, of the restoration of peace after months of conflict, but most of all the long-anticipated return of soldiers conscripted by the crown. Runners have been sent to neighboring towns for news, and two days ago, you finally received word of their impending arrival.
You wait by the window of your humble cottage as dusk gathers over the hills, leeching away the last of the day’s light. One hand rubs fitfully over the taut linen clinging to the curve of your belly—an unexpected secret that has grown with every passing day of your lover’s absence, until anyone who looked at you knew what you’d shared before the war yanked you apart. A ruthless blend of anxiety, hope, and fear bubbles at the back of your mind, one that’s brewed and grown even more potent after endless weeks of silence and worry.
When the distant clatter of hooves finally reaches the gates, your breath catches in your throat.
When the door to your home finally swings open, your knees almost give way.
The person who enters has mud still clinging to their boots, the weight of travel and hardship and battle etched into every line of their face. It’s a face that’s familiar yet changed, though not nearly different enough to keep you from stumbling forward with a heartfelt sob.
“By the gods,” they breathe as they catch you in their arms, their voice rough with disbelief. “I’ve dreamed of coming home to you—but I never imagined…” Their eyes drift downward, to the prominent bulge beneath your tunic.
All you can do is chuckle, swiping uselessly at the tears stinging your eyes. “Neither did I. I doubt you’d even made it to the border when I found out.”
For a moment, all they seem able to do is stare, their hands running over you like they’re afraid you’ll disappear if they pull away. You’re not much better, clutching at them and holding them as close as you can, though the bulwark of your pregnancy does make it a bit awkward. But then their lips find yours, their calloused hands rucking up the hem of your garment, and you find yourself being walked back toward the modest bed you once shared.
“I suppose I’d best start making up for lost time, then,” they murmur, their eyes alight with a hunger you’d once feared you’d never see again.
But now is not the time for such thoughts, not when they’re here, with you, after all this time. “Please,” you beg, needing their touch almost as much as you need air. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”
And when your lover guides you down to the bed, their mouth already pressing reverent kisses along the dark line bisecting your swollen belly, you thank whatever gods might be listening for returning them home.
November's Theme: Rekindled Flames
