i’m wearing the smile you gave me

she/her (20s) multi-fandom writing account: smile-child-13-writes

[ellecdc]

Reader with English not being her native language, maybe shes from rask or something.

And every time she forgets the English word for something, the ic turns it into a mini game of who can figure it out first, even amren joins sometimes, but when they all can't figure it out (because the only clues they get is her saying "its the thing!! That has the thing with the thing on it!" With vague hand gestures) they ask for cassians help.

Because for some reason he always gets it IMMEDIATELY (Thats why he's not allowed to play until they completely give up)

I wonder why 😼

Cassian x fem!reader whose second language is English [1k words]

CW: words lost in translation, family antics, fluff

Rhysand’s not entirely sure who’s more frustrated right now: you, for everyone’s inability to understand you, or Amren, when it looks like the ancient being might lose this little game they’re playing. 

There’s a small competition within the Inner Circle when it comes to you getting tongue tied—whoever can guess the word you’re looking for first, wins.

They don’t win anything other than bragging rights, but his family is a competitive one, so it’s as cut throat as anything else they put their minds to.

Though, there are three people barred from playing. 

Rhysand and Feyre aren’t allowed to play because while your mental shields are dutifully built, no one trusts the two daemati to play fair.

And Cassian’s not allowed to play either, for obvious reasons.

Well, reasons that are obvious to Rhysand, and likely the rest of the family, not that it’s any of their business; Cassian will tell you in his own time.

So it’s often down to Morrigan, Amren, Nesta, and Azriel to guess what the missing word you’re looking for is, with Lucien joining in when he and Elain visit as well.

Lucien was absolutely delighted—and horribly smug, the prick—when he correctly translated the answer to what your favourite fruit was—“an apple’s friend”—as a pear, and he hasn’t been invited back since. 

Amren’s glaring at Azriel like she’s hoping the shadowsinger might be banned next. 

“An echo?” Morrigan tries, huffing when you shake your head no. 

“And you’re saying that it’s something that people, the trees, and the sky does?” Nesta clarifies, narrowing her eyes in your direction. 

“Some animals too,” you agree, cheek bunched up where it’s resting on your fist. Cassian can’t stop smiling at you even though there’s an obvious tension in his body, poised in his seat like it’s taking everything in him not to blurt out the answer. 

“Do you know what it is?” Morrigan asks Cassian, who nods his head yes but doesn’t move his gaze. “What is it?”

“No,” Amren hisses, eyes still narrowed at you though Rhysand knows the ancient being’s gaze isn’t malicious, but rather dissecting. “I can do this.” 

“Animals too, you say?” Azriel confirms, humming when you nod your head yes.

“You lost me at trees and the sky,” Nesta admits, eyes staring at the wall unseeingly as she twirls the wine in her glass and ponders your latest riddle. 

Rhysand shoots you a questioning glance, wondering if this little game has gotten old and is beginning to weigh on you, but you shoot him a wink. It’s not easy conducting your daily life in a language that’s not your own, he’s glad you’re able to find a bit of fun in it where you can. 

“Trees, the sky, people, and some animals,” Morrigan hums thoughtfully. 

“I am unsure if the sky is responsible for the sound or if it is the clouds,” you admit. 

“The clouds…thunder?” Azriel tries. “But the trees…” 

“But in the wind the trees can groan,” Nesta muses, eyes sharpening when you sit up straighter. “Groan?”

“Animals don’t groan,” Amren mumbles. 

“But they do roar,” Morrigan tries.

Nesta gives her a strange look. “But trees don’t roar.” 

“No, you were onto something with the groan,” Azriel announces, keeping his gaze on you. “Are we close?”

“Close, yes,” you agree eagerly. “It is like a groan, but not…so unhappy? The sound is not happy, but to groan sounds…sad.”

“Groaning is too sad, but the word you’re looking for isn’t necessarily happy?” Morrigan confirms. 

I don’t know, Rhysad hums into Feyre and Cassian’s minds, Cassian used to sound real happy when he made this sound in his bedroom. 

Cassian smirks devilishly but flips Rhysand off so no one else can see. 

Don’t antagonize him, Feyre chastises. He’s barely keeping from launching himself across the table at her as is. 

Rhysand hums thoughtfully. Do you think he might-

“Growl!?” Morrigan shouts, squealing when you nod your head yes and Cassian smiles at his lap and shakes his head. 

“When the hell did trees start growling?” Amren huffs. 

“They make an awful sound when they’re about to fall,” Azriel placates. “And thunder does sound an awful lot like growling.”

“Thunder,” you hum thoughtfully, running your finger along your bottom lip as you catalogue this new word in your mind. “That is the sound of the sky?”

“Thunder, yes,” Azriel agrees. “It comes from the clouds, usually followed by rain.” 

“Sky water,” you hum, causing Nesta to snort at the memory of one of the last games of this type she won.

“How did we even get onto the topic of growling anyways?” Feyre asks then, Nesta’s brows furrowing and Morrigan’s smirk growing dangerously impish as her eyes flit to Cassian. 

“Actually, Y/N was just telling us a story about her trip into town,” she explains, everyone tensing at the mischief in her tone. 

“Oh?” Nesta chimes in, leaning back in her chair as she plays along. 

“Apparently, Cassian escorted her this afternoon, and they stopped by Corven’s.”

The group simultaneously hums as they see where this is going. 

“Corven is nice,” you offer warily, eyes darting around the room as you try to puzzle out what page everyone else seems to be on. 

The cafe owner is nice—too nice, often—and uncomfortably so to his female customers. 

“Mhm,” Morrigan agrees rather noncommittally. “And apparently, Cassian saw him getting a little too cozy with his sweet ma-”

“Alright, that’s enough story telling,” Cassian announces abruptly, standing and offering you a hand. “Would you like to help me make the pear turnovers?” 

You seem confused by his rather rude interruption, but—as mates tend to do—you can’t seem to deny Cassian of his request. The family watches as you place your delicate hand in his and allow him to lead you in the direction of the kitchen. 

Morrigan coughs into her fist obnoxiously. “Coward.”

The group laughs when the Lord of Bloodshed flips them off over his shoulder, you remaining none the wiser.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[ellecdc]

one of those days

Steve Harrington x fem!reader who is having one of those days [1.2k words]

summary: Some days you need to come home from work, peel off your pants, strip out of your bra, and pour yourself a healthy glass of wine as you wait for your friend to stop by. And some days you fling your door open expecting your friend only to come face-to-face with some guy named Steve Harrington.

CW: partial nudity, nonsexual nudity, meet-ugly, pre-established relationship, reader has hair she can put up in a bun/clip, reader owns a cat, fluff/crack.

There are days you find yourself thanking your lucky stars that you live alone, but never so much as coming home from work after a terrible day. 

The kind of day where your first plan of attack as the door of your apartment clicks shut behind you is to peel off your pants and release yourself from the prison that is your bra. The kind of day that sees your hair thrown up in an elastic, a scrunchie, a clip– whatever gets it out of your face enough for you to feel like you can take a full breath. 

No one’s there to witness you pull the cork from a chilled bottle of wine with your teeth as you reach into a cupboard for the largest wine glass you own, nor is anyone there to watch you trip over your cat and then (loudly) accuse them of trying to take you out and make off like a bandit with your life insurance policy. 

After a full day of fielding questions, endless tasks being dropped off at your desk, as well as feeling like you were doing everyone else’s job for them, you’re officially responsible for no one. 

Your eyes shift over to your friend’s tupperware washed and awaiting pick up on the counter. So, maybe you’re only responsible for one other person tonight, and it’s hardly an arduous task—she mentioned she would swing by on her way home to pick it up herself. 

You’re sliding a frozen pizza into your preheated oven with one hand and taking a sip from your (second) very large glass of wine when the doorbell rings. 

You shoot your cat a major warning glare as you make your way to the door, not wanting your poor friend to walk in on the scene of a crime (murder in the first degree) when all she wanted to do was to pick up her favourite tupperware container. 

You fling the door open, ready to warn her of the serial assailant and let her in to retrieve said containers when you nearly choke on your sip of wine. 

Because it is decidedly not your friend standing on the other side of your wide open door. 

And now today has turned into one of those days; after an already grueling day at work, you get home, strip your pants off, free yourself of your bra, all but chug one large glass of wine and pour yourself another before flinging your door open to a young man who’s looking at you like you just shouted a slur at him. 

“Oh,” is all that manages to leave your lips. 

People often talk about fear responses: fight or flight. And by God do you wish your instincts told you to slam the door in this—albeit rather pretty—man’s face and hope he comes back never (or at least when you’re clothed) instead of standing here, partially clothed, gaping at him like a landlocked fish. 

The guy’s fully clothed—the bastard—and white knuckling a clip board in front of him which he’s now using to shield your bare legs from his line of sight, refusing to blink lest he be accused of not making anything but perfect eye contact with you at all times. 

The two of you stay in some kind of half-naked, silent standoff. Or maybe it’s more of a game of chicken; whoever draws attention to your distinct lack of clothing first loses. 

A game he’s clearly playing to win. “Steve.” 

Your brows raise. “I beg your pardon?”

He winces, moving to correct himself. “Harrington! I- shit. Steve, I’m Steve. Harrington. Steve Harrington.” 

You nod slowly. “Okay, Steve Harrington.” You bring your glass to your lips and give him a once over—something only one of you can do without being called a pervert. “What exactly can I help you with?” 

Steve Harrington seems to shake himself out of something, looking down at his clipboard and then letting out a pained sound when it forces his eyes down towards your naked legs. 

“Right! Yes, well, uhm, you see. I have a little league team? Not, like, own it or anything. But, like, run it? No, coach! I’m the coach. I coach a little league team.” 

“The point, Steve Harrington?” you all but beg, flashing your elderly neighbour a tight-lipped smile as she walks by shooting you a look of disdain. Your entire apartment complex is going to be talking about the half-naked chick in unit 303 who entertains men with an open door by morning. 

“Yes! Right, okay.” Steve collects himself. “My team is hosting a barbeque next weekend to raise money for their end-of-season tournament. We’ll be selling hotdogs, hamburgers, veggie burgers, street corn, as well as tickets for different raffle prizes, and– well, yeah. That’s pretty much it. Barbeque. Raffle. Raising money. Baseball.” 

You both take a deep breath at the end of his speedrun spiel.

“Great,” you say on an exhale.

“Yep.”

The two of you continue staring at each other, and you honestly have to hand it to Steve. His eye contact game in the face of bare legs, women’s underwear, and pert nipples really is superb. He should get a trophy. Do they make trophies for that? If they can make trophies for squeaky voiced little league players, surely they can make them for gentlemanly men. 

“Is that all?” you manage.

Steve shakes himself again, ripping a sheet from his clipboard and thrusting it in your direction while busying himself with admiring the brick facade of the wall above your door frame. 

You accept the flyer, giving it a brief perusal before lowering it in an attempt to protect your modesty. Just as quickly you’re ripping it away from yourself when one of your neighbours nearly trips over his feet when he assumes you're entirely naked from the waist down. 

“Great. Just- yeah. Great. Thanks, Steve Harrington. Anything else?”

“Steve,” he blurts. “Just, uh, just Steve.”

You offer him the most genuine smile you can muster. “Okay, Steve. Well, I’m going to go put more clothes on-” His gaze briefly flickers down before those doe-shaped eyes dutifully make their way back to your own “-and die of embarrassment, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he huffs, managing a small chuckle disguised as clearing his throat. “I, uh, hope you can make it to the barbeque.” 

“Right,” you laugh. “I’ll make sure to wear more clothes.”

“Might be best, you know, with the kids and the PTA.” 

“Right.”

“But…” His blush has migrated to the tips of his ears and down the neck of his shirt. “This seems like a nice way to spend an evening if- uhm, if you ever consider inviting company, I’d love a flyer of my own.” 

With that, he taps his knuckles twice on his clipboard, flashes you a devilish smile completely at odds with the pink of his complexion, and turns to leave you gaping on your doorstep. 

You’re only startled out of your stupor by a fur-lined body rubbing on your ankles which prompts you to slam the door, your ears ringing as you blink at the woodgrain. 

A wet nose presses into your calf. 

“Not a fucking word,” you hiss at your feline companion.

© ellecdc; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[fanficwritinggirl]

Pope cody x reader who gets badly hurt👀👀 im just interested to see how you personally would portray pope feeling helpless/unable to help a very badly hurt reader, whether by car crash or someone trying to get back at him, the how doesn’t matter

{You Stayed - Andrew “Pope” Cody x F!Reader}

Established Relationship | Hurt/Comfort | Serious Injury | Car Crash | Protective Pope | Vulnerable Pope | Cody Family | J Cody | Craig Cody | Deran Cody | Smurf Is Dead | Hospital | Angst | Soft Domestic Fluff | Happy Ending

Summary - Pope can’t undo what happened, but he can make sure she doesn’t go through it alone.

Word Count - 6.4k

A/N - This is separate from 'where the light gets in.' Also inbox is opem for suggestions whether that is andrew oneshot ideas or someone from my list pinned at the top of my page.

Pope had been standing behind you for long enough that your coffee had gone cold.

You knew because you'd tried reaching for it twice.

Both times, his arm had tightened around your waist.

“You know,” you said, staring across the kitchen at the mug sitting just beyond your fingertips, “most people move when somebody is trying to get past them.”

Pope's chin rested near your shoulder. “Could.” You waited.

Nothing happened. You glanced sideways. “That was your cue.” “I know.”

“And?”

His hand moved slightly against your stomach, fingers spreading over the thin material of your shirt.

“And what?” You laughed under your breath. “You're impossible.”

Pope didn't answer. He didn't need to.

His mouth pressed against the side of your neck instead, just beneath your ear, and any argument you'd been planning disappeared somewhere between the first kiss and the second.

You turned in his arms.

Pope's hands automatically settled at your hips.

“There,” you said. “Now I can move.” He looked at you. You smiled.

Then reached for your coffee. Pope caught you before you got anywhere.

“Oh, come on.” He pulled you back against him.

“You're the one who turned around.” “Because you were attached to me.”

“Still am.”

The answer was so simple that you couldn't even argue with it.

You slid your hands up his chest and hooked your fingers loosely into the collar of his shirt.

Pope watched you.

There were moments when his face gave away almost nothing.

You'd seen people mistake that for emptiness. It wasn't.

You knew better.

There was always something happening behind those eyes. Always something being catalogued, weighed, remembered.

With you, though, he had learned to let some of it show.

Not everything. Never everything. But enough.

Your thumb brushed the edge of his jaw. “You're clingy this morning.”

“No.” “You are literally holding me hostage in my own kitchen.”

His mouth twitched. “You could move.” You raised your eyebrows.

“Could I?”

Pope looked down at his hands, still firmly around your waist.

Then back at you. “Probably.”

You laughed and leaned forward to kiss him.

It was supposed to be quick.

One soft press of your mouth against his before you finally rescued your coffee.

Pope apparently had other plans.

His hand slid around your lower back and brought you closer before you could pull away.

The second kiss was slower.

Warmer.

You smiled against his mouth. “See?” “See what?” “Clingy.”

Pope kissed you again. You laughed. “That isn't a denial.”

“Wasn't trying to be.”

There was something almost boyish about the way he said it, and you couldn't help reaching up to push your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

He leaned into the touch without thinking. You loved that.

The things Pope did without thinking around you.

His hand at your waist whenever he passed behind you.

The way he automatically shifted closer if somebody he didn't know walked too near.

The half-asleep reach across the couch if you'd been sitting beside him and got up.

The fact that he always knew where you were in a room.

Not controlling. Not possessive in the way people liked to assume.

Just aware. Constantly aware. You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Coffee.” Pope glanced behind you. “My coffee.”

He reached around your body without letting you go, picked up the mug and handed it to you.

You stared at him. “Seriously?” “What?”

“You know you could just let me move.” “Could.” There it was again.

You took a sip.

Cold.

You made a face. Pope noticed. “Bad?”

“You've been holding me here for ten minutes.” “So?”

“So now it's cold.” He took the mug from you.

You watched him cross to the coffee maker, tip the contents away and pour you another.

“You know most people would just microwave it.”

“Microwaved coffee tastes bad.” “You drink gas station coffee.”

“Different.” “How?” He looked at you. You waited.

Pope had no answer. “Exactly.” He brought the mug back.

You accepted it and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

He caught your wrist before you could lower your hand and pressed a kiss against the inside of it.

The gesture was so unexpectedly soft that you went quiet.

Pope noticed immediately. “What?” “Nothing.” “You're doing a thing.”

“What thing?” “The face.” You smiled. “Maybe I just like you.”

He frowned slightly as if considering whether that was somehow suspicious.

“Maybe.” “You're ridiculous.” “Yeah.”

This time when you kissed him, Pope let you pull away.

Mostly because the phone on the counter started vibrating.

You glanced over.

Craig.

You ignored it. Pope looked at the screen. “He'll call again.”

“He always does.” The phone stopped. Two seconds later, it rang again.

You pointed at it. “See?” Pope reached over and silenced it.

You laughed. “That could be important.” “It isn't.” “How do you know?”

“It's Craig.” “Fair.”

You took another sip of coffee and finally managed to move towards the other side of the kitchen.

Pope followed. You turned. “What are you doing?” “Nothing.”

“You're following me.” “No.” “You are.” He leaned against the counter.

You stared. Pope stared back. You shook your head.

“I need to go out in a bit.” His expression changed instantly.

“Where?” “Store.” “I'll go.” You hadn't even finished the sentence.

You folded your arms. “Pope.” “What?” “I can go to the store.”

“Didn't say you couldn't.” “You were about to.” “No.”

“You literally just said you'll go.” “Yeah.” “Why?” “We need stuff.”

“I know. That's why I'm going.” “I can get it.” “So can I.”

Pope's jaw moved slightly. You knew that look too. He wasn't annoyed.

He just wanted to do it. Pope liked tasks. Things with clear outcomes.

Need groceries? He could get groceries. Something broken?

He could fix it. Somebody threatening the family?

That one tended to get more complicated, but the principle was the same.

You stepped closer and tapped a finger against his chest.

“I am perfectly capable of running one boring errand.” “I know.”

“You sure?” “Yeah.” “You look unconvinced.” “Don't like the store.”

“You don't have to come.” “I know.” You smiled. “There we go.”

Pope caught your hand before you could lower it.

He turned your wrist and kissed your knuckles.

It was infuriating how quickly that ruined your ability to keep pretending you were annoyed.

“You're cheating.” “How?” “You know exactly what you're doing.”

Pope looked at your hand in his. Then at you. “Not really.”

That made you laugh. You leaned in and kissed him once more.

“I'm going to the store.” Pope's hand returned to your hip. “Okay.”

“You're not going to follow me?” “No.” “You're thinking about it.”

“No.” “You're a terrible liar.” “Yeah.” You kissed his jaw.

“Stay here. Craig apparently needs you.” “He doesn't.”

“Then you can call him back and discover what unimportant catastrophe is happening.”

Pope sighed.

You stepped away before he could catch you again and grabbed your bag from the chair.

Your keys were beside it. Pope followed you towards the front door.

You stopped with your hand on the knob and looked over your shoulder.

He was directly behind you. You laughed. “What?” “Nothing.”

“You've followed me from the kitchen.” “No.” “Pope.”

His hand came up and settled around the back of your neck.

Then he kissed you. No urgency. No strange feeling.

Nothing that should have warned either of you that this was going to matter later.

Just Pope. Just home.

Just another kiss at the door before you went out for an hour.

You rested your palm against his cheek when he pulled back.

“I'll be back soon.” Pope nodded. “Yeah.” You opened the door.

“Hey.” You looked back. “Get the good coffee.” You smiled.

“I always get the good coffee.” “Last time you didn't.”

“Last time they were sold out.” “Different store.”

“You're impossible.” Pope leaned against the doorframe.

You walked backwards towards your car. “Love you.”

His expression softened. “Love you too.” You got into the car.

Pope stayed where he was until you pulled away.

You waved once through the windshield. He lifted his hand.

Then you turned the corner. And disappeared.

The first ten minutes were completely ordinary. Music low.

One hand on the steering wheel.

A mental list of everything you needed looping through your head.

Coffee.

Milk.

Bread.

Something for dinner.

The cereal Pope liked but claimed he didn't care about even though he noticed every single time you bought a different one.

You were stopped at a light when you first noticed the dark SUV behind you.

Not because it was unusual. Because it was close. Too close.

You glanced into the mirror.

The driver sat far enough back that you couldn't make out much.

The light changed. You drove. So did they.

You didn't think anything of it. Not yet.

Two turns later, the SUV was still behind you. You changed lanes.

It changed lanes. Your stomach tightened. Maybe coincidence.

Oceanside wasn't exactly a maze.

You told yourself not to be ridiculous. Then the SUV accelerated.

It came up fast enough that your hands tightened around the steering wheel.

“What the hell?” You sped up. So did they. Your heart began to pound.

You reached for your phone.

Before you could grab it, the SUV moved alongside you.

You glanced over. The windows were dark.

You couldn't see the driver's face. Then they swerved.

Hard.

You jerked the wheel instinctively.

Your tyres crossed the edge of the lane. “Shit.” You corrected.

The SUV moved away.

For half a second, you thought maybe it had been an accident.

Then it came back.

The impact hit the side of your car with enough force to send your body sideways against the seatbelt.

You screamed. The steering wheel tore beneath your hands.

The car veered. There was nowhere to go.

The road disappeared beneath you. Everything became noise.

Metal.

Glass.

The violent snap of the seatbelt locking across your chest.

You hit something. Then something else. The world spun. And stopped.

For several seconds, you couldn't hear anything except a high ringing inside your head.

Your eyes were open. You thought they were. Everything looked wrong.

The windshield was shattered. The driver's side window was gone.

Your body hurt in too many places to understand any one of them.

You tried breathing. Pain knifed through your ribs.

A sound escaped you. You looked down.

Your leg was trapped somewhere beneath the dashboard.

Your hands were shaking. Your phone was gone. You couldn't see it.

You tried moving. Pain exploded through your abdomen and thigh.

You cried out. “No. No, no, no.”

Your breath started coming too quickly.

Pope.

You needed Pope. You tried reaching towards the passenger side.

Nothing. The seatbelt was still across you.

You couldn't get your fingers around the release.

Something warm slid down the side of your face. You touched it.

Blood.

Your stomach turned. Outside, somebody was shouting. A car stopped.

Another voice. Then footsteps. “Ma'am? Can you hear me?”

You tried answering. Your throat didn't work properly. “Yeah.”

“Don't move.” You almost laughed.

You couldn't have moved if you'd wanted to. “Help is coming.”

Your eyes closed. “No, no, stay with me. What's your name?”

You told them. “Okay. Good. Keep talking to me.” You swallowed.

“My phone.” “What?” “Need… my phone.”

“Don't worry about that right now.” “Pope.”

You didn't know if they heard you. The world blurred.

Somewhere very far away, sirens began to scream.

Pope knew something was wrong when you didn't answer the first time.

Not because you always answered. You didn't.

Sometimes you were driving. Sometimes your phone was in your bag.

Sometimes you just didn't hear it. But there was something about it.

A feeling he couldn't name.

Craig was sitting across from him talking about something Pope had stopped listening to five minutes ago when he called you again.

No answer. Craig noticed. “What?” Pope shook his head.

“Nothing.” He called again. Straight to voicemail. His jaw tightened.

“You guys fighting or something?” “No.” “Then what's—”

Pope's phone rang. Unknown number. He answered immediately. “Hello?”

“Is this Andrew Cody?” Pope went still. Craig stopped talking. “Yeah.”

“My name is Officer—” Pope barely heard the name.

“There's been an accident.” Everything inside him stopped.

The voice kept speaking. Your name. Vehicle.

Crash.

Emergency crews.

Where.

Pope was already moving. Craig stood. “What happened?”

Pope grabbed his keys. “It's her.” Craig's face changed. “What?”

Pope was out the door before he finished asking.

He saw the lights before he saw the car.

Police.

Fire engines. Ambulance. The road partially blocked.

Pope stopped his truck badly enough that somebody shouted at him.

He didn't care. He got out. Then he saw your car.

For one second, he didn't recognise it. That was how bad it was.

The front end had folded around a tree. The driver's side was crushed.

Glass covered the road. The roof had buckled near the windshield.

Pope stopped dead. Somebody moved in front of him. “Sir, you can't—”

“Where is she?” “Sir—” “Where is she?” He tried going around.

The officer caught his arm.

Pope ripped it away so fast the man stepped back. “Don't touch me.”

“Sir, you need to stay behind the line.” “She's in there.” “I know.”

“Then move.” “Emergency crews are working on her.”

Pope looked past him. He saw movement inside the car.

A paramedic crouched near the broken passenger window.

A firefighter was working around the driver's side.

Another was setting equipment near the roof. You were still inside.

Pope's breathing changed. “Why isn't she out?”

“They need to stabilise the vehicle first.” “How long?”

“I don't know.” “Is she awake?” The officer hesitated.

Pope stepped closer. “Is she awake?” “Yes.” “Can she hear me?”

“I don't know.” “Can I go to her?” “No.” Pope stared at him.

The officer must have seen something in his face because his tone changed.

“They're cutting her out. If you get in their way, you make that harder.”

That landed.

Barely.

But it landed. Pope looked back towards the car.

He could see part of you now. Your shoulder. Your hair.

Blood.

His stomach twisted. He moved towards the line.

The officer stepped with him. “I said you can't—”

“I won't get in the way.” “Sir.” “Ask them.” “What?”

“Ask them if I can talk to her.” The officer stared.

Pope's voice dropped. “Please.” That did it.

The officer turned and spoke to one of the paramedics.

It took another minute. Pope felt every second.

Then somebody waved him closer. “Stay here. Do not cross past me.”

Pope nodded. He crouched near the passenger side of the car.

For the first time, he saw your face. Everything in him broke.

Blood streaked your temple. Your skin looked grey beneath it.

There was bruising already darkening near your collarbone where the seatbelt had caught you.

Your eyes were half closed. “Hey.” You didn't react.

Pope moved slightly closer. “Hey, baby.” Your eyes opened.

It took a second. Then you saw him. Your face crumpled. “Pope.”

He swallowed. “Yeah.” Your eyes filled instantly. “I'm here.”

You tried moving your hand. A paramedic stopped you. “Don't move.”

You looked frightened. Pope leaned closer. “Look at me.”

Your breathing hitched. “Pope—” “Look at me.” You did.

“Don't look over there. Look at me.”

A saw started somewhere behind the car. You flinched.

Pope kept his eyes on yours. “They're getting you out.” “It hurts.”

“I know.” “Bad.” “I know.” Your mouth trembled.

“I'm scared.”

Pope's chest tightened so hard he almost couldn't breathe.

He wanted to reach into the car. Wanted to rip the door off himself.

Wanted to pull you out and put you back together with his own hands.

Instead, he stayed where the paramedic told him to. “I know.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. “Hey.” You opened them again.

Pope lowered his voice. “You don't gotta be scared alone.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Pope's fingers curled against his knee. “I'm right here.”

The firefighter started cutting. Noise filled everything.

Pope talked anyway. He told you where you were. Told you to breathe.

Told you Craig was probably about to show up and make everything worse.

That got the smallest twitch from your mouth. He held onto it.

“Yeah. There you go.” “Don't… let him drive.” Pope almost laughed.

“Wasn't planning on it.” Your eyes drifted. “Hey.” They opened again.

“Stay with me.” “Trying.” “I know.”

He stayed there while they cut the roof.

Stayed there while paramedics worked around you.

Stayed until someone put a hand against his shoulder and told him they needed more room.

Pope didn't want to move. Then your eyes found his again. So he did.

Because they needed him out of the way.

And there was nothing else he could do.

Craig arrived first.

Deran and J were less than two minutes behind him.

Pope barely noticed. Craig stopped beside him and stared at the car.

“Jesus Christ.” Pope said nothing. Deran looked at the wreck once.

Then at Pope. “Is she awake?” “Yeah.” “How bad?”

Pope's jaw clenched. “They won't tell me.” Deran nodded.

Not because that was okay.

Because he understood there was no point telling Pope anything else.

Craig paced a few feet away. “What happened?” “Crash.”

“No shit. I mean how?” Pope looked at him. Craig stopped.

“Right. Sorry.” J said nothing.

He stood slightly apart from the others, eyes moving over everything.

The road. The tyre marks. The shoulder. The side of your car.

The police talking near the SUV-shaped scrape visible along the driver's side.

Deran noticed him looking. “What?” J shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

Pope didn't hear. Or didn't care.

Everything narrowed when the firefighters finally began moving you.

He stepped forward automatically. A paramedic blocked him.

“Give us space.” “I'm going with her.”

“We need to stabilise her first.” “I said I'm going.”

“Sir, move back.” Pope's face changed. Deran immediately came closer.

“Pope.” Pope ignored him. The stretcher appeared.

You were lifted carefully. You cried out. Pope moved again. “Hey!”

Your eyes opened. You found him. “Pope.”

He pushed past one person before another stopped him.

“Let me touch her.” “We need room.” “Let me touch her.”

Your hand moved weakly off the side of the stretcher. Pope saw it.

So did the paramedic. For one second, they let him through.

Pope grabbed your hand. Your fingers were cold.

Wet.

Blood smeared across his palm. You squeezed as hard as you could.

Which wasn't very hard at all. “I'm here.” Your eyes were heavy.

“Don't go.” Pope's face tightened. “I won't.” “Promise?”

“I promise.” They pulled the stretcher away.

Your fingers slipped from his.

Pope stood there with your blood across his hand.

The ambulance doors opened. He moved towards them.

A paramedic stopped him. “We don't have room. We need to work.”

“I'm coming.” “You can't.” Pope's eyes sharpened. “Pope.”

Deran's voice.

Close.

Steady.

“They need to go.” Pope looked at him. Deran nodded once.

“Follow them.” Pope stared at the ambulance.

Then at the blood on his hand. The doors closed.

And for the first time since he'd arrived, there was nothing in front of him to do.

No one to talk to. No instruction to follow. No way to reach you.

The ambulance pulled away. Pope stood in the road.

Lost.

The hospital moved too slowly. Then too quickly.

Pope couldn't decide which was worse.

They got there less than ten minutes after the ambulance.

By the time he reached the emergency department, you had already disappeared behind a set of doors.

A nurse asked questions.

Name.

Date of birth. Medications. Allergies. Pope answered some.

J answered the ones he couldn't. “Relationship?”

Pope looked at the nurse. “She's mine.” The nurse paused.

Deran stepped in. “Partner.” Pope shot him a look. Deran didn't react.

The nurse nodded. Then more waiting. A doctor came out.

Pope stood before he had even crossed the room. “What happened?”

“She has several serious injuries. We're concerned about internal bleeding. She has multiple rib fractures, a significant fracture to her left leg and evidence of a head injury. We need to take her into surgery.”

Pope stared. “Is she gonna be okay?” “We're doing everything we can.”

“That wasn't what I asked.” The doctor held his gaze.

“I can't promise you that right now.”

Something inside Pope went very quiet. Craig looked away.

Deran's jaw tightened. J asked, “What's the surgery for?”

The doctor explained. Bleeding in her abdomen.

Damage they needed to repair. Stabilising the fracture after.

Monitoring for complications from the head injury. Pope heard words.

None of them stayed. “How long?” “A few hours.” “Can I see her?”

“Not before surgery.” “Why?” “We need to move quickly.”

Pope opened his mouth. Deran stepped closer. The doctor continued.

“As soon as we have an update, someone will come speak to you.”

Then he left. Pope stood there. Craig rubbed both hands over his face.

“Fuck.” J sat down. Deran stayed beside Pope. “Sit.”

Pope looked at him. “I'm not sitting.” “Okay.”

That was all Deran said. Pope began pacing.

Twenty minutes later, Craig tried reassurance. It went badly.

“She’s tough, man.” Pope stopped. Craig looked up.

“She'll pull through.” Pope stared at him. “You don't know that.”

The room went silent. Craig's face changed.

Pope immediately looked away. Nobody spoke for several seconds.

Then Craig nodded. “Yeah.” Pope's jaw worked. “I didn't—”

“I know.” Craig looked down at his hands. “I know.”

Pope started walking again. Deran watched him.

J was on his phone, quietly dealing with the police officer who'd called twice.

Nobody told Pope to calm down.

Nobody told him everything was going to be fine.

That made it marginally easier.

After another half hour, Pope finally looked down.

Your blood was still on his hand. Dark now.

Drying in the creases of his skin. He stared at it.

Then walked away without saying anything. The bathroom was empty.

Pope turned on the sink. Water ran over his hands.

Red diluted to pink. Then pale. Then clear.

He scrubbed harder than he needed to.

Soap.

Water.

Again.

He watched your blood disappear down the drain.

When it was gone, he stopped. His hands were clean.

Pope stared at them. Something twisted painfully in his chest.

He wanted it back. The thought made no sense. It was blood.

Your blood. Evidence that you'd been hurt.

But it had been the last thing left. Your hand in his.

Your fingers slipping away. Don't go. Promise?

Pope turned the tap off. The bathroom went silent.

He gripped the edge of the sink.

For one horrible second, his face in the mirror looked unfamiliar.

He closed his eyes. Then opened them. Nothing changed.

J was waiting outside when he came back. “Police want to talk to you.”

“No.” “They'll come here.” “No.” J looked at him.

Pope kept walking. J followed.

“They think another vehicle was involved.” Pope stopped.

Slowly.

“What?” J didn't answer immediately. That was enough. Pope turned.

“What?” Deran stood from the waiting room chair. Craig looked up.

J lowered his voice.

“There are marks along her car that don't match the tree. Tyre marks on the road too.”

Pope's face emptied. Deran said, “J.”

“I wasn't going to say anything until they knew.”

“Knew what?” Pope asked. Nobody answered. His eyes locked onto J.

“Knew what?” J held his gaze.

“That somebody might've forced her off the road.”

The fear vanished from Pope's face.

Not because he wasn't afraid anymore.

Because something else moved over it. Something he understood.

Craig stood. “Who?” “They don't know.” “Bullshit.”

“Craig.” “No, fuck that. Who was following her?” J shook his head.

“Traffic cameras caught part of a dark SUV. They don't have a plate yet.”

Pope started walking. Deran stepped in front of him.

“Where are you going?” “Move.” “Pope.” “Move.”

Craig grabbed his jacket. “I'll go.” Deran spun towards him. “No.”

“Somebody ran her off the fucking road.” “I know.”

“So what are we doing sitting here?” Pope pushed past Deran.

J's voice stopped him. “You don't know who you're looking for.”

Pope turned. “I'll find out.” “How?” Pope stared.

J continued.

“You're gonna drive around Oceanside and start beating everyone with a dark SUV?”

“If I have to.” “That doesn't help her.”

Pope crossed the space between them so quickly Craig moved instinctively.

“Don't tell me what helps her.” J didn't flinch. “Okay.”

Pope's breathing was heavy. J looked at him.

“Then stay here when she wakes up.” Silence. Pope's face shifted.

J continued, quiet and controlled.

“Whoever did this will still be there tomorrow.” Pope said nothing.

“She might wake up tonight.” Deran watched him.

Craig slowly lowered his jacket. J's eyes didn't leave Pope's.

“So decide where you want to be.” Pope turned.

Walked towards the corridor.

For one second, Deran thought he was still leaving. Then Pope stopped.

His hand tightened at his side. The kitchen came back to him.

Your hands in his collar. Your laugh against his mouth.

The way you'd looked at him at the door. I'll be back soon.

He could still hear it. Pope shut his eyes.

If you woke up and he wasn't there— If you died and he'd left—

Something inside him cracked. He turned back. Craig watched.

Pope's voice was barely audible. “They can wait.” J nodded once.

Nothing more. Pope went back to the waiting room. And sat down.

Hours passed. At some point, Craig went for coffee.

Deran disappeared outside to make a call. J remained.

Pope sat forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

J looked at him. Pope spoke without looking up. “I should've gone.”

J waited. “To the store.” Nothing.

“She wanted to go. I should've gone.” J leaned back in the chair.

“Wouldn't have changed what happened.” Pope looked at him.

“You don't know that.” “No.” J's expression didn't change.

“Neither do you.” Pope's jaw tightened. For a second, anger flashed.

Then disappeared. He looked back down. J didn't say anything else.

That was probably why Pope didn't tell him to leave.

A few minutes later, Craig returned carrying four coffees and handed one to Pope.

Pope took it. Didn't drink. Craig sat.

“Smurf would've been tearing this place apart by now.”

Deran had just come back through the doors. He stopped. “Don't.”

Craig looked down. “Yeah.” Pope said nothing. But the thought stayed.

Smurf would have taken over.

She would've questioned doctors until they hated her.

Found the person responsible before the police had finished writing the report.

Told Pope what to do. But Smurf was gone.

And Pope had nobody to hand this to. Nobody who could fix it for him.

Not that Smurf could have fixed this either. That was the problem.

Nobody could.

The surgeon finally appeared just after midnight.

Pope was on his feet immediately. The doctor didn't waste time.

“She made it through surgery.” Pope exhaled.

It was the first full breath he'd taken in hours.

Craig lowered his head. Deran squeezed the back of his neck.

J closed his eyes briefly. Pope stared at the surgeon. “She okay?”

“She lost a significant amount of blood, but we controlled the internal bleeding. The fracture in her leg has been stabilised. Her ribs will need time. We're also monitoring the head injury closely.”

“Is she awake?” “Not yet.” “When can I see her?” “Soon.”

“How soon?” The surgeon almost smiled.

“Give the nurses a few minutes to settle her.” Pope nodded.

Then:

“I'm going in.” The doctor studied him.

“She's going to look different than she did before.”

Pope's face hardened. “I don't care.”

“I know. I'm warning you because there are a lot of tubes, monitors, bruising—”

“I said I don't care.” Deran touched Pope's arm. The doctor nodded.

“All right.”

Pope thought he'd been prepared. He wasn't.

He stopped just inside the room. You looked too still.

That was the first thing. You were always moving.

Hands.

Eyes.

Face.

Even asleep, you shifted towards him if he moved.

Now you lay beneath white blankets with machines surrounding you.

Bruising darkened one side of your face.

There was a dressing near your temple. Your leg was immobilised.

A monitor traced every heartbeat. Pope couldn't move.

A nurse glanced at him. “You can sit with her.”

He looked towards the chair. Then back at you. “She know I'm here?”

“She may not. But you can talk to her.” Pope swallowed.

The nurse left. He crossed the room slowly.

Sat.

Your hand rested near the edge of the bed. Pope looked at it.

He wanted to take it. Couldn't. What if he hurt you?

What if there was something wrong with your wrist too?

What if touching you somehow made something worse?

He sat there for almost five minutes before finally reaching out.

Two fingers. That was all. He hooked them carefully around yours.

Your hand was warm. Pope looked down.

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

The words sounded strange in the room. He waited. Nothing.

His thumb moved slightly against your knuckle. “You always tell me.”

Silence. “What to get. Where we're going. What we're eating.”

His mouth twitched once. Then stopped.

“You tell me when I'm being an asshole.”

The monitor continued beeping. Pope looked at your face.

“Tell me what to do.” His voice cracked. He stopped. Swallowed.

Tried again. “You tell me and I'll do it.” Nothing. “Anything.”

He bent forward.

His forehead almost touched the mattress beside your arm.

“I'll do anything.”

His grip tightened very slightly around your fingers. “Just…”

He couldn't finish. Pope closed his eyes. And stayed.

Deran checked on him first. Pope didn't look up when he came in.

“How is she?” “Same.” Deran nodded. “Craig went home to shower.”

Pope said nothing. “J's talking to the cops.” Still nothing.

Deran looked at the chair beside Pope. “Want me to stay?” “No.”

“Okay.” Deran turned. “Deran.” He stopped.

Pope's eyes remained on you. “If she wakes up…” Deran waited.

Pope swallowed. “Get the nurse.” Deran's expression softened. “Yeah.”

He left. Pope stayed. Hour after hour.

At some point, exhaustion finally dragged his head down.

He fell asleep with one arm folded on the mattress and his fingers still loosely around yours.

The first thing you felt was pain. Not sharp. Not one place.

Everywhere.

Heavy.

Deep.

Your mouth was dry. Something beeped. You tried opening your eyes.

Light hurt. You closed them again.

Then you felt warmth against your hand. Fingers. You moved yours.

Barely.

The person beside you jerked awake. “Hey.” You knew that voice.

Your eyes opened again. Pope was there. Hair messed. Eyes red.

Face exhausted. You stared at him.

His expression changed so quickly it almost frightened you. “Hey.”

You tried speaking. Nothing came out. Pope leaned closer.

“Don't. It's okay.” You swallowed. “Pope?” His face broke.

Not completely. Pope never did anything completely. But enough.

“Yeah.” You looked at him. Memory came back in pieces.

Road.

SUV.

Impact.

Glass.

Pope beside the car. I'm here. Your breathing changed.

Pope noticed instantly. “Hey. You're okay.” You shut your eyes. “Car.”

“I know.” “Hurt.” “I know.” He reached towards you.

Stopped. You opened your eyes again.

His hand hovered several inches above yours. You frowned.

Pope looked frightened. Not of you. Of touching you.

Your throat tightened. “You can.” “What?” “Touch me.”

His jaw tightened. “You hurt.” “I know.” “I don't wanna—”

“You can touch me.” Pope's eyes filled.

Very slowly, he took your hand.

You turned your palm enough to fit your fingers around his.

He exhaled. You lifted your other hand. It barely made it off the bed.

Pope immediately leaned closer. Your fingers reached his cheek.

His eyes closed.

There.

That was him. Warm skin. Rough jaw.

Home.

Pope turned his face slightly into your palm.

You whispered, “You stayed.” His eyes opened. “Yeah.”

You tried smiling. It hurt. Pope immediately frowned. “Don't.”

“Bossy.” His mouth trembled. “Yeah.”

Your fingers slipped from his cheek.

He caught your hand before it fell.

Then lowered his forehead carefully against the back of it.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

You felt something warm against your knuckles.

A tear.

Then another. You squeezed his fingers weakly.

Pope's shoulders shook once. Only once. You didn't say anything.

You let him have it.

Recovery was slow. Pope hated slow. He hated every part of it.

Hated that you hurt when you moved.

Hated the way you grimaced when nurses adjusted your leg.

Hated that breathing too deeply hurt your ribs.

Hated how tired you were. Hated the bruising. Hated the machines.

Mostly, he hated that none of it responded to anything he knew how to do.

So he found things he could do.

Water.

Pillows. Blankets. Food when you were allowed it.

Calling the nurse when you were too stubborn to admit your pain had worsened.

Sitting. Watching. Hovering. So much hovering.

Three days after surgery, you woke from a nap to find Pope standing near the window.

He looked at you immediately. “Need anything?” “No.” “Water?”

“No.” “Pain meds?” “No.” “Pillow?”

You stared. “What?” “You're doing it again.” “What?”

“Hovering.” Pope looked offended. “I'm standing.”

“You've been standing there watching me breathe for five minutes.”

“No.” “Yes.” “No.” “Pope.”

He came closer. “You made a face.” “I moved my leg.”

“You made a pain face.” “Because my leg is broken.” He stared.

You sighed. “Come here.” Pope approached slowly.

You patted the edge of the bed.

He sat.

You looked at him. “You know I'm not going to explode, right?”

“Didn't say you were.”

“You act like touching me is going to snap me in half.”

“You got broken ribs.” “They aren't contagious.” His jaw moved.

You studied him. There it was.

Guilt.

Still.

You reached for his hand. Pope let you take it. “You would've gone.”

He looked at you. “To the store.” Pope said nothing.

“You think if you'd gone instead, none of this would've happened.”

His gaze dropped. You squeezed his fingers. “Pope.”

“I should've gone.” “No.” “I said I would.” “And I said I wanted to.”

“You would've been home.”

“And maybe they would've waited until another day. Maybe they'd have come to the house. Maybe they'd have hit your truck instead. Maybe a thousand different things could've happened.”

Pope's jaw tightened. “You don't know.” “Neither do you.”

His eyes lifted. You almost smiled. “J said that to you, didn't he?”

Pope frowned. “How'd you know?”

“Because that sounded annoyingly like J.” His mouth twitched.

You continued. “You couldn't have stopped it.” Pope looked away.

“I could've done something.” “You did.” “No.” “Yes.”

“I stood there.” “You stayed with me.” “They wouldn't let me—” “Pope.”

He stopped. You shifted carefully. Pain tugged across your ribs.

Pope immediately leaned forward. “See?” “I'm fine.” “You're not.”

“No.” You looked at him. “I'm not.” That shut him up.

You squeezed his hand. “I'm hurt.” Pope stared at you.

“I'm going to be hurt for a while.” His expression tightened.

“But I'm here.” Nothing. “You couldn't stop the crash.”

Pope's eyes dropped.

“You couldn't pull me out yourself. You couldn't do surgery. You couldn't wake me up.”

His throat worked. “But you stayed.” Pope looked at you.

You held his gaze. “You could've gone after whoever did it.”

He said nothing. You knew. J had told you enough. Not details.

Just that Pope had almost left. And hadn't. “You stayed.”

Pope's voice was quiet. “I promised.” Your eyes filled. “I know.”

His thumb moved across your knuckles. You reached towards him.

“Come here.” Pope hesitated. “Pope.” He leaned closer.

You slid your fingers around the back of his neck.

The movement pulled slightly at your ribs. You ignored it.

Pope noticed anyway. “Careful.” “I am.” “You're not.”

“Shut up.” His eyebrows lifted. You smiled. “That's better.”

“What?” “You telling me what to do.”

You laughed and immediately winced. Pope's face fell. “I hate you.”

“No, you don't.” “No.” You pulled him closer.

His mouth met yours carefully. Too carefully. Barely a kiss.

You frowned when he pulled away. “What was that?” “A kiss.”

“That was a medical examination.” Pope looked confused. “You're hurt.”

“I know.” He tried again. Still gentle. But real this time.

Your fingers moved into his hair.

Pope's hand settled at your waist, avoiding every bruise he knew about.

You kissed him slowly. No urgency. Nothing demanding. Just proof.

You.

Him.

Still here.

When you pulled back, Pope kept his forehead against yours.

“I love you.” You smiled. “I love you too.”

His hand remained at your side. You rested yours against his cheek.

For a while, neither of you moved. Then you shifted slightly.

Pope immediately looked down. “You need something?” You stared at him.

“Seriously?” “What?” “You're hovering while sitting.” “No.”

“Yes.” “No.” You smiled despite yourself. “You could stop.”

Pope looked at you.

Then at his hand still resting carefully against your waist. “Could.”

You froze. The kitchen. Cold coffee. His arm wrapped around you.

Could.

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Your ribs protested.

Pope immediately frowned. “Don't laugh.” “You did that on purpose.”

“What?” “You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

Pope's mouth twitched. You shook your head. “Clingy.” “No.”

“You haven't left this hospital for more than an hour in three days.”

“Different.” “How?” Pope didn't answer. Exactly like the coffee.

You smiled. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Then your cheek.

Then your mouth.

You let your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt.

Pope's hand stayed at your waist. Careful.

Warm.

Present. Outside the room, the world was still waiting.

Police.

Questions. Whoever had done this. J had information. Craig had anger.

Deran had already made it very clear that nobody was forgetting.

That could come later. Pope could deal with later.

For now, you were here. Bruised. Broken in places.

Alive.

And Pope was exactly where he'd chosen to be. Beside you.

You looked at him. “You know you can go get coffee, right?” “No.”

“You're going to sit there all day?” “Yeah.” “You're impossible.”

“Yeah.” You smiled. Pope leaned closer. His nose brushed yours.

“Get the good coffee next time.” You stared at him.

Then laughed so hard you had to grab your ribs.

Pope immediately panicked. “Shit. Don't—” “You're such an asshole.”

“Yeah.” You caught his shirt before he could pull away. “Kiss me.”

Pope did. And stayed.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

@itwas-maroon16 @locaalolaa @lizzyhaas-blog @angelbunny222 @ynniksslirg @mn2024x @leilawarnerr @lillly-ofthevalley @nyxmoretti @happyendingarentreal @jennataurus @heyyimmisunderstood @just-reading22 @karlawithacapitalk @alexxavicry @tubby23 @mil88691 @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @changbinsrightboob @labiblioteque @booknerd0394 @pinguphd @fulla02 @nightshadestars @romantic-insomniac @sage-files @starwarsdinosaur @goddess-of-spring @tulilip21 @mxkhxx @rabbotseatcarrots @hazydespair @dreamlover81 @valentinevampp @chanelwidag @velvetumbranightmare @thebookbutterfly @honeysblogx @suzie18 @saigereaper @tiredemu @mistressmkay @littlezee80 @blancastans @croissant31 @1dhoe93 @amacphet @iron-aries-world @bokutowo @v3ntis-lyr3 @hisdyingbride @hehehehehehehaaaaaaaa @fromirkwood @rebeccaflores1 @jeshomie @antisocialparasocial @mssarahpaulsooonn @simp4f1 @winnietiltheday @shetasteslikesunlighttt @ifyoubewooedingoodtime @realwhoreforfictionalmen @vicky066 @@laceyvt3 

[cosmictheo]

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 | gwayne hightower

| gif credits: @/barbieaemond |

— summary: when you are forced to wed gwayne hightower to secure peace in the realm, you expect a monster—definitely not the gentlest, most patient and loving man in all of westeros. — pairing: gwayne hightower x targaryen princess!reader — word count: ~5.6k (wow) — content: political/arranged marriage, slow burn, probably ooc!gwayne, lots of yearning, mutual pining, idiots in love (mostly gwayne), touch starvation, gwayne wants the reader so bad he is down pathetic for her, hurt/comfort, jealousy, mild verbal harassment/flirting from a third party, gwayne being the best husband ever, tooth-totting fluff. not proofread!

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Life in King's Landing after the wedding was a silent, armed dance. Officially, peace reigned—of course, that had been the entire purpose of it all from the very start, despite your—and especially Daemon’s—persistent objections, your mother had been adamant.

However, unofficially, the black and green servants still avoided one another in the castle's endless hallways, the black guards would grit their teeth whenever they crossed paths with the green ones, whilst you and Gwayne Hightower shared chambers that felt more like a wintry battleground than a bridal retreat.

Ser Gwayne was patient, just as he had promised, as he had vowed to be long before your wedding, ever since you first met him, many years ago.

And irritatingly determined and persistent. He was a full-fledged knight, quite possibly the most graceful and refined knight you had ever met in your entire life, and simultaneously, was the most frustrating and exhaustingly annoying man you'd have ever found.

The realization that Gwayne was different—good different—did not sit well with you at first, at all. You had spent years preparing for the worst, ever since you were a little girl, hardening your heart to face a kind of evil beyond comprehension, a wicked, darkness-filled, and power-hungry man as your husband, only to be met with one who treated your boundaries like sacred ground.

His outrageously determined crusade to win your trust only intensified with the passing moons after the festivities of your wedding ceremony had ended. It was a campaign fought not with swords, but with quiet, incredibly detailed gestures of devotion and above all, respect.

It all appeared to be an endeavour aimed at courtship, if not outright friendly intentions.

For every morning, you would wake to find a small silver tray on your vanity. On it lay a single, freshly plucked clover from the gardens—still damp with dew—and a small cup of hot, spiced tea brewed exactly how you liked it, with a dash of dried orange peel and heavy honey. He never stayed to hand it to you, knowing you valued your morning solitude. He simply left it as a silent promise, a gesture of kindness and thoughtfulness, one that he made in the knowledge that he was not truly expecting anything in return from you.

Breakfast with the royal family was, much like every gathering within the Red Keep, a careful performance.

Queen Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, her silver hair braided with pearls, speaking quietly with Lord Corlys over matters of the Narrow Sea. Prince Daemon lounged in his chair to her right, lazily carving an apple with his dagger instead of using the silver knife laid before him. Baela and Rhaena exchanged amused whispers further down the table, while Jacaerys attempted—unsuccessfully—to keep Joffrey from feeding scraps of bread to Tyraxes' hatchling beneath the table.

Conversation slowed the moment the heavy doors opened.

Ser Gwayne Hightower entered alone.

Dressed in dark red and black rather than the bright Hightower colors of Oldtown—a concession made after the wedding—he crossed the hall with measured steps and every eye followed him.

He bowed first before the Queen. “Your Grace.”

Then to Prince Daemon. “My King.”

Daemon merely grunted, truly unconcerned by his presence.

Only then did Gwayne turn toward you, and the indigo blue of his eyes shimmered as bright as the heavens above the moment they found you, and your beautiful face, which seemed unbelievably more radiant that particular morning—like he always thought every morning.

You sat halfway down the table amongst your family, absently stirring honey into your spiced tea.

There was an empty chair beside yours and absolutely no one there would have questioned him for taking it, he was your husband, after all.

But, still, he stopped beside it, folding his hands neatly behind his back as he gazed down at you with soft eyes.

“My Princess,” Gwayne's voice was quiet enough that only the table could hear, “...may I sit beside you?”

Baela's brows lifted, Rhaena blinked, Jacaerys looked from Gwayne to you, visibly confused, as Luke was covering his mouth to avoid bursting into laughter. Even Queen Rhaenyra paused mid-sentence.

You slowly looked up from your teacup, your silvery brow wrinkling on your forehead. “Y–you are asking me?”

“I am.” He nodded once, giving you a quick, dimpled smile, his lips trembling slightly out of sheer nervousness.

The sight of your magnificent lavender eyes narrowing at him brought a sudden sweat to Gwayne’s palms and a thrilling shiver down his spine.

“You do realize you are my husband, Gwayne.” You tilted your head, visually disturbed by the entirety of the situation.

“I do.”

“And husbands generally do not request permission to sit beside their wives.”

“I know,” another faint, nervous smile touched his finely shaped lips. “I simply thought...” he continued, “...that perhaps you might prefer to enjoy breakfast with your family alone.”

Daemon let out a low snort at his words and so did Luke.

The Rogue Prince leaned back in his chair, watching the exchange with open amusement before taking a leisurely bite of his apple.

“I have seen beaten hounds with more confidence,” the prince drawled.

But Gwayne didn't even bother listening to him, since he was too absorbed in looking at you, taking in the beauty of your gorgeous face, and delighting in the pleasure of having your beautiful eyes lock onto his for such a long moment.

“If you would rather I sit elsewhere,” Gwayne continued softly, “I shall.”

Daemon barked out a laugh this time, “there it is.”

Rhaenyra shot her husband a warning glance, silencing him instantly.

The corner of your mouth threatened to twitch and you concealed it behind a gentle sigh.

“You may sit, Ser Gwayne.”

The relief that softened his features was almost imperceptible, but you, obviously, were able to catch a sight of it. “Thank you, my darling.”

Only then did he pull out the chair and he waited until you had resumed your breakfast before seating himself, careful not to invade your space.

The faint flush already lingering upon his rosy, cute cheeks deepened into a intense red the moment you gifted him a gentle, intimate smile, reserved only for him to experience.

And he understood that, perhaps, you were starting to like him.

One warm afternoon, you find him in the library.

He is sitting at the massive oak table, surrounded by piles of heavy, leather-bound books. His forehead is furrowed in deep concentration, and he is clumsily trying to translate a passage of High Valyrian, his pronunciation so atrocious that even from the doorway, you could hear him butchering the ancient vowels.

“It is ñuha, Gwayne, not nu-ha,” you correct him, leaning against the doorframe. “You sound like a dying frog, Ser.”

Gwayne is startled, cousing him to drop his quill, which lefts a tiny blot of ink on his nose. He looks up, a sheepish but entirely delighted grin breaking across his handsome face. 

Your husband is breathtakingly beautiful, not only that day, but every bloody day; his flaming red hair seems to burn under the afterglow of the dying sun, and his face, oh his face, flushed with embarrassment and shy delight, beams under your heavy gaze.

You can easily see how truly happy he is to have earned a glimpse of your notice, one that isn’t merely a display of good manners or basic politeness, but real attention and genuine interest in him.

“I must apologize, my princess,” still, your husband hurries to excuse himself, flashing you a sheepish smile. “I have been endeavoring to master a few words of the tongue of your ancestors... Though it was never my intent that you should overhear my clumsy attempts, darling.”

You lean your head back against the heavy wooden frame of the door, crossing your arms over your chest as you look over at him. You squint your eyes, granting yourself a quick moment to meticulously examine his features.

The ink smudge on his nose does absolutely nothing to diminish how strikingly handsome he is. If anything, it softens his countenance, rendering him younger—a dream made flesh—as he looks up at you as though you alone have hung the stars in the celestial vault.

“Clearly,” you mock, a thread of gentle amusement and teasing irony weaving into your voice as you finally detach yourself from the timber frame.

With measured, quiet steps, you cross the quiet chamber floor and come to a standstill beside his high-backed chair, looking down upon the erratic, ink-stained scratching that mars his parchment and all over his face.

Gwayne is utterly perplexed, rendered near speechless, unable to bring himself to move at all, unwilling to risk upsetting you too much and having you step away, for your closeness and warmth and the way you are looking down at him have him holding his breath and entirely spellbound.

“...Princess?”

Before your lips can shape a reply, your hand moves toward him. Your fingers advance with a sudden, delicate hesitation. You gently press the pad of your thumb against his nose, wiping away the dark stain of ink he has left behind.

At your touch, Gwayne freezes instantly. Not only that, the breath abandons his lungs entirely; his azure eyes widen as the soft skin of your fingers makes contact with his warming cheek.

He does not draw back, nor does he make any motion to stay your hand. He simply sits there, utterly captive to your gentle touch, his visage flushing a deeper, more magnificent shade of pink beneath the warmth of your thumb.

“You have ruined your cute little nose, husband,” you note softly, your voice scarce above a whisper, striving—and failing—to maintain a veneer of cold indifference.

“A worthy sacrifice,” Gwayne breathes, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting, breathless second before rising once more to meet your eyes, alight with a quiet, shimmering hope.

Slowly, you pull your hand back, though you don't step away. You point to a specific line on his parchment, where he has scribbled a phrase over and over again until the ink is nearly illegible.

“You wrote this wrong,” you say, your tone softening further as you lean over the table, your shoulder brushing lightly against his doublet. “Here. ‘Kirimvose, ñuha dōra.’  You translated it as ‘Thank you, my peace.’ But dōra is a very clunky word for it. If you want to say it correctly...”

You take up his discarded quill, dip the nib into the dark inkwell, and trace a clean, elegant script of High Valyrian beneath his unpracticed scrawls.

“...you must say, ‘Kirimvose, ñuha mēre.’ Thank you, my only.”

Gwayne stares at the graceful calligraphy, then lifts his eyes to yours, his green gaze shimmering in the dying, amber light of the afternoon.

He repeats the foreign words on his tongue, his pronunciation still marred by a slight Andal accent, yet spoken with such profound, deliberate weight that the phrase hangs in the air like a solemn vow.

“Kirimvose, ñuha mēre,” he echoes after you, striving with earnest devotion to no longer appear a shameful sight in your estimation.

“Mhm...” you hum in quiet approval, nodding faintly as your eyes trail from the manuscript back to his face. “You are a fast learner, Gwayne.”

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you breaks the silence. There is only the scent of aged parchment, the fading golden glory of the sunset, and the steady, quiet rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing beside you.

Slowly, you slide your hand across the polished oak table, until your fingers brush against his own.

Gwayne’s breath catches in his throat. He does not immediately clasp your hand; instead, he waits, granting you ample grace to pull away should you so choose. But when you remain right there beside him, his fingers slowly, reverently fold over yours. His palm is warm and somewhat calloused, yet his grip is incredibly tender, as though he were cradling something infinitely precious and fragile.

He is always like that. Gentle, patient. Always patient.

It is utterly infuriating.

You find the very existence of Gwayne Hightower entirely vexing, for you have grown accustomed to the tales of husbands who behave like conquerors, thieves and exploiters who claim everything and yield nothing in return, destroying the sacred meaning of marriage and devotion and love. Men who demand blind obedience, heirs, and subservience.

Instead, yours asked for permission before sitting beside you at the morning meal.

Gwayne is different. Good different. And that realization unsettles your soul more than any open threat ever could.

The shift between you is subtle, yet undeniable, a quiet, hairline fracture in the ice. Over the passing days, you find yourself less inclined to retreat into the guarded shadows of your mind during the evening feast.

No longer do you reach for the comfort of your own mind the very instant he crosses the threshold, nor flee far from his company, flying away on your dragon. Instead, you watch, you see him. You see the way he carries himself amongst the household guards, the way he never forces his presence upon your solitude, and how he genuinely, stubbornly persists in his quiet courtship.

You find yourself struggling to ignore the waves of warmth spreading through your chest every time you're with him, increasing your heartbeat, accompanied by that giddy feeling in the pit of your belly.

And as the days rolled by, you gradually got comfortable with Gwayne's persistent hovering around you.

One particularly cloudy morning, he made you giggle.

By the time Viridrax touches down upon the stone platform, kicking up a storm of dust and ash, your heart is still drumming against your ribs as you dismount gracefully.

You stroke the warm, rough hide of Viridrax's snout, breathing in the familiar scent of ozone and brimstone of her.

“Rikās, Viridrax,” you whisper softly in High Valyrian, resting your forehead against her snout. Stay. “Rest, my girl.”

The green dragon let out a long puff of hot smoke that singed the hem of your riding leathers, nuzzling your shoulder before settling down with a heavy, earth-shaking thud.

You unbuckle your flying gloves, your silver hair wild and wind-tangled, your cheeks flushed from the biting chill of the upper sky.

Turning to head toward the cavernous exit of the Dragonpit, you expect to see only the stoic, iron-clad Dragonkeepers—only to freeze in your tracks.

Standing right at the edge of the landing platform... is Gwayne.

He is wrapped in a heavy, dark red cloak lined with fur, standing entirely alone in the shadow of the colossal stone arches.

He looks painfully out of place amidst the ancient, dark stone of the dragonpit, yet he stands unnaturally still, his jaw set in a rigid line.

You see the exact moment he fights himself. He takes a heavy, deliberate breath, forcing his boots to stay firmly planted on the cold stone. He squares his shoulders, swallows hard against the knot of fear in his throat, and wills his trembling hands to relax at his sides.

He refuses to run. He refuses to look weak or faint-hearted in your eyes, forcing a composure he clearly does not feel as he faces down a nightmare made of scales and fire simply to be near you.

When his gaze finally locks onto yours, the terror in his eyes softens, replaced by that quiet, stubborn devotion that had been relentlessly chipping away at your own walls for moons.

“You are a fool, Gwayne,” you call out to him, your voice cutting through the heavy, tense silence of the vault as you slap your gloves against your leather-clad thigh. “Viridrax does not share my patience, and she certainly does not share my tolerance for Hightowers.”

A soft, breathless laugh escapes Gwayne's rosy lips, though it sounded more like a relieved gasp as he managed to hold his ground before you. “Then it is fortunate... that I came to see you, my Princess, and not your... magnificent companion.”

Very sowly and cautiously, as if navigating a minefield, he takes two measured steps forward, coming to a stop just a few paces away. He is still within strike of Viridrax’s tail, yet he focus every ounce of his attention entirely on you, forcing the looming threat of the beast right behind your back into the background of his mind.

“You've been standing in this damp pit,” you note, narrowing your eyes as you studied the pale flush on his handsome face and the faint tremor in his hands. “How long?”

“Long enough to watch you descend from the heavens,” Gwayne replies softly, a faint, sheepish smile finally managing to break through his nervous tension. “It was... a terrifyingly beautiful sight. Though I must admit, standing down here requires s–significantly more courage than I—I anticipated.”

Right as the last stuttered word leaves his lips, Viridrax shifts her immense weight behind you.

The massive emerald dragon stretches her neck, opening her cavernous jaws to release a sudden, bone-rattling growl—a deep, reverberating snarl that vibrates through the flagstones and shakes the very dust from the vaulted ceiling. A cloud of scalding, sulfurous steam vents straight from her nostrils, whipping the hem of Gwayne’s dark red cloak around his boots.

Gwayne’s forced composure shatters in an instant.

His indigo eyes widen to the size of silver stags. He squeaks—a high, pathetically un-knightly sound—and jumps a good foot into the air, instinctively throwing his arms up to shield his face. His boots scramble backward on the slick stone as if he were trying to outrun a falling star, his grand cloak wrapping clumsily around his legs until he nearly trips over his own spurs.

A sudden, helpless snort escapes you. You clap a gloved hand over your mouth, but it is useless. A burst of giggles bubble up from deep within your chest, echoing wildly off the high stone walls of the Dragonpit.

Gwayne blinks, his wide, terrified gaze slowly darting from the dragon over to you. Seeing you helpless with laughter, his pale cheeks instantly flood with a dark, burning crimson that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears.

You gently reach out and clasp his hand, your fingers curling firmly around his trembling, warm palm.

“I have seen seasoned knights faint in her presence,” you tease him. “But I do believe that high-pitched squeak was a first.”

Gwayne lets out a long, heavy sigh, his fingers instantly clasp yours, firm and desperate. “I believe she enjoys seeing me humiliate myself in front of you. Like everyone else in this place.”

“Oh, she doesn't care enough about you to want to humiliate you, my lord,” you say, your thumb lightly rubbing the back of his knuckles to soothe the lingering panic in his pulse. “But Viridrax would never harm you. Not while you belong to me.”

He is rendered speechless and with his jaw hanging open in utter amazement, he happily lets you pull him along by his hand.

You like Gwayne Hightower.

And the catalyst of it all arrives upon a sweltering evening, during a feast thrown to celebrate your mother, the Queen's name day. The Great Hall is suffocating, thick with the heavy stench of roasted meats, the clinking of silver chalices, and the low, rumbling laughter of lords who wear their loyalties like hidden daggers beneath their velvet doublets.

Gwayne remains by your side for the better part of the night, watching over your form with that quiet, devoted vigilance to which you have slowly grown accustomed.

He is, as ever, the very mirror of a chivalrous knight, attentive, pouring your sweet Arbor wine before his own cup is even touched. Yet, the fragile illusion of peace shatters the moment the musicians strike up a slower, more solemn air.

“My princess,” a drawling, dangerously familiar voice interrupts your thoughts.

Turning, your gaze falls upon Ser Lucon. He wears a smug, mocking smirk and offers a grand, sweeping bow that does nothing to conceal the bold, unseemly lust lingering within his dark eyes.

Lucon is a handsome, swaggering lordling from the Crownlands, possessing dark curls and an arrogance that has long since outstayed its welcome. He was numbered among the many suitors who actively courted your favor before your political match to Gwayne Hightower was sealed by the High Septon.

“It would be an absolute tragedy for the fairest maid in the keep to sit out such a song,” he says, extending a gloved hand toward you. “Grant me this dance, Your Grace. For the sake of old days.”

With an imperceptible sigh, you place your hand in Lucon’s grip.

“A single dance, Ser,” you consent, your voice flat and strictly formal.

Before stepping onto the rushes of the floor, you catch Gwayne’s eye. His jaw is clenched so tightly it resembles carved stone, his fingers brush restlessly against the pommel of his sword.

Lucon leads you into the center of the hall. As the measure begins, he presses closer than etiquette or decency should ever permit, his hand gripping your waist with an unnecessary, firm pressure that draws you flush against his massive frame.

“The livery of the greens suits you, my princess,” Lucon whispers near your ear, his warm breath thoroughly vexing your senses. “Though every soul in the Red Keep knows that squire of a husband possesses not the slightest inkling of what to do with a dragon’s fire.”

“Watch your tongue, Ser Lucon,” you hiss, keeping your visage a mask of polite indifference as the steps force you both to spin. “Gwayne is my lord husband, and I assure you he is twice the knight you could ever hope to be.”

Lucon lets out a soft, derisive laugh that makes your blood boil in your veins.

“Is he? For from where I stand, I can feel how cold your skin remains. Were you mine...”

Before the lordling can finish his blasphemy, a heavy, iron-firm hand clad in boiled leather grips his shoulder, bringing your turn to an abrupt and dead halt.

Gwayne has stepped directly onto the dance floor. His blue eyes, usually so soft and pleading when they seek yours, are now dark as a stormy night, fixed upon Lucon with a promise of absolute violence.

“Your dance is finished, ser,” Gwayne says. His voice is a low, raspy whisper, yet it carries a lethal edge that causes the nearby lords and ladies to step back hastily, sensing the sudden peril.

Lucon, striving to maintain his arrogant facade, does not relinquish his grip upon your waist right away.

“Ser Gwayne, let us not ruin protocol. The Princess and I were—”

“I said, unhand my wife,” Gwayne interrupts, stepping forward so sharply that Lucon is forced backward by sheer physical instinct. Gwayne’s hand slides down from the knight's shoulder, clamping around Lucon's wrist with a crushing, bone-grating grip to force his release. “Now. Before I forget where we stand and decide to teach you proper court manners in the middle of this hall.”

The tension within the Great Hall becomes suffocating. The hands of your guards drift toward their swords, and your kin move a step closer. The air is thick, ready to spark into a bloodbath over a sudden flash of jealousy.

Knowing that a single wrong move could incite slaughter this night, you step in, subtly placing your body between both men. You press a firm hand against Gwayne’s chest and beneath the fine fabric of his doublet, you can feel his heart hammering wildly, violently, like a trapped beast.

“That is enough,” you announce, your voice ringing with an authority that commands the quieted room. You fix Lucon with a look of pure disdain. “If you dare to ever raise a hand to me or my husband again, that will be the last time you'll have hands. Leave us now.”

Lucon swallows hard, looking from Gwayne’s iron grip upon his wrist to the fierce fire in your eyes. Offering a stiff, forced bow, he retreats into the crowd, quickly losing himself in the shadows of the pillars.

Gwayne does not break his stare from the corridor where Lucon vanished, his chest heaving with heavy, erratic breaths. He is trembling slightly—not from any tremor of fear, but from the massive, physical restraint it takes not to draw his steel and kill the lord.

You take his hand, sliding your fingers into his and the touch seems to pull him back from the brink of madness; his sky blue eyes find yours, wide and filled with a raw, vulnerable mix of wrath and desperation.

“Are you well, my love?” still, he needs to ensure your well-being, his other hand rising close to your face, grazing your cheekbone just a tickle. "Forgive me. I... I lost my composure. If I have embarrassed you—"

“I am well,” you assure him. “Let us return to our chambers, p–please, Gwayne.”

Your wish is his command.

The heavy oak doors of your chambers have scarce clicked shut behind you before the silence within the room becomes unbearable.

Gwayne immediately begins unbuckling his ceremonial clothing and trappings, his movements uncharacteristically rough, frantic, and impatient. He hurls his heavy leather gauntlets onto the table with a resounding thud.

“You were jealous,” you accuse, cutting through the quiet, tense silence.

Gwayne freezes. He keeps his back turned to you for a long, agonizing moment, his shoulders rigid beneath his fine linen shirt.

When he slowly turns around, you can see how weak and vulnerable his composure truly is. His auburn hair is slightly disheveled, and his eyes lock onto yours with a desperate, burning intensity.

“I am a man, darling, not a statue of the Seven,” he says, his voice raw with emotion and despair. “I have spent months keeping my distance, respecting your sanctuaries, sleeping on the very edge of our bed because I wanted—I needed—you to feel safe in my presence. I have choked down my own desires every single day.”

You look up at him, your own breath catching in your throat. The dangerous, thrilling tension in the chamber is so thick it makes you hold your breath.

“Desires?” Your absurd remark is swallowed up by his deep voice, and with every step he takes closer to you, it feels as if your chest is collapsing.

“—watching him look upon you in that manner? Watching his hands defile your waist, whispering filth into your ear, smell your scent?” Gwayne’s breath catches, his jaw tight as iron. “Yes. I was jealous. I desired nothing more than to tear him apart on the rushes.”

“And what of now, Gwayne?” you challenge softly, stepping even closer, until your chest almost brushes his. “Are you still angry?”

“Not angry,” Gwayne denies, his gaze dropping instantly to your lips, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as he fights the desperate urge to seize you, to touch you, to hold you close to him and never let you go. “Tormented. Because you stand so close, and I am still striving to be the gentleman you deserve. B–but I... I was a fool. I allowed my temper to master me and—and I embarrassed you before the court and before your mother and your family—”

“You truly are a fool, Hightower.”

His face falls. For one terrible heartbeat, he believes you have confirmed his deepest terror—that he has frightened you, that every careful step forward over the past moons has just crumbled beneath his own beastly nature, his most profound instinct, his own feelings.

“I am terribly sorry, please forg—”

“You stopped.”

The words are quiet, but they silence him instantly.

You look upon him for a long moment before continuing, trying to properly piece together the thoughts you're trying to express, making sense out of the overwhelming turmoil of emotions that's raging in your chest.

“You could have struck him down. You could have just―thrown your gauntlet. Seven hells, most husbands in this wretched court would have drawn steel before the man even finished insulting their honor. Because that's all that matters to them―their own honor, their own property, their own m–masculine pride.” Your eyes search the depths of his. “Instead... you stopped.”

Gwayne swallows, his throat dry. “B–barely.”

“But you did. I expected to spend my days bound to a stranger who would demand everything from me, to whom I would be nothing more than a prize with the right family name, something of his own property, another boost to his own pride.”

Your fingers hesitate before lightly smoothing a wrinkle in the front of his linen shirt, your fingers trembling with emotion against his body, overwhelmed by that flood of mixed feelings rushing through your heart and body.

You can feel his heart pounding up against the palm of your hand, so powerful and fast that it makes your flesh crawl. “I never...I never imagined I would wed a man who offers apologies for being jealous when another touches his lady wife.”

His cheeks flush. “I fear I was not particularly knightly, then.”

“No,” a faint smile tugges at your lips, and at that, his tense shoulders slump slightly. “You were terribly possessive.”

“Yes.”

“And rather intimidating,” you add.

“...Unfortunately. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“And,” you continue, unable to suppress the amusement warming your voice, “I believe Ser Lucon may never dare speak to me or even look at me again.”

“Well,” Gwayne says softly, a faint, lopsided smirk finally tugging at the corner of his finely shaped lips as his earlier shame gives way to quiet amusement, “in my defense, darling... you did threaten to cut his hands off.”

You blink, a sudden, breathy laugh bubbling up from your chest before you can stop it. “I was protecting my husband and myself.”

“And you did so with terrifying grace,” he murmurs, stepping the final fraction of an inch closer.

When you remain right where you are, leaning into his touch, his breath hitches in his throat. His thumb gently brushes against the fabric at your hip, his beautiful eyes sparkling with deep devotion.

But to your astonishment, Gwayne looks utterly horrified now.

“Oh.”

You blink. “...Oh?”

“I may have squeezed his wrist with too much force.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you. A genuine one, bright and warm, echoing softly through the high timber rafters of the chamber, a sudden, sweet sound that cuts through the lingering tension of the evening like a blade through silk.

And for a heartbeat, Gwayne simply forgets how to draw breath.

He stands utterly still, his chest freezing mid-rise as though a spell has been cast over his very bones. His gentle eyes, wide, fix upon your lips and the soft crinkling at the corners of your eyes, committing the sight to memory.

“Gods,” he whispers, the word slipping past his lips on a breathless prayer.

You look up at him, the residual warmth of the smile still lingering upon your face, softening the pretty lines of your features. “What?”

“I have been trying for months,” he confesses softly.

“Trying what, Ser?”

“To make you laugh,” Gwayne responds. The solemnity of his voice breaks as a sheepish, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips. “Though I fear my efforts have been entirely lacking. I have only managed to embarrass myself at every turn.”

You pull a little mocking grimace, a playful tilt of your chin that you haven't granted to another soul in the world. “You do possess a remarkable talent for that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, his laugh a low, rich vibration.

Without announcing your intent, you close the final span of floor between you and reach for his hands.

Gwayne’s eyes snap back to yours, a sudden, sharp hitch in his breathing betraying his astonishment and his smile fades. Yet, he does not hesitate. He closes his hands around your own with that same impossible, agonizing gentleness he always reserves for you, a man accustomed to the weight of a broadsword holding your fingers as though you are fashioned from the most fragile, priceless Valyrian glass.

You look down at your joined hands, his sun-kissed, calloused skin grazing against yours.

“Your palms are cold,” he notices, his thumbs immediately beginning a slow, sweeping motion across the backs of your hands, seeking to share the immense heat of his own body.

“They usually are,” you reply, a slight shrug shifting the fine fabric of your gown.

A crease appears between his brows, a look of genuine, heavy concern clouding his handsome face as he looks up. “You never spoke of this, my love.”

You shrug again, though a sudden, treacherous blush warms your cheeks beneath the intensity of his gaze and the way he pronounce the term of endearment. “I did not think it mattered.”

“It matters to me,” Gwayne counters instantly, his voice leaving no room for argument, heavy with a quiet, fierce conviction. “Every minor discomfort you bear matters to me, princess.”

He does not force the movement; his grip remains loose enough that you could pull away with the slightest tug. His beautiful eyes lock onto yours, silently, reverently begging for your permission.

You look into that azure gaze, finding no malice at all, but love and a patience that has finally broken through your defenses.

Finally, you give the smallest, faintest nod of your head.

Only then does he turn your hands over within his palms. Gwayne lowers his head, his auburn hair catching the gold of the firelight of your shared chambers, and presses the softest, most breathless kisses imaginable against your knuckles.

His lips are warm and parted slightly, the touch lasting barely a second—so brief, so achingly tender it could have been a passing whim of the autumn wind. Yet, the heat of it ripples up your arms and straight into your heart.

When Gwayne lowers your hands close against his heart, he looks almost startled by his own boldness, a deep blush creeping along his high cheekbones and down the column of his neck.

“I hope...” he says quietly, his voice catching in his throat as he searches your face for any sign of regret, “...that was not unwelcome.”

You look at him for what feels like an eternity and then, lifting one of your hands, you slowly reach up towards his face. Your fingertips hesitate for a fraction of a second before you gently brush a stray lock of fiery red hair away from his freckled forehead.

“No, my sweet husband,” you promise him, your hand lingering there, the palm of your hand cupping the warm, sharp line of his jaw as you look into the eyes of the man who has won your heart. “It was not. Nothing from you shall be unwelcome.”

He closes his eyes and presses his face up against the palm of your hand, seeking desperately to feel the warmth of your affection and melt into the gentle embrace of your love.

[thykingdoncome]

omg the other night I had a dream where I was roommates platonically with rabbot and somehow I was pregnant ??? and the baby daddy wasn’t around, but Jack and Robby were just so sweet and helpful and loving. I’d love to see your version of that

|| reader x rabbot || smut mdni 18+, and they were roommates!, pregnancy, pregnancy kink, pinv, dirty talk, daddy kink, references to homelessness, reader has a shitty ex/baby daddy, domestic life, domestic kink?, robby & jack are very sweet and caring, pet names / nicknames galore || wc: 2.5k

a/n: i am so sorry, im realizing now after the fact you said platonically 😭 plz forgive me!!!! this is what came to my head as i began to write. completely and utterly unedited. simply woke up early this morning and wrote it and now I’m giving it to you!

it had been nothing more than an ad in the newspaper:

iso roommate. one bed and bathroom available. two men looking for a no-fuss roommate.

you couldn't quite promise the no-fuss part for very long, but you hoped they wouldn't notice your bump right away, your stained tee shirt stretched only a little over it as you waited in the lobby of their building, your duffel sat beside you.

you'd called from a payphone and set up a time to come meet them, your last few dollars spent on a taxi across town. there was no way you'd have been able to walk it, not with your feet already swelling until your shoes pinched around them, so you'd bitten the bullet and paid the fare, praying the entire ride that they would accept you.

you remembered perfectly how it happened: you were sitting on the chaise in the fancy, marble floored apartment building lounge when the elevator dinged and two handsome men walked out. you'd stood immediately, assuming they had to be the ones you were meant to meet, and they made it only a few steps before stopping dead in their tracks when they saw you.

their eyes ever so slowly, and in perfect sync, fell down your body and settled on your swollen belly.

you remembered how your pulse jumped, how your eyes stung, how quickly you were ready to beg and plead and tell them your ex had kicked you out and you had nowhere to go. ready to explain that you were job hunting, that you were searching, that you would pay them rent as soon as you possibly could, that you weren't trying to take advantage of anybody—but then—

"where are you getting your prenatal care?" one of them asked. the taller one.

no hey, hi, how are ya? or how do we know you're not a serial killer? or can you pay security deposit?

"i—" it caught you so off guard that you almost forgot how to answer. "i'm… not."

"why not?"

"i… don't have insurance," you explained. and then, figuring it best not to lie, let the rest tumble out in a rush: "i'm trying to find a job right now, but you can't fill out an application without an address, and I can't wait for emails or callbacks without a cell phone, and most people take one look at me and know that, well, one day i'm gonna pop and be unavailable for work for at least a week or two and—"

the taller one shook his head, holding both hands up.

that was it, you knew it. done. get out. you can't even pay us rent, you freeloader.

the shorter one, the one with gorgeous graying curls and a stubble covered face, round shoulders under his shirt and sweet hazel eyes, looked between his taller company and you before his gaze dropped to the duffel sitting on the couch behind you.

"is that all you have, sweetheart?"

you nodded.

they looked at each other again, and words like burden, freeloader, needy swept through your brain, already bracing to hear every one of them all the way to the door when they kicked you out. it wouldn't be anything new—you'd heard worse from your shitty ex, anyway.

instead, they found each other's eyes and seemed to have an entire wordless conversation in the span of a few seconds.

"i'm jack, this is robby. let's get you upstairs."

the shorter one—jack—said it while passing behind you to grab your bag.

your mouth fell open.

"wait—wha—?" you gasped.

robby came up beside you, taller up close than he'd looked across the lobby, dark hair, thick beard, one arm lifting behind you without quite touching. his hand hovered near your shoulder blade, guiding you forward while leaving you room to pull away. "come with us."

it was a voice that sounded like gravel dipped in honey and stirred into warm tea. comforting, authoritative, tired. you only stared at him.

"are you…sure?"

jack pressed the elevator button and robby kept ushering you forward. and suddenly you were standing between two strangers inside a mirrored elevator, your entire life hanging off jack's shoulder while the doors slid shut behind you. the ride up was silent as you watched the numbers climb up and up and up.

'how far along are you?' robby asked then. you turned toward him and realized how close the three of you had gotten in the small space, how much room their bodies took up around yours.

"i'm not really certain," you admitted, your hand settling over your belly. "i haven't even gotten a scan yet. i don't know what she looks like."

"she?" jack asked. when you looked at him, he was smiling.

your mouth finally gave in and did the same. you shrugged. "it's just a feeling. a hunch."

jack looked down at your stomach, then back at you. "well, we're gonna take very good care of you and miss peanut."

and now—months later—you were on your back with your belly nearly double the size it had been that first day, jack's thick cock rocking slowly in and out of you until your eyes fell closed and your mouth dropped open.

"this should help you go into labor, baby," jack murmured, the words breaking around a low moan.

"oh, jackie, it feels so good…"

jack’s hips kept moving in slow, measured strokes, one hand braced beside your head while the other slid beneath the heavy curve of your belly, taking some of the weight from you. you let out another little sound when he pressed deeper, your fingers tightening around his wrist.

“that’s it,” he murmured, watching your face. “been carrying her around all morning, huh? let me do some of the work.”

you nodded, breath catching when he kissed the corner of your mouth.

“feels better?”

“mhm.”

"gonna give mike a try too, baby?"

you nodded, eyes fluttering open to find him waiting patiently beside the bed. you reached for him immediately, making little grabby hands that pulled an amused smile from his mouth.

your body was overtired lately, carrying all that extra weight becoming more exhausting by the day, and getting off your feet that morning had felt close to bliss. you'd tried making them a big breakfast, figuring there wouldn't be many quiet mornings like this left once peanut came, but robby had taken one look at your ankles and jack had seen how you kept bracing yourself against the counter, and that had been the end of that.

somehow, you'd gotten the luck of a four leaf clover with the two men whose newspaper ad you'd answered. two doctors for roommates, both of them working strange enough hours that sometimes you went an entire day barely seeing either of them and had the whole penthouse to yourself, and sometimes they were both home at once and the day unfolded exactly like this. breakfast and coffee in the morning, a few hours tangled together on the couch with books open in your laps, one of them eventually getting fresh with his hands or his mouth until whatever you'd been reading was forgotten, and the three of you ending up back in bed.

it hadn't always been like this, though.

it took you a while to feel less like a stray trying to become an indoor cat, waiting for the day somebody realized they'd made a mistake bringing you home. you kept trying to earn your place long after they'd stopped asking anything from you—offering to cook, clean, pay them back somehow. Meanwhile they seemed far more interested in getting you to your ob appointments and making sure you took your prenatals in the evening when you were the least nauseous.

they rubbed your feet, worked the tension out of your shoulders, jack sang off key to the baby while robby pretended he wasn't listening, then got caught doing the exact same thing when he thought you were sleeping.

and you'd been right, by the way. there really was a sweet little girl growing inside you.

they talked about her constantly after that first scan together, both of them fascinated by her and by you. how you'd grown a spine, a heart, a brain, and ten little fingers from scratch. they talked about you like it was the most impressive thing they'd ever seen despite both of them having spent their entire adult lives saving people in the emergency department.

and they talked about after, too. how you wouldn't have to lift a finger while you recovered. how somebody would always be there. how excited they were to meet her, feed her, carry her around the apartment at three in the morning if that was what she needed.

you weren't entirely sure when being roommates stopped explaining what the three of you were.

and the sex had crept in almost the same way everything else had.

there had already been so much touching by then that the first kiss didn't feel like it came from nowhere. robby's hand at your back when you stood. jack rubbing your swollen feet across his lap. falling asleep against one of them on the couch. kissing their cheeks when they left for work, then their mouths when one of those kisses accidentally landed too close and neither of you pulled away.

the first time you'd actually offered yourself to them had been after a long shift they worked together, both of them coming through the door looking completely wrecked. you'd try to lighten their moods by teasing that since they still wouldn't take your money, maybe you could find another way to earn your rent.

the joke had died off pretty quickly because by then, none of you really wanted it to be a joke.

there had been a conversation before anything happened, and another after, because robby especially refused to let you turn it into something you owed them. you lived there because they wanted you there. peanut lived there because they wanted her there. whatever happened between the three of you had to be because you wanted that too.

and you did.

very much so.

and maybe the point of no return was actually earlier than that, when you'd been caught calling them peanut's daddies without thinking. it was almost just a little whisper to yourself, anyway, when you'd be folding clothes or putting away dishes, thinking they were out of earshot.

your daddies buy you too many onesies, peanut. you'd whispered. and when you'd looked up from your laundry, you saw two tired attending physicians in the doorway, their mouths fallen open and their eyes wide. their faces had gone soft almost immediately, neither of them correcting you.

after that, it slipped out more often. from your mouth and from theirs.

your daddies are here, peanut, do you wanna say hi?

your daddy jack bought you another blanket.

gonna kick for daddy mikey, peanut?

and every time, they got that same look. something tender softening their faces, something warm whenever their eyes lifted to your belly back at you.

it was nothing short of perfect, what the three of you had. more than you could have ever wanted or imagined for yourself and your little girl.

your brain was brought back to the present when robby slotted himself between your legs now, one hand running along the outside of your thigh, hiking it up around his hips.

"you're so wet for us, baby. this all for me and jack, hm?"

you nodded, hands closing around his arms when he pressed into you. the stretch pulled a gasp from your throat, your thighs tightening around his body as he sat back on his haunches to watch himself.

"sh, sh, sh. s'okay," he murmured, eyes flicking up to your face. "take it like a good girl. gonna make you feel so much better."

and he usually did. both of them did.

somehow, being filled by one of them lately seemed to soothe half the things pregnancy had decided to inflict on you. the cramps eased afterward. your lower back loosened. even the headaches sometimes faded once they had you boneless against the mattress with one of them rubbing your belly and the other bringing you water.

"peanut's gonna be here any day," robby murmured, settling into a rhythm that had your fingers tightening around his arms. "wanna take care of you, baby. gonna let us take care of you?"

"yes, mikey—oh god, just like that—"

jack had moved up to lay beside you, one hand spreading over the heavy curve of your belly while his mouth found your neck.

"what a good girl," he murmured against your skin. "takin' him so well. he's big, huh?"

you nodded, your face pinching when robby pushed deep again.

"that's it, that's it," jack encouraged, lifting his head to look down at you. "oh, mike, i think she's close. look at her."

the other's eyes stayed fixed on your face.

"yeah, i can feel her tightening around me. fuck, baby." his hand slid beneath your thigh up to your knee to hold you open for him. "you gonna come for your daddies, huh?"

"yes, yes, yes—"

"yes, what, darling?" jack asked, his hand moving from your belly to your jaw, turning your face toward him before he pressed a wet kiss against your mouth.

"yes, daddy, oh, please, please, please—"

"there you go," jack murmured against your lips. "let mikey feel it. he loves when you come for him. i love it too. we love you, sweetheart, c'mon—"

your lips started to wobble before the rest of you gave in, love and pleasure and sheer relief piling together until the orgasm finally crested. it tightened through your thighs and pulled hard through your hips, your pussy clenching around robby while the rhythm of his hips stuttered against you.

he groaned at the same time you cried out, and jack followed only moments later—his cock spilling warm across your belly while his mouth still pressed against yours.

robby stayed between your thighs, heaving in breaths. jack's hand remained spread over your stomach, thumb moving across the stretched skin.

then peanut kicked directly beneath his palm, and he sat up just enough to look down.

"oh, now you wake up."

you laughed weakly, still trying to catch your breath.

robby's hand moved over the other side of your belly.

"she says get me the heck outta here," he chuckled.

"gladly," you chuckled, folding your arm across your eyes. "you'll be wishing you hadn't said that when you're up at three in the morning with a crying baby, by the way."

"mmm, don't think so," robby groaned, finally easing down onto the other side of you. he reached for the tissues on the nightstand, cleaning jack's spend from your skin before tossing them toward the wastebasket beside the bed. "i've worked enough night shifts. at least this one'll be cute."

"you say that now."

"and i'll say it at three."

jack bent to kiss the top of your belly, his mouth pressing there before he whispered, "good morning, peanut."

your hand went automatically to his hair, fingers lacing through the mess of curls while another little movement rolled beneath your skin.

"she likes your voice," you murmured.

'like mother like daughter,' robby chuckled.

you laughed together again, quieter this time, your body sinking deeper into the mattress while the two of them settled in on either side of you. robby's palm stayed cupped around the curve of your belly, jack's cheek resting just beneath your ribs, both of them waiting for another kick like they had nowhere else in the world to be.

[storiesoferoda]

not proof read

Frank's favorite part of the day is when you two are going to bed. He’s usually reading something, keeping busy like he did when he was away because old habits die hard. And you’re on your phone scrolling social media because, again, old habits die hard.

But the two of you are so perfectly intertwined together, as you use his arm for a pillow, curling into his side, his chest warm to combat the cold autumn night.

And sometimes, when the page is too boring or his eyes are getting too heavy to continue much longer, his hand will reach down to your head, playing with your hair. Planting soft kisses, distracting you from whatever video you were watching.

Eventually, when he’s really bored with the book, he’ll close it gently, turning off the lamp beside him. Turning over his eyes, meeting yours as he scoots down to meet you. Pulling the covers up more until both of you are covered.

He’ll plant one final kiss on your lips, muttering a simple “bedtime” against your lips. The mint from the toothpaste still lingering. He’ll reach over to force your lamp off too. The room dark, only illuminated by the soft glow of your phone, before his hands reach the power button, clicking that off too.

“I was watching that” as you put the phone to charge, because the tiredness is starting to take over you too.

“Not anymore. Sleep with me, baby.” his voice was low, a grumble basically.

“M’kay,” as you plant one final kiss on his forehead. Before the warmth of Frank's arms around you and the slow and steady rise of his breath put you to sleep.

——————

a/n: I can’t thank you guys enough for the love on the last couple of Frank Castle things I’ve posted!! Comments likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. If you want to read more of my Frank stuff click here !

[theblueend]

headlocked - f. castle

“thaaaaat’s it babygirl, let me in.” he mumbles, in that deep tone he knows runs straight through your bones. “so good, so good for me.”

he’s got you in a headlock, keeping you close - something he doesn’t even realise he does when things are this intimate, this tender.

“F-frank, i-“ you’re holding onto his arm, looking up at him behind you, towering above you as you drift in and out of that dream space you find yourself in so often - his cock bullying its way inside, stretching out your soaked walls, the wetness dripping down onto the floor.

you start to ache, stood on your tiptoes next to the bed, his boots firmly planted on the floor and jeans dropped low - just enough to hold you like this, just enough to press forward with each thrust, deep enough that you can feel him all over when your legs begin to shake.

“atta girl, letting me take what i want, hold you like this.” he croons, eyelids dropped low while he relishes in the feeling every time his hips drive forwards with enough force to bounce you back onto him. “g-gonna cum, frankie.” one of your hands keeping hold of his forearm still wrapped around your neck, your other hand running down between your legs, feeling how soaked they are, your arousal running down.

“gonna let me take what i want?” he asks, ploughing his hips against yours, and you know he’ll take whatever he wants - because he knows exactly how to treat his girl.

[cyberdrream]

amnesia! au… simon would never want to leave you, never in his life could he imagine a life that didn’t have you in it. he couldn’t bear to think of it. price would leave his wife in a second, but simon can’t imagine wanting to leave you.

and after the attack on you. the other side had a mole in the SAS, and the location of significant others was made obvious. the building next to your workplace was blown up. it’s at that moment he knows he has to leave you. has to divorce you, pretend to cheat on you, have you send and sign the divorce papers because it had to look plausible for the mole.

to keep you safe.

all he wants is to keep you safe. alive, keep the sparkle in your eyes.

he only has three years left of service. and he’ll tell you the truth if you’d take him back.

three years later, he gets a desperate call from a hospital, something about you being in a terrible car crash. barely holding on, and a daughter that’s only listed relative is simon riley. she even has his last name, and not yours.

they say you have irreversible head trauma, almost total amnesia. and with the way his stomach drops when he sees the girl, with her curls and brown eyes, he knows it’s his daughter.

and so he gives a bright smile to the nurse, and well he hadn’t really signed the divorce papers anyway. and what you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you :)

he wanted his wife back.

[cherrygarcia-07]

Superhero // Spencer Reid🧸

synopsis: when spencer’s daughter asks him to speak to her class about his time in the fbi, he spirals about what kind of example he’s setting for her, and about what kind of path he’s encouraging her peers to go down

pairing: post s15 dad/husband! spence x reader

genre: flangst? hurt/comfort? not sure

wc: 2.3k

notes/tags: spencer is retired from the FBI!, brief talks of prison. brief talks of spencer dying, spencer being the best dad in the world but being too much of a worrier to see it as per usual, proofread but only once pls lmk if there’s any mistakes🙂‍↕️

masterlist // if you enjoy this pls reblog it helps promote the fic so much !!

————————————❤️———————————

Your fingers tapped on the counter as you debated with yourself, humming in thought. You were never one to snoop, not with your husband and not with your daughter- but something about that afternoon was bugging you. When they’d both come home they’d been all smiles and laughter, Spencer swinging her hand in one of his and her pink school bag in the other. She’d hugged you both before running off to her room, leaving Spencer to put her coat and things away. That was when his smile dropped.

You’d watched as he opened her bag, fishing out a sheet of paper with that worried look that often came to him too easily, before crumpling it up and shoving it back inside. Now as he worked away in his study you just stared at it, chewing the inside of your cheek as you tried to convince yourself not to pry.

You couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like Spencer to keep things from you, especially when they involved your daughter. With a sigh you caved, reaching into her bag for the scrunched up ball of paper. A school logo confronted you first, followed by big, bold letters.

Dear Parent/Guardian

This semester our school will be hosting its annual Career Day presentations. We would like to invite you to speak-

“What are you doing?” You startled, your head snapping up as you stared at your husband in the doorway like a deer in headlights. You hadn’t heard him come downstairs.

Holding the paper up in the air, you watched as he almost winced. “How come you didn’t tell me about this?”

Spencer cleared his throat, making his way towards you. He attempted to shrug it off, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. “I just didn’t think it was important.”

“You mean you don’t want to do it?” You tried to meet his gaze as he dropped it, his silence answering for him. “But you love being a professor. I would’ve thought you’d be jumping at the chance to teach people about teaching.”

He was standing across from you now, arms folded as he swallowed nervously, eyes glued to the floor. The lump in his throat choked him, his body beginning to sway subconsciously as he debated just how much he should let you in. You knew this face well- it was the face he gave you before he told you he was worried he was too much for you, and again before he told you he wasn’t sure he’d be a good father. It was the face of insecurity.

“That’s not the job she wants me to talk about.” His voice was small as it left him, cracking around the edges. When he looked up again he landed on the picture of your daughter pinned up on the fridge, gazing up at him behind the camera like he was her entire world. “I just don’t think I can do it.”

“Why not?” You nudged softly, but you knew. Your daughter only knew bits and pieces about Spencer’s life in the FBI, tiny snippets of stories with happy endings and memories with the team- with her aunts and her uncles. But that was it. That was all she knew, and all he ever wanted her to.

“How-” He started, voice breaking off. “How can I stand there and encourage those kids to go down the same path I did?”

“Spence,” you tried to step towards him, but his arms instinctively wrapped around himself like a barrier, “she just admires you. You did a lot of good when you were on the team.”

“Yeah, and saw a lot of things I shouldn’t have.” He snapped, eyes flickering to you apologetically before dropping back down. When he spoke again it came out broken, low and scared. “Things I don’t want her to see because she grew up and decided she wanted to be like me.”

Tension brewed over the kitchen like a storm cloud, the two of you standing within arms length of each other but not reaching out. Your heart ached to see him like this, to see all the fears he thought he’d left behind with his badge rear their ugly heads again, rabid and drooling at the opportunity to send him spiralling once more. Before your daughter was even born he’d considered quitting, worried about the nights away, about playing a passive role in her life at the hands of the job. Even worse, he dreaded the thought of the two of you falling into the hands of danger and meeting a fate he’d seen far too often. You’d tried to reassure him and convince him that would never happen and he believed it, just barely, for a while. But then he was sent to prison.

His anxiety had never quite recovered since. The wounds had definitely begun to heal- thanks to your little girl. He was her best friend in the whole entire world as well as her father. He did everything he could for her, made up for every night he spent across the country with all the bedtime stories and tea parties she could ever dream of. But every time she fell, every time she cried or got hurt you saw it. That little flicker of doubt in his eyes the telltale sign of that little voice in his head telling him this was confirmation that he wasn’t good enough, that he can’t protect her. And it only amplified whenever she called him her hero. He’d been through hell, faced and even experienced death too many times. Yet nothing scared him more than the idea that his perfect little girl would want to follow in his footsteps.

“I was so young when I was recruited by Gideon.” Spencer spoke finally, his whispers barely audible despite the stark silence. “I was directionless. I’d been so focused on caring for my mother I hadn’t given any thought to what I was going to do for myself. I was sold a life I didn’t want and I didn’t realise until it was too late. I can’t in good conscience stand up there and do that to those kids.”

“I know that. I know that Spence, and I wish with everything in me that things could have been different for you. But she doesn’t know that.” You stepped forward, risking taking his hands in yours. “She means well. All she knows is that her daddy saved people.”

“Really?” Spencer recoiled, brows pinching together so tight it looked painful as his hands shot back to his side. “Does she know I almost missed her first birthday because I was in prison? Does she know how many times she could’ve been in danger because of me? How many times I almost didn’t make it home to her at all?”

His mouth opened to speak, but his throat felt glued shut. In an instant he was just a scared little boy grappling to keep things under control. Desperate to take it back, to prove himself right- but nothing came out. Some hero. You watched as he tried to blink back tears, stinging hot and acidic as they pooled in his eyes. A drop escaped despite his efforts, burning a trail down his face before he hastily rubbed it away as fast as it had appeared.

“How can I stand up there and talk about how much of a hero I am when I failed her so many times?”

You pursed your lips, your own eyes threatening to spill as his bottom lip began to tremble. “Stay here for a minute, okay?” You said softly, offering him a gentle kiss on the cheek, right where the tear had stopped, before heading to your bedroom.

After swinging the closet door open, you crouched down and began searching for the worn edges of the box you knew was hidden back there somewhere. You rifled through folded blankets and old sweaters before your fingers finally grazed it, sighing in relief as you dragged it out into the light. You flicked through paper after paper, colourful squiggles and bright paintings shedding glitter into your hands until you found it. It paralysed you for a moment, your eyes locked on the childishly messy handwriting staring back at you before you finally rose to your feet.

When you returned Spencer had collapsed defeated into a chair, his elbows on the table as he cradled his head in his hands. He stirred as he heard your footsteps, an instinct reaction built into him by now. Big wet eyes gazed up at you, fear and insecurity swimming in them, yet they softened at your appearance all the same.

“Found it.” You smiled gently, taking the seat beside him and holding out the card you’d retrieved.

Gingerly he took it, turning it over but not daring to look at your daughter’s message inside. “What’s this for?”

“Do you remember this day?” You pointed to the drawing on the cover.

It was the kind of abstract crayoned piece only a parent could decipher, all wonky lines and uneven proportions- but still the most moving piece he’d seen in a long time. It was him, long limbs and wild hair, holding in his hands a teddy bear. It was white, a polar bear, with a scarf around his neck. Large in Spencer’s doodled hands because that’s how big it appeared in his daughter’s much tinier ones.

“Of course I do.” Despite himself, a wet chuckle escaped him as he thought back. “I drove all the way across town to find that bear after she lost it.”

“Exactly.” You whispered. “She couldn’t stop crying when she realised she’d left him behind. I tried to calm her down and distract her with a different toy, then I said we’d get her a new bear-“

“Rookie mistake.” He winced, shaking his head with a small smile.

“Oh, she started wailing. But then you-“ you poked at his cheek, right where his dimple was beginning to show, “told her you’d go looking for him. You said you weren’t going to come home until you’d searched everywhere. You marked on a map every single place we went that day even if we were only passing through.”

“She was worried sick about him.” Spencer’s shoulders drooped. No matter how long ago it was, the image of his little girl’s tear stained face always hurt him. “She kept saying that he was scared and that he’d think she left him behind on purpose. I had to at least try to find him.”

“And you did.” You traced the scribbly doodle of the bear on the card, knowing she was likely upstairs playing with him as you spoke. “That’s what she means when she calls you her hero. When she says that you save people.”

Spencer fell quiet. He toyed with the edges of the card, something within him still stopping him from opening it and facing his daughter’s heart poured out on the page in her favourite glittery pink pen. Instead he just stared at himself mapped out in crayon, at the smile drawn onto her teddy bears face and the matching one on his.

“Sure she doesn’t fully understand yet.” You spoke up, angling yourself toward him. “She doesn’t know how ugly it was, or how much you got hurt. She doesn’t know how rocky things really were sometimes. But she knows that you went out there and brought her bear home and that you’d do it again in a heartbeat. On some level she knows that that’s what you did at work- you brought families back together.”

“I didn’t always.” He said, voice hollow. “She doesn’t know that.”

“Spence,” you cupped his face in your hand, gently turning him to face you properly, “I know you’re spiralling imagining her growing up and joining the bureau or doing something crazy like that because of you- but that’s not what she wants.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off.

“What she wants is to be smart and kind like you, she wants to be the kind of person who makes a difference in people’s lives and does good in the world.” Tucking a stray curl behind his ear, you pressed a kiss to his forehead, smoothing out the crease between his brows. “And she thinks you’re cool and just wants to show you off to her friends.”

He huffed a tiny laugh, but he didn’t smile. “I still don’t think I can do it. So she won’t want to grow up and do what I did, but what if some other poor kid does? I can’t be responsible for that.”

You hummed, letting go of his face and letting his gaze drift back down to the unopened card in his hands. “I think you should talk to her. I think deep down she doesn’t care if you talk about the FBI or about teaching or about some part time job you had when you were sixteen. She just wants everyone to know how much she admires you.”

With a deep breath Spencer let the card fall open, tears springing to his eyes once more. She was always an articulate kid, it comes with the territory of being Spencer Reid’s daughter, and like him she wore her heart on her sleeve when it came to the people she loved. The words blurred on the page as he wiped tears away thinking of the little girl upstairs playing without a care in the world, totally oblivious to the power she had over him.

“I admire her too.” He whispered. The card closed, the teddy bear’s scribbled eyes staring up at him again. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Good.” You smiled, playfully bumping your shoulder against his as you felt him finally relax. “You don’t need to prove how much of a hero you are to those kids. You just need to be her hero.”

Spencer looked up at the picture of her on the fridge, her eyes bright and sparkling as she grinned at him, her cheeks rosy and warm in the sunlight spotlighting her. “I can do that.”

-

[milkvetch114]

Greedy, Greedy Woman

Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Princess Reader

𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: pregnancy has left you sickened by nearly every scent in oldtown. your only reprieve is burying your face in gwayne’s neck. though your poor husband rarely escapes without his pretty, pale skin thoroughly ravished.

𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: smut, romance, cockwarming, pregnant sex, p what p, poor gwayne, his wife is a menace, domestic fluff, 18+ MDNI

𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐚𝐧: in celebration of gwayne finally having a bath in hotd. don’t get me wrong, I would have 100% risked that STI for dirty Gwayne, but now we can all admire that pretty pale neck again…. anways! this is also a little thank you for the unexpected, wonderful reaction i received on my debut gwayne fic! this can be read as a continuation or a stand-alone.

𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐰𝐜: 1.3k (oneshot)

You were barely showing, just the softest swell beneath the silk of your abandoned nightgown, but the pregnancy had already made your stomach squeamish.

Gwayne sat with you in the wide armchair by the open balcony doors, the warm night air billowing the gauzy curtains with the scent of the bay and night-blooming summer flowers. You were settled fully in his lap, arms around his neck, bare skin against his, his cock buried deep inside you and simply… resting there. Warm and full from your first round. Neither of you moved. The slow, steady throb of him against your walls was enough. It soothed the deep soreness pregnancy had left you with, and that restless ache that forever made you want to live in his skin.

Your nose was buried in the pale column of his throat.

You could not get enough of the smell of him. Clean skin, faint traces of the cedar and orange soap the maids used on him, and underneath it the deeper, warmer scent that was purely your Gwayne.

Ormund’s cloying perfumes made your stomach turn these days and the entire household reeked of his potpourri. You kept the windows and doors thrown open all day and night. But your husband’s neck was the one thing in the world that did not make you want to retch.

So you scented him constantly. And took advantage of him as you pleased, ravishing his pretty, pale skin. Your poor husband patiently endured his fate, condemned to spend his days feasted upon, the long column of his neck bitten red and purple for the whole of court to see.

“My dragon love is attempting to eat me again,” he murmured, voice low and amused even as he tilted his head to grant you better access. “I have a meeting with the High Septon in the morning, you greedy, greedy woman.” 

You hummed against his skin, the sound making him close his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobbed and you attacked it. Your teeth scraped at the sensitive skin. He hissed, hand tightening on your hip. You soothed the sting at once with soft kitten licks, tongue tracing the indentations you had left.

“Sorry,” you whispered against his skin, not sounding very sorry at all. “You are just so pretty, husband. And you smell… gods, Gwayne.”

You whined as you buried your face again in the curve of his neck, just breathing him in. You felt like Ormund with his damned pomander.

“How am I to survive a whole week without this?” you asked mournfully.

“Stay.” His hand found the gentle swell of your belly and spread protectively over it. “It is far too much strain to ride in your condition.”

“The babe will be perfectly fine—"

“It is too much strain for you.”

He caught your chin and guided your face away from his throat until you were forced to look at him. Green eyes steady, serious. “You are already ill every morning. You scarcely keep anything down till midday. I worry for you.”

You hummed in reluctant acknowledgment and dipped your head again, resuming your slow, wet kisses, tasting the salt of his skin.

“Rhaenyra is with her second child already,” you murmured against his skin. “We want to go together and choose eggs for the babes to cradle with.” Your hand drifted down to rest over his on your stomach. “Oh, how sweet would it be if they were of the same clutch?”

“Very sweet,” Gwayne conceded, though his tone suggested he found the prospect considerably less charming than you did. He tried, but your husband was not born with fire singing in his blood. You could not fault him for not understanding. “But please, dearest, you should make the journey after the babe arrives and you have recovered.”

You answered him by rolling your hips.

A slow, deliberate grind that dragged your slick walls along the thick length buried inside you. Gwayne’s breath left him in a rough exhale and you felt him twitch inside of you, swelling even fuller. His hands immediately settled at your hips, large and warm.

“Again, for me,” he rasped.

You obliged. Up and down, slow at first, savoring every inch of the stretch, the way he filled you so completely even when neither of you was thrusting hard. The armchair creaked beneath you. You were dripping; his seed from the first round already spilled out with every upward slide, slicking his thighs and balls, making filthy wet sounds that filled the quiet chamber. Mixed with the quiet wash of the bay and the soft rustle of curtains, it was obscene.

You whined and he helped you without hesitation. His strong hands lifted and lowered you in a steady, generous rhythm, strong thighs braced beneath yours.

You kept your face buried to his skin, dipping to suck dark marks at his collar, breathing him in like you were starving for him, licking sweat from his skin, biting down whenever the pleasure spiked too high.

“That’s it,” he whispered against your hair, voice strained. “Have what you need, sweetling. Use me.”

You whimpered and clenched around him, his words going straight to the tight coil low in your belly. Your pace turned desperate, grinding harder, faster, chasing the friction of his cockhead against that perfect spot inside you while your sensitive clit dragged against the base of his dark curls on every roll.

“My love,” he gasped, head tipping back against the chair, his eyes fixed on you. “My beautiful love. Gods, I should keep you always like this— soft and lovely with my babe.”

Your pace quickened, hips rolling with growing urgency. The soft swell of your stomach brushed against his abdomen with every downward slide. One of his hands left your hip to cup the back of your head, holding you close so you could keep nuzzling and biting as you pleased. The other remained firm on your hip, helping you rise and sink, rise and sink, until the pleasure coiled tight and bright low in your belly.

You pulled your head back just enough to grip his chin and drag his mouth to yours. Breath mixed. Teeth clicked.

You came with a muffled cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him. Gwayne groaned deeply, hips lifting once, twice, grinding up into you as he followed, spilling hot and deep while you rode out every last pulse.

For a long moment neither of you moved. You stayed exactly where you were: impaled, trembling, staring into his green eyes while you stroked his hair and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to his lips. His hands stayed wrapped around your back, holding you gently against him even as his cock twitched with aftershocks inside you.

“That was shameless,” he murmured.

“Was it persuasive?”

Gwayne gave you a long, unimpressed look. You smiled sweetly.

“…You are an unscrupulous woman.”

You squealed with joyous victory, peppering thankful kisses to the scar under his eye.

He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it from his face, doing poorly to hide his own smile.

“You have my blessing— provided the maesters find no cause for concern.” His gaze sharpened. “And you will rest once you arrive. You will not exhaust yourself attempting to keep pace with your sister, and at the first hint of pain— however slight— you will stay with her and send for me.”

“You make me sound so terribly fragile.”

He pressed a kiss to your left eye, then to your right. “You are what is most precious to me.”

Then he bent to your throat and began repaying your greedy attentions, one lingering kiss at a time.

HOTD masterlist

@ange0o

if you want to be in my tagged for any character i write for let me know :)

[sweetsprice]

mercy - simon riley

all you wanted was to bring simon his lunchbox, but the new recruits saw you as nothing more than an joke. they learn the hard way that no one can mess with the lieutenant's wife.

tags: hurt/comfort, angsty, wife!reader, husband!ghost, hurt!reader, simon riley is a devoted husband

the clock had long since struck midnight when simon finally made his way home. he eased himself onto the bed, careful not to make any noise, not wanting to wake you up. his muscles ached, his eyes burned after sleepless nights, but none of that mattered the moment he held you in his arms.

he placed a kiss on your forehead, soft, barely there, afraid to interrupt your sleep. his lips lingered a second longer than necessary, just breathing you in. 

you smelled like home.

"i'm back." he whispered into the dark, more to himself than to you. he pulled the covers up a little higher over your shoulder, tucked you tightly beneath them, and finally let his heavy eyes rest.

the following morning you'd woken up early, before the sun had even rise to make him a warm meal.

the snow had been falling for days, making it hard for you to reach the military base. you clutched the lunchbox to your chest, your fingers numb from the fierce wind. 

here you were now, fidgeting with your hands, as you slowly approached the base. you had been here before, once, when simon forgot some urgent documents in his office at home and asked you to deliver them.  

the guard at the gate barely glanced at you before exclaiming "training yard's to the left," he said, his voice bored "lieutenant is probably there."

you thanked him with a whisper and made your way through the gates. 

you spotted some recruits as you came to the proximity of the field.

"excuse me," you called softly, clearing your throat. "i'm looking for lieutenant riley."

a young soldier turned, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, probably wondering what were you doing in a place like that. he was taller than you, double your size, but not as big as simon, and his piercing eyes made you shiver. 

"and you must be?" the soldier sneered, his tone dripping with arrogance. "do you think anyone can meet him?"

"i-i'm here to bring him his lunch," you said, showing him the bag that was held tight to your chest.

the soldier turned around, exchanging a glance with his friend. "his lunch? you his personal errand girl?"

the other recruit laughed, joining the teasing. "im sure lieutenant doesn't need a little thing like you bringing him food. he's got proper food here. not whatever home cooked rubbish you've got in there."

your cheeks flushed, heat rising to your face. "it's not uhm... like that. he forgot it this morning. i just wanted to-" you began to stutter, avoiding their mocking gaze. 

"you wanted to what? speak louder won't ya?" the first soldier stepped closer, leaning down to reach your eye level "a stupid girl who can't even make a simple sentence without stuttering wants to see him? you think you're special?"

"i-i'm his wife," you managed to say but you could feel your eyes begin to well up.

the soldiers stared at you for a moment, then burst into laughter. the sound was loud and mocking, echoing through the corridors. "right," the first one said, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "and i'm the captain. nice try, love. lieutenant riley doesn't have a wife. everyone knows that."

you wanted to correct him but got quickly interrupted.

"look, sweetheart," the second recruit cut in, "we don't have time for this. he's a busy man." he gestured vaguely to the gates "you need to leave. now."

"b-but I'm telling you the truth," you said, your voice trembling. "i'm n-not lying."

the first soldier rolled his eyes. "you're not authorised to be here," he said, his voice hardening. "if you don't leave on your own, we'll have you escorted out."

"i-i have a pass," you said, fumbling in your pocket. "i have a visitor's pass. see?" with shaking hands, you held your pass.

the soldier snatched it from your hand, glancing at it briefly before tossing it to the ground. "probably stolen," he said dismissively. 

"get the fuck out now." the second soldier said, as he grabbed your arm and began pushing you toward the gate. 

you stumbled, falling down on your butt, then the gate was slamming shut behind you.

you stood there, frozen. you reached for your phone to call your husband but it wasn't there. in a hurry to leave the house, you left it on the kitchen counter.

this is why ghost always tells you to be more careful with your belongings. 

"clumsy little girl." was what simon would often call you.

the snow continued to fall, piling up around you. you were going to freeze out here. 

you were so cold you could barely hear a distant voice calling your name.

the voice was low and behind his mask you saw a strangely familiar face. you lifted your head, your vision blurry with tears and snowflakes, and found yourself staring at a bearded man. his dark eyes were the only thing you could see.

"oh, john." you breathed, and then you were sobbing. "i...they didn't believe me...i couldn't...i just wanted to bring him lunch and they-"

"hey, it's alright," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. he stepped forward, shrugging off his heavy coat and draping it over her shoulders. it was too big, swallowing you whole, but it was warm. "come on. let's get you inside."

he led you through the gate once again, past the recruits who had just thrown you out. price didn't say a word to them, but the look he shot them held a lot of warnings. 

the captain guided you to a chair, sat you down, and knelt in front of you. 

"are you hurt?" he asked, checking for any possible injury.

you shook your head, scared your voice would betray you. "j-just c-cold. r-really cold."

price's eyes hardened. "i'll take care of it."

he pulled out his phone and called simon.

the recruits were still in the yard when ghost appeared, and the shift in the atmosphere was immediate. his mask was pulled tight, but it did nothing to conceal the fury radiating from his posture.

"which one of you," he said, his voice low and threatening, "did it?"

the first recruit, the one who'd laughed at you, tried to play it cool. "lieutenant, there was some woman trying to get in, claimed to be your wife. i mean its ridiculous, uh? but i handled it."

"you handled it," ghost repeated, with a nod; his voice flat, emotionless. "you fucking handled my wife."

the colour drained from the recruit's face. "sir, i didn't, we didn't know-"

"i will deal with you later." simon spat out, not sparing them another glance.

he crossed the yard in a few long strides, his hands shaking with fury. he found you in the common room, wrapped in price's coat. you were still clutching the lunchbox, and the sight of it, the sight of you being so pitiful, nearly made him lose the control.

his hands found your waist, and then you were pulled into his arms, crushed against his chest so tightly you could feel the frantic beating of his heart. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, the fabric of his mask damp and warm against your skin, and wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you'd dissolve if he loosened his grip even a bit.

he pulled you into his arms, crushing you against his chest. 

"sweetheart," he breathed, the word cracking somewhere in his throat. "i'm sorry. fuck."

"it's okay," you whispered, your fingers clutching his shirt. "y-you're here."

"no, it's not alright." he pulled back, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away your tears. "i will never, ever let that happen again."

he pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes closed. his fingers were stroking your cheeks, trying to warm you. 

he scooped you up, cradling you against his chest, and carried you toward his quarters. his arms were strong and steady, as you whimpered from the cold.

"price," he called over his shoulder, "round them up. i'll deal with them properly later."

the door to his quarters closed behind you, and simon set you down gently on his chair. he knelt in front of you, his hands working to unzip your coat, to peel off the wet layers. 

"bastards," he cursed under his breath. "i'll kill them all."

you flinched, but were too exhausted to speak, so you let him wrap you in his clothes, and hold you until the shaking stopped. wrapped by simon's thick scent and his body warmth, you soon fell asleep from the exhaustion.

outside, the recruits stood shivering in the yard, watching the snow pile up around their boots.

ghost quickly crossed the yard, his face a mask of cold fury, and grabbed the first recruit by the throat.

simon's fist quickly connected with the soldier's jaw, a sickening crack echoing through the silent yard. then he turned to the second one, the one who'd grabbed your arm.

"your turn." the man tried to run, but price was there, blocking his path. ghost caught him by the collar, dragging him back, and drove his feet into his stomach. one kick, two kicks, until he collapsed, unconscious, into the snow.

"get them off my base," he said to john.

and from that day on, whenever you walked into the base, every soldier snapped to attention, avoiding looking at you, because they all knew, without a single doubt, that simon riley would kill to ensure your safety.

[dollettenextdoor]

18+ ... "use your words" frank castle x reader ⸝⸝⸝

Frank had you right there — thighs shaking, clit throbbing under the slow, deliberate press of his thumb. He never did rush when you got like this. “C’mon, girl,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “You want it? Use your words.”

You bit your lip hard, stubborn, hips twitching up for more friction. A soft, frustrated sound slipped out instead of actual words. Frank clicked his tongue and pulled his hand away completely. Your eyes flew open. “Frank—”

“Ah-ah.” He gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “That ain’t asking. Try again.” You lasted maybe three more seconds before the ache won.

“Please,” you whispered, voice small and desperate. “Please let me come… I need it, Frank, please—”

His mouth curved, dark and satisfied. “Atta girl.” Then his hand was back, and he didn’t stop until you were crying out his name.

He worked you through it slow and thorough, thumb never easing up even as your thighs clamped around his wrist and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. Only when you were trembling and spent did he finally ease off, pressing a rough kiss to your temple.

[dollettenextdoor]

18+ frank castle x reader ━ he's a pounder ‎ꫂ᭪݁

Frank presses your legs back hard, folding you nearly in half until your knees frame your ears. The stretch burns sweet in your hips. He’s heavy over you, chest to chest, forehead locked against yours so every ragged breath you take is shared.

He's buried to the root. Every brutal snap of his hips drives him deeper, the wet slap of skin loud in the quiet room. He doesn’t ease up. He keeps pounding, grinding the head of his dick against the softest, deepest place inside you on every thrust until your body jerks and clenches around him. “Look at me,” he grunts, voice rough, eyes locked on yours. Dark, intense, unblinking. “Don’t you fucking look away.”

You can’t. Not with the way he’s staring into you while he wrecks you. His forehead stays pressed to yours, sweat sliding between your skin. Another hard thrust bottoms him out completely and a low, broken groan rumbles out of him straight into your mouth.

“Fuck—” He snarls it against your lips, hips slamming harder, faster, driving you into the mattress with every stroke. The bedframe complains. Your body takes every inch, stretched open and held open, nowhere to go but deeper under him.

He keeps grinding in deep, forehead glued to yours, eyes never leaving yours while he pounds you through it—grunting, groaning, fucking you like he needs to crawl inside your skin and stay there.

[fullmetalwindbreaker]

[lakevida]

[thequeeninyellowlace]

[clawxmoon]

── ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 18+ cockwarming with frank castle.

the first press of his lips was shockingly soft for the usual frank - hesitant even, like he’d never kissed you tenderly before. you melted against him, hands sliding up his vest to feel the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath all that armor. he carried you to your couch with gentle touch, seating you on top of him. each movement felt intense - each kiss deeper than the last while his large hand cradled your jaw softly. the roll of hips made heat pool low in your stomach.

the stretch was perfect - frank’s massive frame moving up to match your core. your back arched off the couch when he bottomed out, fingers twisting in his shirt. everything else faded away - the world outside this room didn’t exist. just you and him. every nerve felt electric where his body met yours.

he kissed your temple while giving you time to adjust, calloused thumb brushing your cheekbone like you were something fragile. a rough groan escaped frank’s lips, raw and unfiltered, when he finally felt all of you around him. it was a deep sound from his chest, vibrating through both your bodies where they pressed together.

he stayed completely still for those first few seconds, letting you squirm and breathe as your body learned the shape of him. sweat beaded at his hairline from restraint. he was making sure you were okay. when you clenched around him, you heard a small “fuck” muffle against your neck before he buried himself deeper.

you straddled his lap bare-skinned, face flushed pink and something far softer. frank’s usual hard edges were gone; replaced by an expression you rarely saw on the his face. his large hands framed your hips as he drank in every detail - the curve of your shoulders, the way your breath hitched when his fingers brushed up to tuck hair behind your ear. his thumb traced circles on the small of your back like you were made of glass - like touching too rough might break this moment.

[lacelockets]

ᨳଓ Frank loves to push down on your stomach when he’s inside of you. He says it’s so you can feel all of him, and yeah he’s right, but you know it’s for him too. To know how he fills you up, so much that he can feel himself from outside. He keeps his hand pressed down while he pounds into you. Your moans are blended with heavy breaths, tears in the corners of your eyes. “Fuck baby, you like it hard?” His sweet voice suppressed by his guttural moans. He makes sure he gives your clit attention all while he abuses your g-spot. His pelvis smacking into you and forcing your legs open even further. “Baby look at that.” He says, reaching over to grab the back of your head and lift it to watch his cock move inside you. “Look at how I stretch you from inside. ‘m gonna ruin you so good” Pulling out completely before thrusting his whole length back in, palm still pushing down on your lower abdomen. It helps you feel all of him, every vein, each inch, and especially his release being spread inside you.

[storiesoferoda]

a/n: this man has taken over my mind, I need him

olderbf!frank who is an avid sidewalk rule follower. He is always on the outside, guiding you or holding your hand, making sure you're out of harm's way.

olderbf!frank is the type to tie your shoes for you, hearing the soft clinks of shoelaces on the pavement, stopping in his tracks to bend down on the dirty floor and tapping your leg when he’s done. Even plants a little kiss on your head for good measure before walking again.

olderbf!frank is always near you. You’re always in his line of sight, and if he can’t see you or you’re off on your own, your location is pulled up on his phone and his check-ins are hourly. He doesn’t care what you’re doing, just that you’re safe. The world is a scary place, and he’ll be dammned if he let anything hurt you. 

olderbf!frank who brings you gifts or things that you like with a grunt. Sure, he got you your favourite breakfast, but he went on a walk for himself, and it happened to be right there. He never makes a big deal out of anything; it’s just what you deserve. 

olderbf!frank who never raises his voice at you. He’s an angry man, and he has a right to be, but with you, he’s always soft, gentle. He’ll listen to your frustrations and rants about him or the world and never raise his voice. 

olderbf!frank, who is always touching you with his hands on you, on the couch, your feet in his lap as his hands rub soft circles into your legs absentmindedly as he watches whatever is on the TV. 

olderbf!frank who always does the household chores for you: dishes, cooking, cleaning. You name it, and he does it. Breakfast in bed at least once a week, and the fridge is always stocked with your favorites because he's an attentive man. 

olderbf!frank who strictly calls you sweetheart, honey, my girl. The sweetheart started as a joke, back before you guys were dating. It pissed you off the way he said it so condescending but over time, over all the coffee and late-night calls, it became serious, sincere; now it was all he'd ever call you.

olderbf!frank who is very secretive about you. Sure, he mentions you to a select few, but his number one priority was keeping you safe from the dangers he knew were out there.

olderbf!frank, who takes your heels off after date night, after warning you they hurt. He doesn't say I told you so, just undoes the clasp, slipping off the expensive heels from your feet, massaging them for you.

olderbf!frank who loves to get you tipsy, giving you sips of his scotch while you guys lounge around, loving the way you get needy, sucking his neck, leaving a trail of hickeys in your wake. The way you tug his hair while his hands explore your body, as he groans into you.