Welcome To My Playground

21 • Sunny •

[hotdogcatalogue]

(Just Died) In Your Arms Tonight

summary: you and Lars try cuddling for the first time contents: fluff. Reader doesn’t like long sleeves because…me too word count: 1.3k

a/n: first longer fic in a hot second. written at 2 am so sorry if this is booty butt

Lars is slowly warming up to touch.

Key word, slowly.

The first couple of weeks of dating had Lars jerking away from attempts at hand holding. You knew it wasn’t out of malice or secret hatred, it was his touch aversion. You were patient, eventually building up to holding pinkies which turned into hand holding palm to palm, which turned into you being able to hold onto his arm without him being uncomfortable.

The next couple of months, you helped Lars get comfortable with just your presence. Movie nights used to be spent on opposite sides of the couch, but, with Lars' permission, you started to sit closer each night, eventually moving so close that your shoulders and knees almost bumped. It startled him at first when he realized how close you had gotten—not at the burn he thought he would feel, but the absence of it.

Now, Lars wants to work on cuddling. He told you himself.

“I want to try to…” he wrung his hands together as you put away the dishes he cleaned. You turned your head towards him, hand still outstretched as the plates clinked with one another. You didn’t interrupt him, not wanting him to lose his thoughts.

“…Cuddle.” The word felt wrong on his lips. It’s something he’d never thought he’d want or even have the opportunity to try.

Seeing that little sparkle in your eyes come to life washed away most of the doubt that swallowed him whole. His cheeks rose and filled out as he smiled, eyes crinkling when you fully faced him.

You were obviously trying to hide your excitement. Lars learned you were pretty bad at that—you always gave it away with that smile that was just a smidge too wide to be just ‘happy’. With hands clasped behind your back, you took a small step towards him, bouncing slightly on the balls on your feet.

“When…when do you want to try?” You asked, rolling back onto your sock covered heels.

He swallows thickly. “Tonight.” His voice comes out more demanding than asking. He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut for a second, before looking back at you. “Only if you want.” He backtracks, thick fingers messing with the hem of his favorite sweater he wears around the house.

You nod enthusiastically, shifting your feet on the smooth wood of his ‘kitchen’. “I’d love to, Lars.”

You both decide to watch a movie before bed, with you sitting next to him, gently leaning on him. Lars leans into you, both of you keeping yourselves upright.

It started with a small yawn on your part. Then a big yawn from the large man beside you, and another yawn from you, which eventually lead to you both mutually deciding to end the movie early and retire to bed.

You followed Lars’ nightly routine with him. You brushed your teeth with the spare he bought for when you stayed over, shoulders occasionally brushing with little reaction on Lars’ part—more of recognition than anything distressing.

He gave you a pair of old shorts and one of his only short sleeve shirts (he knows you don’t like tight sleeves on your arms), and you dressed in the bathroom while he changed in his bedroom.

Stepping out of the bathroom and towards the bedroom, you peeked your head in the doorway, seeing Lars sitting oh so politely on his bed—back straight, hands clasped in his lap. A hand leaves his lap to give you a wave when he sees you in the doorway, and you can’t help but giggle and wave back, which makes Lars smile.

You sit down next to him, one leg tucked underneath your body on the mattress as the other dangles off the bed. “How do you want to do this?” You ask gently, watching as Lars’ gaze flickers from you to the mattress beneath him.

“Well,” Lars starts, tongue messing with the inside of his bottom lip before he catches it with his teeth. He’s nervous. “I don’t, I don’t really know.” He admits softly. He braces himself for a sudden rejection, a ‘nevermind, I don’t want to do this’ that never comes.

Instead, you offer an idea.

“Do you want to just lay down and…go for it?” You shift further back on the twin sized bed, and Lars shifts with you absentmindedly.

You watch Lars debate with himself in real time. You can see when he’s weighing the action with the outcome, and when a bad outcome creeps into his mind—but you also see the moment when he manages to put it all aside, and lays down on the right side of his mattress with enough room for you on the other.

“I’m ready.” His voice is soft, laced with a hint of sleep that you don’t catch in your own drowsy state. You slowly nod in confirmation, lowering yourself down to rest your head on his pillow.

Your faces are probably closer than they’ve ever been before, but Lars doesn’t seem uncomfortable—nervous, yes. He closes his eyes, drinking in the moment, and you realize that this might be what he meant by cuddling. You’re fine with that, and you two are decently closer than you normally are on the couch—

Big paws suddenly find their way onto your shoulders, settling before they curl around your body. The left snakes its way behind your neck and comes up to cradle your head, his arm shielding around you. His right wiggles its way underneath your side that you’re laying on—at first it’s slightly awkward and uncomfy, but you soon melt into his embrace when his full arm comes to wrap around your middle.

Lars gaze is soft, currently fixated on the hand that’s cradling your head. You both lay together, a bit awkward in his arms as he’s technically holding you yet you’re still quite a distance away from being held against his chest.

Lars soon tugs you closer, and you make a small noise that causes him to check on you.

“I’m okay, Lars.” You whisper, and Lars sighs in relief.

He tugs you closer a little bit more. A little more. A little more, until you're completely flush with his chest, your head tucked under his chin. You sigh against the soft fabric of his shirt, curling your arms close to your chest as he holds you close.

“Is it okay?” You mumble, a small yawn wracking through your frame.

You feel his head bob up and down slowly, the movement weighed down by sleep. You hear a small sniffle from above.

“Mhm.” He presses his nose to your hair. “No. No, it’s great.” He corrects himself, his gentle voice breaking on the last word. You feel a tear fall into your hair, and you nuzzle closer. You’ve learned that Lars just needs to feel things sometimes, and let him regulate himself.

“Very great,” you press a soft kiss to the fabric covering his heart. Lars holds you tighter, and you a small, content sound that Lars mistakes for discomfort. He loosens immediately, looking down at you with a stray tear down his face.

“Did I hurt you? Are you okay?” He worries about his bottom lip between his teeth, and you can’t help but smile at his concern. You shake your head.

“No, no. Good noise,” you murmur, your sleepy voice barely making a sound. “I like it when you held me tight. Made me feel safe.” You watch as his worried frown morphed into a dopey smile, pulling you back to his chest.

He tightened his grip on you, whispering into your hair. “Is this okay?” When you nod, he finally closes his eyes.

Lars never thought he’d be able to hold hands with someone, let alone cuddle—but you have proved him wrong, and he hopes you continue to.

[awearywritersworld]

as you are

gwayne hightower x reader summary: to be a good wife, a woman must sacrifice a part of herself. at least, that's what you've always been taught. gwayne just might prove your expectations wrong. w/c: 1.5k tags: fem!reader. tyrell!reader. hurt/comfort. mentions of reader's parents' unhealthy relationship. mentions of misogynistic/canon typical expectations.

the day that marked your union with ser gwayne hightower was a lavish affair hosted in oldtown, but while most everyone else seemed to be of joyful spirit, the feeling of dread in your gut threatened to consume you.

it'd been growing there ever since otto hightower first proposed the match to your father, lord tyrell. with the looming matter of succession, otto endeavored to strengthen ties with highgarden ahead of any assured potential conflict.

it's not that you took issue with the man you were to wed. he is, after all, known to be a knight most handsome and noble. it was the prospect of becoming a wife at all that dampened your would be celebration.

your entire life, you've never once witnessed your mother and father share a moment of affection. it's quite the opposite, a marriage characterized by icy remarks and disregard.

your septa, in a misguided attempt to save you from the same fate, was always steadfast in her most important lesson— once you were wed, you would no longer be a lady of highgarden. you would be a wife, and wives are meant to be agreeable, lacking in opinion, and obliged to bear heirs.

thus, as you pledged yourself to the son of oldtown, that is what you resolved to be. nothing more, nothing less.

and it worked. for a little while, at least. ser gwayne is completely taken with you— poised, polite, and beautiful in the way that men write songs about.

but the man you married is quite clever, and it doesn't take him long to realize that you are perhaps too gracious.

for three moons now, he has toiled to earn your trust. to see what lies behind your mask of docile courtesy. truthfully, he finds it more challenging than any foe's sword or diplomat's politic.

his efforts have not been entirely fruitless, and he looks forward to the moments it seems he has earned your confidence to some degree. just days ago, you petitioned him on behalf of a young servant boy who's shoes had fallen to disrepair.

he acceded without pause, and watched later on as you presented new boots to the boy. a tender expression decorated your features as you spoke with him, a sight that was new to gwayne.

it tugged at something in the very center of his chest and strengthened his resolve.

while you took note of the way your husband's demeanor softens around you, especially when you are alone in his chambers, you surmised it must simply be fatigue, pity, or some mix thereof.

what other conclusion is there to draw, when he has only lain with you in the way a husband does his wife but once since your wedding night?

to think he must find you undesirable despite all your efforts is disheartening, to say the least. in your attempts to initiate intimacy, he returns your kisses briefly, but eventually pulls away and suggests, "shall we turn to slumber, wife?"

unbeknownst to you (and thankfully his father, as it would surely inspire his ire), gwayne cannot bring himself to bed you again. not when all he has found behind your eyes is obligation, rather than desire or affection.

so while he cannot help the indecent thoughts that sometimes invade his mind— like how you might look beneath him, blissful and desperate— he makes restraint a priority.

until he proves himself to you.

until you want him too.

as the sun begins its ascent above the horizon, you're perched on the ledge of your chamber window, staring down at the port of oldtown. while gwayne readies himself for the day, the dock workers and fisherman are already hard at work.

"you know..." your tone, somewhat pensive, draws his attention. "the mornings here are an oddity to me."

your hands fidget with one another in your lap, a display that does not escape his notice. "how do you find?"

"they are rather.. overwrought. the blinding light reflected off the sea. the salt that carries in with the breeze. the cries of the gulls..."

gwayne begins to suspect that your words are not meant for him— more so a personal observation spoken aloud. there's an element of your disposition that feels solemn, a circumstance that has grown more frequent in recent days.

approaching where you sit, he peers out of the window before turning his gaze to you. a thought occurs to him as he studies your face.

"what time i spend in highgarden, i find myself overextended with little opportunity to appreciate the scenery— tell me of the mornings there."

a fond smile graces your lips, much to his relief.

"oh, they are beautiful. periwinkle skies. the soft croons of doves. the smell of roses, sweet and faint. i... i miss it fiercely."

your eyes meet his, and frightened realization dawns upon your countenance as you mistake the sympathy written on his face for disappointment.

"b-but i am grateful to be here, husband. being in oldtown, with you, is doubtless a privilege many a lady has dreamed of."

his brow furrows and he takes a small step forward, closing the space between you.

"it aggrieves me that you oft refrain from speaking freely, my sweet wife. your words bore no offense. surely anyone would miss a home so lovely."

you look away bashfully, feeling as if you've been ensnared in some intricate trap.

hoping to relieve your apparent doubt, gwayne adds, "i should like to see one of these highgarden mornings together, wife. what do you say?"

your eyes widen as your gaze meets his, astonishment dominating your every feature. "you would go to such lengths on my behalf?"

"well, certainly." his head tilts ever so slightly. "is it not my duty to ensure your happiness?"

the question leaves you speechless. never had you been taught any version of marital duty that involved your own contentment.

you stand with a sigh, brushing past him and pacing the length of your chambers as you ponder his words. "i.. i could not possibly trouble you with my childish whims—"

he catches you by the wrist, his tone full of sincerity. "be assured, petal, it's no trouble at all. the journey is scarcely a day."

the term of endearment, a recent development, makes your cheeks feel warm. "my gratitude is yours for even entertaining such a notion, husband."

"husband.." he repeats, smiling at you softly. "when shall i have the honor of hearing mine own name from your lips?"

it's quiet for a moment as you try and fail to recall a time you heard your mother and father refer to one another so familiarly.

"is that your desire?" you finally ask.

he hums, considering the question. "my sole desire is to have you as you are— not the duty bound wife of this undeserving husband, but your true self, wherever she may be hiding."

your heart stutters violently in your chest. "oh."

he lets out a breath of amusement, your brief response potentially the most candid you've ever been with him.

"i'd wager i could make the arrangements to leave for highgarden in three days time. would that be agreeable?"

a small gasp escapes your lips. "truly? you mean it?"

"of course—"

you're both caught off guard when you press upon your tip toes and throw your arms around his neck. you miss the way his cheeks flush pink before he returns your embrace in earnest.

your next words are spoken quietly, but your husband hears them quite clearly. "thank you, gwayne."

you pull away just a few inches, and his smile is so wide that small dimples form upon his cheeks and his eyes shine brightly. you've always found him handsome, but the sight before you makes your knees feel a little weak.

"very well, then. i will see to our travels today," he affirms. emboldened by your proximity, he cannot refrain from leaning down to place a chaste kiss to your cheek. "i shall see you for supper this evening."

before you can process what's happened, much less muster up a response, you're left alone.

staring after the doors through which he disappeared, the pads of your fingers move to the place his lips met your skin.

an idea occurs to you that is equally exciting as it is intimidating— perhaps with ser gwayne hightower, there could be more to marriage than empty vows and hollow duty.

[chuluoyi]

light the hightower

- gwayne hightower x wife!reader x ormund hightower

ser gwayne hightower may be known for his chivalry, but beneath his courtly smile is a man of steel and blood. vows have made you his lawfully wedded wife, and when his most peculiar cousin starts weaving his traps for you to fall into… you will see another side of him you have never seen before

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—arranged marriage, lots of romance and fluff, hurt/comfort, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, ormund is his own warning, first time with gwayne (bc he lost it), targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister)

notes: gif by @/baelcrtargaryen and @/alysmond. part 2 of to court a princess but can also be read as a standalone. this brainrot has been brewing for a while and i love it :)) so i hope you will too!

“...and even when our bones return to dust, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”

Before the Seven, as the great bells chimed, you and Gwayne Hightower pledged your vows, sealing them with the tenderest kiss.

The wedding between a princess of the blood and a noble knight of House Hightower was the liveliest celebration the realm had seen in a while. King Viserys was overjoyed, and even Queen Alicent wore a rare genuine smile for both you and her brother. Rhaenyra pulled you into a warm embrace, offering her heartfelt wishes with a glowing smile.

Yet… amidst the sea of well-wishers, there was one gaze that was heavy upon you.

“Many congratulations on this most auspicious union, cousin.”

Ormund Hightower stepped before you, looking impeccably sharp in his exquisite emerald doublet. His voice was cool and devoid of warmth.

While your new husband was kind-hearted, you had heard the future Lord of Oldtown was a Hightower of a different stripe—a true son of his father.

Then, Ormund turned his gaze to you, his lips curling into a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And to you as well, Princess...”

His dark gaze wandered, raking down your face to your bust, before returning to meet your eyes unabashedly.

“The songs do you a disservice, Your Grace. You are a far lovelier sight than what they claim.”

There was something in the way he appraised you that made you uncomfortable. It was your first encounter with the infamous son of the Lord of Hightower, and yet you knew instantly what sort of viper he was.

Gwayne’s arm, still resting over your waist, tightened subtly—a silent warning for him, also a reassurance to you.

“She has my heart, Ormund, and my sword,” Gwayne replied smoothly, his eyes flashing with a protective warmth as he looked down at you. “The realm has never seen a more beautiful bride, and I am the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Why, of course. You have done our house a great service today, Gwayne, and I’m certain you’ll make a fine husband,” he said with a careless shrug, his crooked smile not wavering. He raised his goblet in a mock toast. “May the Light of the Seven bless your union.”

With a final, lingering look at you, Ormund turned on his heel and melted back into the sea of lords and ladies.

“Don’t mind him,” Gwayne hissed under his breath.

The moment his cousin was out of sight, you leaned closer to your groom, noting the sharp clench of his jaw. Sensing your concern, however, he immediately masked his irritation and turned to you with a reassuring smile as he drew you securely against his side.

Yet, as the music surged back to life around you, you couldn’t deny the chill that still prickled your skin. Ormund Hightower would remain at court for the rest of your wedding festivities—

And you had a foreboding feeling you would soon see him again.

The first day of your wedding celebration finally drew to a close. With the feast over, the princess and her new husband were left in the confines of their marital chambers, and—

The time has come for this marriage to be consummated.

A nervous flutter stirred in your chest. Gwayne had given explicit instructions for your handmaidens to leave after removing your headpiece, saying he would take care of the rest.

And try you might to look away as a proper lady should, your eyes kept drifting towards him as he began to undress— all the while bracing yourself, expecting the shift from chivalrous knight to demanding husband.

“If you’re stealing glances at me like an innocent maiden does her first love,” he suddenly remarked with an amused grin, “you’re truly going to make me blush.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you averted your gaze, suddenly finding everything more appealing than him.

Left in just his loose linen shirt, Gwayne had a meaningful smile on his face as he stepped behind you, his fingers reaching out to you to unlace the stiff bodice of your gown.

Oh, this is really happening, is it not?

“We...” You suddenly found it hard to breathe as the heavy layers of your dress came loose. “Are we—”

“Yes, darling?” he chuckled softly, his dimples deepening in the firelight. He clearly found satisfaction in how flustered you had become all of a sudden.

You merely looked down, biting your lip to keep yourself from stammering. Your face felt hot too as his large palm traced the contours of your body— from the line of your ribs to the curve of your waist, and the dip of your hips.

After all, you were inexperienced. You had heard stories of how hurt the first night could be— how rough the men liked it, and how comfort was the last thing a woman should expect.

As his arms circled your waist from behind, pinning you gently against him, you choked out:

“Could you be gentle... at least?”

“Hm?” he hummed, smiling against your skin, his breath warm as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

Who could have known that the stern princess could be so shy? Gwayne indulged himself, trailing a path of kisses up the sensitive nape of your neck, savoring the way you shivered beneath his touch.

Precious thing, she truly is.

With a knowing smile, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and you gasped, clinging to his shoulders.

He laid you down upon the silk sheets, climbing in above you, and leaned down— immediately pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss that tasted faintly of sweet wine.

“Mmh...” His mouth moved against yours with hunger, tangling his fingers into the locks of your hair. He kissed you until you felt the room spin— each time he pulled back a fraction of an inch, it was only to catch his breath before leaning down to devour your lips again, deeper and more bruising than before.

His toned hips pressed down firmly against yours, pinning you into the silk sheets. Through your thin linen shift, you could feel the hard, growing length of his bulge pressing against your thigh.

A quiet moan caught in your throat as he started rolling his hips, the friction sending a wave of unfamiliar heat straight to your core. Your fingers grasped the nape of his neck, and he groaned, a low vibration that you felt as much as you heard.

“Do you even know—” he rasped against your lips, still grinding against you, his voice tinged with unbridled desire, “how badly I want you?”

Just as the tension stretched to a breaking point, Gwayne suddenly went still. With a ragged exhale, he pulled away, leaving your lips tingling. He leveled his dark gaze on you, watching you panting for breath.

Lowering his head to rest his forehead against yours, he made no move to strip away the rest of your linen shift. He simply anchored his weight against you.

“Ser Gwayne…?” You blinked up at him, confusion clouding your eyes.

He let out a low chuckle, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw.

“We have just survived the court of vipers today, my darling. Both of you and I need rest, nothing more.”

“But—”

His eyes then crinkled, his smile softened, looking at you as if he knew clearly what were currently going through your mind.

“What did I vow to you before the Seven?”

Wide-eyed, spellbound, with swollen lips of his making. Gwayne found his princess bride really endearing. Looking at you as he would a treasure, he recited the words he had spoken before the High Septon:

“I pray that my days will be long at your side. May your hand be in mine, by sun and by night...”

His dark blue eyes bored into yours with sincerity that made your chest tighten.

“Let our breaths twine and our blood become one, and even when our bones return to dust... may I find your soul still sworn to mine.”

Once again, he caught your heart with his sweet devotion. The way he was pure in his affections for you made you almost tear up.

Is this what it feels like to feel completely safe?

“There is no rush.” He traced a finger on your lips. “My only desire is to cherish you. With me, you are free to speak your mind— and as I am yours, you are entirely mine.”

He flashed you another sweet smile before rolling onto his side. He reached down to grasp the velvet blankets, pulling the covers all the way up over you both to block out the chill—tucking you securely under his arm and pulling you against his chest.

When you clung to him, he let out a giddy laugh, his hold instinctively tightening around you.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered against his broad chest, nuzzling your face closer to him.

You received a tender kiss on the crown of your head in return.

For the most part, you were the happiest bride in the Seven Kingdoms.

Everyone in the realm, from the lowly stableboys to nobles, had offered their felicitations, your knight’s devotion was absolute and his tenderness behind closed doors a sanctuary against the court.

Yet, you hadn’t missed the way Ormund Hightower, the heir of Oldtown and Gwayne’s cousin, had eyed you at each and every turn.

His morning greetings had felt entirely too personal for your comfort, and the way he boldly stared at you made your skin crawl. You hadn’t seen fit to tell your husband just yet, choosing instead to give his cousin the benefit of the doubt.

Now, with the last day of your wedding festivities concluded, the gates of Red Keep were open as the lords and ladies of the realm prepared their wheelhouses to leave King’s Landing. Seeking an escape from the noise, you ducked into a cloistered walkway near the Godswood.

But you weren’t alone.

A shadow fell over the stone floor, and before you could turn, Ormund stepped out from behind a carved pillar, blocking your path in the deserted corridor.

“Your Grace,” he greeted with a cold smile.

“Ser Ormund.” Your voice adopting the icy tone you had practiced for years, as you began to question what he was truly after. “Should you not prepare to return to Oldtown? I imagined you would want to be ready for the long journey back to the Reach.”

Ormund didn’t answer right away. He closed the distance between you, tilted his head, a patronizing smile touching his lips.

“Preparations can wait. I merely wanted a private moment to bid my farewell to you.”

“You have had seven days of feasts to bid your farewells,” you retorted.

His smile only deepened. Instead of moving away, he stepped closer, trapping you between his frame and the pillar.

“Now, Princess... You know it as well as I do that we play a less than pretty game here.”

His gaze dropping to your collarbone before lifting to pin yours, with a look of a man who knew how much you weighted before the Iron Throne.

“Everything you lack in birthright is amply compensated by that pretty face of yours.” His blue eyes narrowed. “With a face like that, you could bewitch knights and lords across the Seven Kingdoms. A tragic shame... If only the timing had been right, you could have chosen me instead.”

A wave of disgust rushed through you. “You would do well to remember yourself. You are already wed.”

“A man never knows,” he replied in a sultry whisper, “when he might find himself in need of another wife.”

Ormund chuckled at your horrified expression. He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into yours with a terrifyingly casual entitlement, and in that moment you caught a striking smell on him.

Incense? Pomander? It was a potent smell, but surprisingly and jarringly pleasant.

“Why him?” he sneered, placing both arms against the wall on either side of your head. “An easy prey, is he?”

“He is kind,” you spat, your gaze hardening with defiance, willing yourself not to tremble before him. “A kinder man than anyone could ever be. Now I command you to let me pass, as I will not suffer you insulting my lord husband, Ormund Hightower.”

“Kind, is he now...? My cousin is the very paragon of a gentleman, and you thought you could bend him to your will, no?”

He leaned even closer to your ear that you could feel his breath—his scent filling your being, his blue eyes narrowing and burning into you with cold certainty.

“A word of counsel,” Ormund warned, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “Gwayne remains a Hightower. The blood of Oldtown runs thick in his veins, and whatever sweet words he whispers in your bed… In the end, he will never betray his own house.”

The words echoed in your mind, striking a sudden chord of doubt— before nausea and fury flared within you.

With a sudden surge of strength, you shoved hard against Ormund’s chest, breaking his hold and causing him to stagger.

Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you spun on your heel and swept past him, leaving him alone in the shadows of the corridor.

Throughout the seven days and nights of your wedding festivities, Gwayne Hightower had been a man utterly besotted, and he wasn’t reluctant in showing it before the court.

These were, without a doubt, the best days of his life. A dizzying happiness bestowed upon him by the Gods.

And patience was a virtue he possessed and would gladly practice if it meant your comfort. He had no wish to rush you and would like to give you as much time as you wanted, because after all, he knew deep-seated worries a new bride had regarding the marriage bed.

To that end, he had been standing by the hearth for a while now, stoking the coals so the chamber would be warm. When the heavy oak door finally creaked open and you stepped inside, Gwayne turned, already expecting you.

“Well, hello again, darling,” he greeted, an easy smile instantly gracing his features. “Are you ready to retire for the night?”

“Oh—!”

A startled gasp escaped you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin, completely caught off guard to find him waiting. Even from across the room, he caught the rigid hunch of your shoulders and the panic in your eyes. It took only a second to realize how you were shaking.

His smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp concern.

“You look unwell,” Gwayne noted, frowning. Immediately letting go of the poker, he stood and crossed the chamber to you.

However, you were always a quick thinker. Meeting his gaze, you forced a placating smile. “No— It is just the wind, husband, and I am weary. I shall summon my handmaiden to help me undress and get ready for bed.”

Now there really was an unsettling weight gnawing at his chest. It was something he realized recently, but you were actually a wretched liar when caught unprepared. And now, you looked fragile, as though you desperately needed comfort.

“Has something happened?” He closed the remaining distance, his hands sliding up to catch you gently by the arm, drawing you closer to him.

His first instinct was to unquestionably provide you that comfort, and he was just about to pull you into the safety of his arms when—

His nostrils flared as he caught the fragrance clinging to you— and the air left his lungs. It was a scent he loathed with a visceral hatred, yet one he recognized almost instantly.

Gwayne went rigid, the blood turning to ice in his veins. A dark, sickening realization settled over him in a matter of seconds.

How?

Just how close had you been... to carry his scent so clearly upon your skin?

His gentle demeanor hardened into a sudden steel, and his voice dropped:

“Were you with Ormund?”

. . .

You wanted nothing more than to collapse in his arms.

You were really going to when suddenly you noticed how his face darkened. Gwayne’s blue eyes locked onto yours, demanding the truth you were trying to hide.

“Why were you with him?”

That striking smell, you realized. “No, I wasn’t—” you stammered, the words catching in your throat as panic flared inside you.

But Gwayne was far from convinced. He immediately let go of you, stepping back as if your very touch burned him. The sudden loss of his warmth made your heart ache with a sharp pain.

He looked utterly lost now, unable to look you in the eye. And worst of all, he looked terribly hurt.

“Nothing happened between us!” you blurted, desperate to bridge the sudden chasm between you. “We just exchanged a few words—”

“Do not lie to me. Ormund has a certain pomander he prefers—a blasted scent I would know anywhere. To carry that scent, you must have been so near to each other, so close that...”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence. The compromising image of you and his cruel cousin choked the words right out of his throat, his jaw clenching as he fought back the raw betrayal burning in his chest.

You, however, wouldn’t allow him to believe the worst. You forcibly threw yourself into his arms, desperate to mend the fracture between you—

“Gwayne, I swear this upon my mother’s name: I would never hurt you in such manner.”

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, burying your face against him. In that moment, even you found a fleeting peace in his warmth and listening to his erratic heartbeat. At first, his entire frame went completely stiff under your touch.

But as your vow settled over him... the tension broke, and he melted into your embrace in surrender, holding onto you with a crushing grip.

Oh. Such a sweet man, he is. The clarity almost made you cry—even when he thought he was in his darkest moment, he silently chose to believe you.

The two of you stayed like that for a while until a sudden, dark terror seemed to occur to him. His eyes snapped back to yours, searching your face for any sign of ruin.

“Did he force himself upon you?” he asked then, his voice uneven, almost trembling with rage at the mere thought. “Because if he did— if he laid a single unwanted hand on you, I will—”

“No!” you fiercely rejected the notion. “Nothing happened! I— I might have incited his displeasure, yes, but nothing more!”

Gwayne let out a relieved sigh, cradling your face with both of his hands to anchor himself, looking down at you like a lovelorn man. The ache in his chest subsided somewhat, and for a moment, he contemplated hearing more.

Ormund was not a kind man. He knew that better than anyone, having spent his childhood under his whims. And Ormund was ruthless and cunning— so if he had approached you, he undoubtedly had a purpose.

It might prove him a fool, and it would cost him another piece of his soul, yet Gwayne chose faith. Just as he had done a hundred times before.

“Whatever transpired between you, I do not wish to hear of it.”

You blinked at him, only to find him staring back with a grave expression.

“Just do not come near him again,” he warned, his voice a low, commanding growl. “Can you do that?”

You barely nodded when Gwayne leaned down and captured your lips in a punishing kiss—one born of relief, jealousy, and a fierce need to erase every trace of his cousin from your skin.

His hands, usually so practiced in their courtesy, lost their gentleness as he crushed you against him. He groaned against your mouth, breaking the kiss only to drag his wet lips down your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point just roughly enough to make you gasp.

The sounds of your mingled breaths and sensual sighs filled the room. Your thoughts burned away by the sudden, suffocating heat of him. He backed you towards the high, velvet-curtained bed, and then swept you off your feet—

“Oh! Ser Gwayne!”

Just like your first night together as man and wife, he laid you down on the marital bed, but this time, he came down over you—his hands tearing at the laces of your dress, his breath hot on your jaw.

“Princess, I can’t—” His voice broke into a growl as he lost it, capturing your lips in another senseless kiss.

Somewhere in the feverish haze, he shrugged off his own shirt, letting out a grunt when he felt the burning touch of your fingertips wandering across his bare skin.

With a single, fluid pull, he rid you of your dress, and only then did he draw back, his dark eyes wide and dilated as he drank the sight of your naked form.

Every inch of you... is dazzlingly woman. How had the heavens deemed him worthy of a wife so breathtaking?

A primal urge flared within him— he had to mark you, to write his name upon your skin. Every lord in the Seven Kingdoms should know that he alone was husband to the princess.

Gwayne buried his face in your chest, suckling your breasts, swirling his tongue around the aching peaks until you arched off the mattress, breathless.

Fuck patience.

He roughly parted your thighs next to devour your sweet cunt with his mouth and lips, making you squirm to hold back your lewd moans. Within minutes, the intense coil inside you burst, your fingertips clawing at the bedsheets as your climax tore through you.

Fuck virtues.

Your head were still spinning in a daze as he proved just how masterful he was in pleasuring you. Before you could properly recover, Gwayne parted your knees wider and settled his weight over you.

“Will it hurt?” your voice came in a whisper, laced with such raw innocence when you realized what was to come that it immediately softened him.

“The first time always is,” Gwayne answered truthfully. “Scratch me, bleed me, scream if you must. Tell me if the pain outweighs the pleasure, and I will stop.”

He aligned himself against your entrance and with a push, inched himself inside you. You winced, a sharp cry escaping your lips at the foreign intrusion, your nails digging into the skin of his back.

“Hush, darling... I have you,” he whispered thickly. He held you tight, anchoring you against the mattress as he drove himself deeper. You trembled beneath him, half in tears and choked by little gasps of pain, your body struggling to accommodate his sheer size.

So tight. Gwayne really was on the verge of losing it when he realized he had broken your maidenhead. Still a maid, and I have claimed her.

When he sheathed himself completely, your body stretched against an agonizing fullness and more tears fell from your eyes. Gwayne held himself perfectly still, giving your body a moment to adjust to his length, before pressing a tender kiss to your lips to soothe you and beginning to move.

As his hips drove into yours with bruising thrusts, the initial sting quickly melted away, replaced by a deep, rolling friction that felt incredibly good, drawing whimpers from the back of your throat.

You looked sinful beneath him. His hands slid up from the mattress to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away the stray tears at the corners of your eyes even as his lower body dictated a merciless pace.

There was only the heat, the slick friction binding you together, and a man utterly possessed.

“You are mine,” Gwayne rasped against your skin, his voice a ragged edge of pure devotion and dark triumph. “From this night... until my last.”

The pleasure wound tighter and tighter within you— until the dam broke, shattering you in a blinding release. You cried out his name, your body clamping tightly around his length.

Fuck.

The pulsing squeeze of your walls was the final blow to his restraints— your husband groaned aloud, as he thrusted into you one last time, before collapsing against you and spilling his seeds inside your womb.

You awoke before him.

With the morning light filtered through the velvet curtains, you observed your husband’s serene, sleeping face. Free from his courtly mask and the heat from the night before, Gwayne looked peaceful, almost like a boy.

Even in sleep, he had one arm on your waist. His red hair was a mess against the sheets, and the blanket barely covered him, exposing the impressive breadth of his back—and the faint red marks where your nails had scratched him last night.

Sweet man, and he’s all mine.

A wave of tenderness washed over you, a deep-seated realization sank that you were truly his woman now. Reaching out, you gently cupped his jaw, the pad of your thumb tracing his cheek.

At your touch, his eyelashes soon fluttered. His eyes blinked open, unfocused with sleep.

“Good morrow, husband,” you fixed a sweet smile, and he blinked blue eyes at you, staring at you in a hazy daze for a moment as his mind worked to bridge the gap between his dreams and reality.

Then, a soft sigh escaped him. He reached out, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to pull you against him, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Forgive me,” he murmured in a drawl, his voice muffled against your skin.

You blinked. “What for?”

“I have conducted myself in a manner entirely unbefitting of your husband.”

“Oh?”

“I was far from gentle with you,” he mumbled into your neck. “When you have asked it from me.”

He really thought that? A giggle bubbled up from your chest, the light sound causing him to curl into you even further, hiding his face like a guilty boy.

“I am perfectly well,” you laughed, hugging him close to your chest. “A bit sore, perhaps, but quite intact.”

You stroked his red hair, and he clung to you a little tighter, as if you were the only anchor he needed. However, you were in the mood of being mischievous.

“Although, I must confess, I never knew you had that side in you, husband.” Your lips curling into a smirk as you looked down at him. “I must admit I doubted its existence.”

Gwayne went utterly still in your embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with an expression of pure despondence. Then as though he couldn’t bear to look at your face, he groaned, clenching his jaw.

“I am glad my utter lack of composure is a source of amusement for the princess.”

His cheeks had started to redden, and your heart swelled. Reaching out, you caught his jaw with one hand and stole a quick kiss, catching him off guard.

“Am I not your wife?” you teased. “What is there to be so flustered about?”

“Are you secretly a wanton?” Gwayne fired back, a dimpled, shy smile breaking through his lingering embarrassment. “You certainly seem fond of kissing me first.”

Would a man so devoted to you not choose you, when he is faced by the impossible choice between his wife and his house?

Mayhaps that was a question that would find its answer in the years to come.

“This is how you kiss, darling.”

And with that, he leaned in and captured your lips in a chaste yet deep kiss. The shyness that had flushed his cheeks moments ago vanished, replaced by the effortless grace of a man who knew exactly how to cherish his wife.

When he finally parted from you, he didn’t pull away far. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with your own as the early morning sun caught the rich blue of his eyes, and his grin was the sweetest as he gazed at you.

What is that light shining through the window? It matters less, because you are the sun, and you are in his arms.

[rockylandphm]

quiet surprises

pairing. lars lindstrom x reader

synopsis. you’re sick and you unexpectedly find your neighbor standing on ur front door / lars is concerned about ur wellbeing (1.7k words)

note. I love you lars.. you are so dear to me

So, you’re sick.

It’s a minor setback, nothing you can’t handle, truly.

Sure, it’s a little harder to keep much food down when eating and you’ve got this chill you can’t seem to shake even though you’ve turned off your airconditioning, but you weren’t dying.

Just a small bug.

That’s what you told Lars when he stood there on your porch, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his jackets, staring at you with very concerned eyes.

“I’m really okay.” You had insisted, and Lars had looked at you for a long time in response.

He didn’t believe you. You can tell. You think he’s just figuring out how to tell you that he knows you’re definitely lying to him.

So, in defense, you change subject.

You don’t even remember what you’d said–something about work, and the time, and eventually landing with how you have everything under control.

And the boy in front of you simply nods slowly.

He really didn’t believe you. But he allows you the illusion as he excuses himself back inside his own home when you’ve managed to back away enough to make it to yours as well.

Your “under control”, currently, looks like sitting on your couch with a plastic of used tissues on the side. There’s a documentary playing quietly on the television, something about an old historical mystery you probably would’ve found interesting if your head didn’t feel like it was full of cotton. And you’re wrapped in your most comforting blanket.

The house is quiet. It really is. For a moment, at least.

And then, a knock.

But when you open the door, Lars is, once again, standing there but with a paper bag in his hands this time.

“Hi.” He says.

“Hi, Lars.”

He doesn’t say anything after. Simply looks at you. And in retaliation, you look back, trying your very best to look like someone who currently wasn’t losing a battle with fever.

“What are you…” A cough escapes that you try to swallow down instantly. “… doing here, Lars?”

“I brought soup.”

He lifts the paper bag slightly, without much effort, and you blink at him.

“Oh Lars, you really didn’t have to.”

“I know.” He shifts his weight awkwardly, looking down at the bag instead of you. “I was already making some.”

It is obviously a lie. You both know it.

Remnants of guilt flashes you as you remember how you’d dismissed him earlier when he’d knocked to ask if you were okay. So, this time, you let him in. You can’t refuse his kindness anymore. Not when he’a looking at you like this, with a small smile playing on his lips, and his eyes staring into yours like he was trying really hard to read you.

“Thank you. Uh, come in if you’d like.”

He nods, slowly and tentatively walking inside as you sit back down on the couch. Though, instead of sitting next to you, he chooses to stand in your kitchen, looking around like he’s trying to figure out what needs to be done.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

Lars turns to look at you, blinking in surprise at having been read. He tries not to show. “I’m not.”

“I’ll clean when I’m feeling better. Don’t go rearranging my whole house.”

Again, he says, “I’m not. I’m just… looking.”

He moves away from the kitchen, choosing now to bring the soup he’d brought and set it down in front of you, on the table in front of your couch. A plastic spoon and some tissue is arranged neatly beside it.

“You should eat.”

You frown, shaking your head as you look at the food. You don’t want to look ungrateful, but you’ve tried eating enough to know how hard it was to actually swallow anything. Albeit, you’ve only really attempted to eat solid food. “I’m not really hungry right now.”

“But you should.”

The tone of his voice surprises you, eyes widening a little at how uncharacteristically insistent he is at the moment.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen this side of Lars before. Or well, up until he backtracks. He must’ve heard what he sounded like with his own ears.

“Sorry.” He says quietly. “I just… you haven’t eaten yet and…”

His sentence trails on without continuation. And he looks like he’s trying to figure out what to say, and it looks like it’s hurting him, so you do the only thing you know would calm him down.

You pick up the spoon. “Okay, I’ll eat.”

Lars visibly relaxes at this, relieved at not having to finish his sentence, relieved that you’re finally eating something. “Okay.”

When you’ve finished eating, Lars is still sitting on the couch beside you. There is a huge gap between the two of you, and the documentary that had been playing had finished long before you’d been done with your food. Some old rerun of a cartoon is playing now.

And you don’t notice you’ve fallen asleep. And Lars doesn’t either. Not at first.

But he hears quiet snoring, and he can’t help but stare at you as you’re bundled up on your couch with your finished container of soup in front of you.

Lars doesn’t leave, but he does think about it. Several times.

Because what if something happens to you while you were asleep and unassuming?

He tells himself he should, though. You’re asleep now. Your house is right next door to his if anything happens. He should go back to his own place and let you rest.

That would be the normal thing to do. But then he looks at you curled up on the couch, surrounded by tissues and blankets, and he remembers what it feels like to be sick and alone. What it feels like not wanting to reach out and bother anyone.

So he stays.

Lars continues to sit quietly beside you, leaving the same careful space between you as before.

The television keeps playing. He isn’t really watching it. He just stares ahead, occasionally looking over at you to make sure you’re still breathing comfortably, still asleep, still okay.

Eventually, he checks the clock.

His eyes move to the table. The medicine is still there, unopened. Save for one missing dose.

And Lars frowns. Because he knows exactly what that means.

“(Name). Wake up.”

It’s quiet in your house, save for Lars’ soft voice pulling you from your trance of sleep.

There’s a trace of hesitation in his voice, like he wasn’t entirely sure if he should wake you at all. It’s a little difficult to focus on anything when every surface of your skin feels like it’s burning, but you recognize his voice immediately.

“(Name).” He tries again.

His hand gently taps against your arm before quickly pulling away.

When you still don’t shift, he starts to tug at your blanket to hopefully wake you up.

“Lars? You’re still here?” You croak, voice congested as a result of your fever.

When you open your eyes, Lars immediately moves back slightly, like he hadn’t been leaning over you for the past few minutes trying to decide if waking you was the right thing to do. Like he hadn’ felt guilty shaking you away from rest.

He stands there instead, holding a glass of water and your medicine in his hands. And there’s a tiredness behind his eyes that tells you he probably hasn’t gone to sleep yet.

“You need to take this.” He says quietly.

You blink at him, trying to process his words. Trying to process that he’s still in your house.

“The medicine.”

A realization dawns on you. Right. You forgot. To be fair, you didn’t even know you’d fallen asleep either.

You move to sit up properly, the sound of your rustling blanket lingering in the silence.

A glance at the clock tells you it’s late. Way too late for Lars to still be here. He should be in the comfort of his home, asleep. He had work tomorrow, you know this. And it makes a guilt sit bitterly on your heart.

“Lars…”

He looks like he already knows what you’re going to say. And before you can apologize, before you can tell him he should have gone home hours ago, he holds out the medicine and water.

“Here.”

You take it from him, a frown still on your mouth as you place the pill on your tongue before drinking the water. And he watches carefully, not in a way that’s weird. He looks like he’s genuinely making sure you’ve taken it.

Then, very carefully, he takes the glass back and places it on the table.

“How do you feel?” He asks quietly, because a few seconds ago, you’d been asleep.

He doesn’t want to startle you out of the grogginess you were probably feeling at the moment.

“I don’t really know.”

You hate admitting it. Because all you really want to do is reassure him that you’re okay, lie to him that you can handle yourself like you had earlier. Tell him he should go home because he shouldn’t be here this late.

“That’s okay.” Lars says, tone still soft. Still careful.

“I’ll ask again tomorrow.”

He reaches over and pulls your blanket back up.

The action is awkward.

“...And you should probably transfer to your bed.”

You watch him pick up the empty glass, watch him take out the discarded tissues, watch him throw away the empty container that had contained soup just a few hours ago.

And the guilt resurfaces.

“Lars?”

He turns around immediately, looking at you and waiting for you to say something.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyebrows pull together in confusion. “For what?”

“For bothering you.”

The words come out quieter than you expected. You’re still half-asleep, but the guilt is there. It’s been there. You just hate the thought that he’s tired now and that he’d be tired tomorrow because of you.

Lars just stares at you. He’s confused, and he genuinely doesn’t understand how you could possibly think that.

“You’re not bothering me.” He says it immediately, and that catches him off-guard. “You’re sick….”

A heartbeat passes. And then two more.

“And you’re alone.”

His fingers tighten slightly around the empty glass. “You don’t have to be alone.”

He surprises himself. And, deeming the moment too vulnerable, he immediately tries to move past it.

“Anyway. You should sleep.” Lars clears his throat. “I… don’t have anything tomorrow morning. I’ll be here.”

You know he’s lying, and you want to argue with him. But your eyes are getting a little heavier once more, and it takes you a while to notice that he’s guiding you to your bed until you’re safely and comfortably tucked inside.

“Goodnight, (Name).”

[fightingbymoonlight]

Seeing people I know and like using AI is making me understand the protagonists of those old time sci fi dystopia's.

"Oh I don't normally use AI, I just wanted it to plan my trip"

You lived on this planet for decades, you know what you like, there are hundreds of websites where you can type into any search engine " things to do in [area]" and have at least a hundred different options.

"Oh I only use it so I can figure out what to make during the week with what I have"

The most popular website as you type in "recipes" into google have sections where you click dinner- quick and easy and those usually rely on staples + 1 or 2 items. I found 30 recipes on chicken alone.

"I had a writing idea, so I typed a few sentences into Chat GPT and I was able to write 20 pages with it."

Youdidn'twriteit.Youdidn'twriteit.youdidn'twriteit.youdidn'twriteit.YOUDIDN'TWRITEIT.YOUDIDN'TWRITEIT.YOUDIDN'TWRITEIT.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

Mother's Day. l Holland March

Holland March [The Nice Guys] x Reader

warnings: school party with parents ; long-term relationship ; Holly ; jealous Holland ; fluff ; a bit of flirting at the end

note : Holly said it would be nice if you came, and then Holland felt threatened.

a/n : This has been in my draft for a long time. And today is the day…

[Ryan Gosling masterlist] [main masterlist]

The moment Holly quietly slid onto the stool by the kitchen counter, Holland already knew something was up.

The two of you had just gotten home with grocery bags and takeout cartons balanced in your arms. You’d disappeared into the bedroom to change into something more comfortable while Holland busied himself unpacking dinner. He loosened his tie with one hand and pulled containers of pasta from the bag with the other before glancing toward his daughter.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” he asked. “You look like you’re about to tell me we have to leave the state.”

“There’s a thing,” Holly muttered. “I mean, it’s not a huge deal, but…”

“But?”

She sighed dramatically. “The school’s doing a Mother’s Day event the day after tomorrow. Everyone’s bringing their mom or aunt or somebody from their family and I was kinda wondering…” She looked up at him with those big hopeful eyes. “Do you think I could invite her?”

“Oh.”

That caught him off guard a little. But in a good way.

Holland had known for a long time that you had slipped into their little family with alarming ease. Your clothes had somehow claimed permanent space in his closet, one of your hair clips lived beside the kitchen sink, and Holly’s half-finished school project still sat under the living room window where the two of you had abandoned it the night before.

Leaning back against the counter, he studied his daughter carefully. “You want her there?” he asked softly.

Holly shrugged, pretending to play it cool. “I mean, it’s not a big deal. Just some school thing. But…it’d be nice.”

“Mhmm.” Holland nodded slowly.

He knew his daughter too well. Whenever Holly said it wasn’t a big deal, it usually meant it mattered a lot.

“I think,” he said, “you should ask her yourself. During dinner. Use the food as bribery.”

Holly perked up immediately. “You think bribery’ll work?”

“It always works on me.”

“That explains a lot.”

A moment later your footsteps echoed down the hallway and you appeared in the kitchen wearing one of Holland’s oversized t-shirts,  something he pretended not to notice while secretly loving the sight of far too much.

“Something smells good,” you said, peeking over Holly’s shoulder.

“As the only man in this household,” Holland announced proudly, “I have returned with food for my girls. Sit down before I pass out.”

You settled beside Holly, already reaching for your fork when you noticed how stiffly she was sitting. Your eyes flicked toward Holland suspiciously, but he only smiled innocently.

“Were you two talking about something while I was gone?” you asked.

Holly glanced at her father, then back at you. “There’s a thing,” she began.

And then the words came tumbling out in one long nervous rush -  that it really wasn’t a huge deal, and you absolutely didn’t have to go if you didn’t want to, but there’d be games and activities and food and everybody else would be there and you had that really pretty dress you could wear and…

Eventually she stopped, lips pressed together tightly as though she were waiting for a verdict. Across the takeout boxes, you exchanged a glance with Holland.

“Well, Holly,” you said gently, “I think that sounds wonderful, and I’d love to go with you. If you really want me there. And you’re right, that dress does sound perfect for the occasion.”

Holly’s head snapped up so fast it nearly gave Holland whiplash. “Really?”

“Of course. It sounds really good.”

Holland nodded solemnly. “The dress is gonna be a real crowd-pleaser.”

“It definitely will!” Holly nearly clapped. “Mr. Phillips is gonna lose his mind when he sees her in it.”

“Mr…” Holland blinked.

“Mr. Phillips. The gym teacher, Dad.” Holly rolled her eyes dramatically, though you were almost certain she’d brought him up specifically to irritate her father. “He flirts with all the pretty moms.”

You laughed softly. Holland’s blue eyes immediately shifted toward you as he pointed his fork in your direction.

“Remember,” he warned, “you already have a charming single father at home.”

“I think I can handle one PE teacher,” you teased.

“Oh yeah? That’s how every tragic love story starts. One PTA event later and suddenly I’m alone, drinking whiskey in a motel…”

“Dad, you’re being dramatic!”

“I’m being emotionally attacked at my own dinner table. I didn’t realize a school event could destroy my relationship.”

And for the next fifteen minutes Holland continued spiraling theatrically while Holly took immense joy in making it worse.

The event’s day, when you and Holly were getting ready to leave, Holland had to be talked into staying home.

The dress was “too pretty,” you were “too attractive,” and the gym teacher, whom he had never seen in his life, was apparently “a criminal who specializes in ruining healthy relationships.”

Only after you promised that you would, in fact, come back home afterward, and not run away to Las Vegas to marry an athletic PE teacher, did he finally allow you to leave.

When you returned, the afternoon sun filled the house with a warm, golden glow. Holly was the first into the living room and immediately spotted her father sprawled on the couch. His sleeves were rolled up, several buttons on his shirt were undone, and his tie had long since been abandoned.

“Look what we got!” Holly announced proudly, holding up the two gold medals hanging around her neck. “She was incredible! Three-legged race and archery. Seriously. Wow.”

“Oh, stop,” you groaned, unable to hide your smile as you stepped inside behind her and shut the door. “The competition wasn’t exactly fierce.”

“Jessica’s mom turned bright red,” Holly whispered conspiratorially. “I don’t even like her. She deserved it.”

“Holly!”

You kicked off your heels and collapsed beside Holland on the couch. He looked at you with open fondness and something softer underneath it.

“You volunteered for the competitions?” he asked. Without thinking, his large hands reached for your legs, lifting them effortlessly into his lap. His thumbs immediately began rubbing slow circles against your calves.

“You didn’t see Jessica’s mom,” you said, struggling not to laugh. “She was so competitive. She wanted every medal.”

“I’m proud of you,” Holland said. “Both of you.”

Holly wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge in search of snacks. “Mr. Phillips thought she was amazing too,” she tossed over her shoulder casually.

You felt Holland freeze. His eyes widened slightly, fingers tightening just a little around your calf.

“Oh really?” he asked suspiciously calmly.

“Mhm.” Holly pulled out leftover pasta. “He was very impressed by her athletic ability.”

“Oh.”

You bit your lip hard to stop yourself from laughing. Holland’s eyes never left you.

“And he offered to help her stretch afterward,” Holly continued sweetly. “You know. Since she looked so good in that dress.”

“Holly?” Holland smiled and pointed down the hall. “Could you check if you’re in your room now?”

“Dad!”

“Now. Please.”

The moment Holly’s bedroom door shut, Holland let out a long suffering sigh. You had absolutely no chance of escaping while he still had your legs trapped across his lap.

“So,” he drawled, “how’s Mr. Phillips doing these days? You must’ve made quite the impression on him, sweetheart.”

You swallowed carefully. “He was very nice,” you admitted.

“Nice.”

“And athletic. I mean, he teaches PE. He also coaches basketball.”

“Athletic.”

Holland’s jaw tightened slightly.

“And…” You tried very hard to stay serious. “He has a really cute bald spot.”

Holland stared at you. “He’s bald?”

You nodded.

“Thank God.”

You burst out laughing as his head dropped dramatically against the couch cushion, relief washing across his face.

“I was so close to going over there and burying him under the football field,” he muttered. “But if he’s bald…”

“So now you’re not threatened anymore?”

“I’m still threatened! My self-esteem is fragile and nobody in this house is helping.”

You tried to slide your legs away, but Holland only held on tighter.

“No. Stay. This is nice.”

You tucked a pillow beneath your head and stretched out more comfortably against the couch. The long emotional day was finally catching up with you. All you wanted now was a hot shower and comfortable clothes.

“Holly really enjoyed it today,” Holland said quietly after a moment. His voice softened completely. “You made her really happy.”

You smiled. “I’m glad I could do that for her. And honestly… I had fun too.”

A lazy grin spread across his face. “Another March hopelessly in love with you. Must be difficult.”

“I can handle it.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss just above your knee. Your fingers slid into his soft hair where it had fallen over his forehead. Evening sunlight spilled through the room in warm red-gold waves. You were about to say something when Holland suddenly lifted his head, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

“You know,” he mused, “I’m not surprised Mr. Phillips was impressed by your athletic ability.”

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

“With all the cardio training we do together…”

“Holland!” You shot a glance toward Holly’s closed bedroom door.

“What?” he said innocently. “I care about your fitness.” He shrugged, though the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away completely. “Maybe we should do a little training tonight too.” He winked. “Think my performance would improve if I stretched first?”

You buried your face in your hands, trying desperately not to laugh. Holland’s hand slid higher beneath your dress, squeezing your thigh gently while his lips brushed your skin again.

“I’m really glad you didn’t leave me for some athletic coach.”

“How could I?” you murmured. “Emotionally unstable detectives are much more my type.”

“My lucky day.”

thank you for reading <3

[catbayunthestoryteller]

Baby Come Home (Part 2)

Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - modern AU (part 1 here)

Warnings: angst, yearning, emotions, talks of pregnancy and post complications.

The email came on a Thursday in early autumn, when the leaves were just beginning to turn and Maekar had learned to say "no" with the kind of imperial finality that proved, beyond any doubt, that he was a Targaryen.

Aerion was in the kitchen, trying to convince a seventeen-month-old that mashed peas were, in fact, edible, when his phone buzzed. He ignored it. Maekar had perfected a move where he accepted the spoon into his mouth, smiled angelically, and then let the entire contents dribble down his chin and onto the tray. They were on round four of this particular battle, and Aerion was losing.

His phone buzzed again. And again.

"Fine," he said, to no one in particular. "Fine. We're taking a break. You've won this round, you tiny tyrant."

Maekar banged his spoon against the high chair tray in triumph, smearing peas across his cheek like war paint.

Aerion wiped his hands on a dish towel and picked up his phone. Three new emails. The first was from his assistant, something about projections. The second was from his sister, a link to an article about sleep training that he absolutely did not have the emotional capacity to read. The third...

The third was from you.

He sat down hard on the kitchen floor, which had become something of a habit over the past year. His hands were shaking. The subject line read: Coming home.

Aerion Targaryen, heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire, a man who had negotiated hostile takeovers and stared down boardrooms full of men twice his age, had to read the first sentence four times before the words resolved into meaning.

I'm coming back. I'd like to see you. I'd like to see our son. If you're still willing. If you're still there. I'll be in the city next Tuesday. There's a café near the old apartment. The one with the terrible scones you used to pretend to like. 2pm. I understand if you don't want to come. I understand if you've moved on. But I've been in therapy, and I've been working on myself, and I think, I hope, I'm ready to try. I'm sorry it took so long. I'm sorry for so many things. I'll understand if you can't forgive me. But I wanted to ask. For a chance. Just a chance.

He read it again. Then a third time. Then he looked up at Maekar, who had abandoned his spoon and was now attempting to pry the suction cup off his tray with the focus of a safecracker.

"Your mother," Aerion said, his voice coming out strange and thin, "is coming home."

Maekar looked up. "No," he said, for no particular reason.

"Yes," Aerion said. "Yes, she is."

He didn't sleep that night, or the night after. He drafted and deleted thirty-seven responses. Too eager. Too cold. Too desperate. Too formal. Too much, always too much, the Targaryen instinct to overwhelm, to consume, to possess.

In the end, at three in the morning on the third night, he wrote:

Tuesday. 2pm. I'll be there. We'll be there. Take all the time you need. I'm still here. I never left.

He sent it, then lay awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling and trying to remember how to breathe.

Tuesday arrived with the kind of crisp, golden weather that made the city look like a postcard. Aerion dressed Maekar in the outfit he'd agonized over for three days, a soft blue sweater that brought out the purple in his eyes, proper trousers, tiny shoes that would probably be kicked off within minutes. He dressed himself with less care, which was to say he changed shirts four times and then put the first one back on.

The café was exactly as he remembered it. Slightly shabby, perpetually understaffed, with scones that could double as hockey pucks. You'd discovered it during your university days, before him, before everything, and you'd brought him here on your third date. I know it's not much, you'd said, but the coffee is good and they don't care if you sit here for hours. He'd taken a bite of a scone and nearly cracked a tooth, and he'd smiled and said it was perfect, and you'd laughed at him, head thrown back, and he'd known in that moment that he was done for.

He arrived at 1:45. The café was nearly empty, just a student with headphones in the corner and an elderly couple sharing a pastry by the window. He ordered a black coffee and a hot chocolate for Maekar, who was strapped into a high chair and trying to grab the sugar packets.

"Those are not toys," Aerion said, detaching a packet from his son's surprisingly strong grip.

"No," Maekar agreed, and grabbed another one.

At 1:58, the door opened.

He knew it was you before he looked up. He felt it, a shift in the air, some gravitational pull he'd been orbiting around for the past nine months. Nine months and thirteen days, to be precise. He'd counted.

You stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the autumn sunlight. You looked different. Not in any dramatic way, your hair was a little shorter, your face a little thinner, the shadows under your eyes a little lighter. But you held yourself straighter, steadier.

Your eyes found him immediately. Then they dropped to the high chair, to the silver-haired toddler who was now chewing on a sugar packet with great concentration.

Your hand went to your mouth. Your shoulders began to shake.

Aerion stood up. He didn't remember deciding to stand up. His legs just moved, carrying him across the café until he was standing in front of you, close enough to touch, not touching, terrified that if he reached out you would vanish like smoke.

"You came," he said. It was the only thing his brain could produce.

"I came," you said. Your voice was hoarse. Your eyes hadn't left Maekar. "Is that...he's so big. He's so big, Aerion. I missed...I missed so much..."

"Hey," Aerion said, and now he did reach out, his hand hovering near your elbow, not quite landing. "Hey. It's okay. You're here now. That's what matters."

You looked at him then, and he watched your face crumple in a way he'd never seen before. You'd always been so controlled, so careful, keeping your cracks hidden behind walls he hadn't known how to scale.

"Is it?" you whispered. "Is it okay? After what I did?"

"We have time," he said. "We have time to talk about all of it. But right now, there's a small person over there who would very much like to meet you. If you're ready. Only if you're ready."

You drew in a shaky breath. Nodded. He let his hand settle on your elbow, and walked with you to the table.

Maekar looked up as you approached. The sugar packet fell from his mouth. His head tilted, the way it always did when he encountered something new and interesting and potentially edible.

"Maekar," Aerion said, his voice rough. "This is your mama."

You knelt down beside the high chair, bringing yourself to eye level. Tears were streaming down your face, but you didn't seem to notice. "Hi," you said, barely a whisper. "Hi, baby. I'm your mom. I'm your mom, and I'm so sorry I was gone. I'm so, so sorry."

Maekar studied you with the intensity of a tiny scientist examining a particularly fascinating specimen. Then, slowly, he held out the soggy sugar packet.

The laugh that burst out of you was half-sob. "Thank you. That's...thank you, that's very generous."

"He's a generous soul," Aerion said. "He also tried to give me a half-eaten cracker this morning. You're in good company."

You looked up at him, and something passed between you. Something fragile and trembling and alive. He wanted to gather you up, to fold you into his arms, to take you home and never let you leave again. But that was the old Aerion, the one who grabbed and held and didn't ask. The new Aerion, the one who had spent nine months and thirteen days learning how to wait, stayed where he was.

"Do you want to hold him?" he asked.

"I don't know if I should," you said. "I don't know if I've earned..."

"It's not about earning," Aerion said. "It's about whether you want to. And if you do, if you're ready, he's right here."

You nodded, a tiny, terrified movement. Aerion unbuckled Maekar from the high chair, lifting him into his arms. The baby, toddler now, he had to stop thinking of him as a baby, immediately grabbed for his watch.

"We've talked about this," Aerion told him. "Not a toy."

"No," Maekar said, with great satisfaction.

"Yes, exactly." Aerion turned to you. "Ready?"

You held out your arms. Your hands were trembling. Aerion settled Maekar against your chest, and you gathered him in with a care that broke something open in his chest, something that had been locked tight for nine months and thirteen days.

"Hi," you breathed, your cheek against the silver-gold hair. "Hi, Maekar. I'm here now. I'm going to stay. I'm going to stay."

Maekar tolerated this for approximately thirty seconds before he began to squirm, reaching back for Aerion. Aerion saw the flash of hurt cross your face, quickly suppressed.

"He does that to everyone," Aerion said. "Yesterday he tried to escape Elena by climbing over her shoulder. We're working on stranger danger, but he seems to have interpreted it as 'strangers are fascinating and I must touch their faces.'"

You laughed, a wet, shaky sound. "He doesn't know me."

"No," Aerion agreed. "Not yet. But he will. If you want. If you're staying." He paused. "Are you staying?"

You settled Maekar on your hip with a naturalness that suggested muscle memory, some instinct that nine months of absence hadn't erased. He squirmed less this time. "I want to. If you'll have me. I know I don't deserve...I know I left, I know I walked out and left you both, and I wouldn't blame you if you hated me..."

"I don't hate you," Aerion said. "I've never hated you. I was scared, and I was angry, and I was so fucking sad I couldn't breathe, but I never hated you. I read the brochure. The one about postpartum depression. I found it in the nursery."

Your face went stony. "You found that."

"I found it. I didn't understand, before. I didn't see how much you were suffering. I kept leaving, kept going on business trips, kept assuming you were fine because you said you were fine. I should have looked closer. I should have asked harder questions. I'm sorry."

"Aerion..."

"Let me finish." He was shaking now too, he realized. "You left because you were drowning, and I didn't throw you a lifeline. I just stood on the shore and offered to buy you a better boat. That's on me. Some of it. Not all of it, I know, but some of it. And I've had nine months to think about it, and I've been working on…on being someone who listens. Someone who stays. I've been here, in the apartment, this whole time. I didn't go back to the estate. I didn't tell my family what happened. I've been waiting. For you. However long it took."

You stared at him. Maekar, sensing the emotional weight of the moment, chose this exact time to grab a fistful of your hair and yank.

"Ow," you said, startled.

"Sorry, he does that too. Here, let me..." Aerion reached out, gently untangling the tiny fingers. For a moment, his hand covered yours, both of them resting against the back of Maekar's head. Your skin was warm, familiar.

"Can we sit down?" you asked, your voice small. "I think I need to sit down."

He ordered more coffee. You didn't touch your scone, which was probably for the best. Aerion told you about the past nine months: the sleepless nights, the first steps, the first word, the first birthday. He told you about the nights he'd sat on the kitchen floor and called your voicemail just to hear your voice. He told you about the email, how it had been a lifeline, how he'd read it so many times the words had worn grooves in his brain.

You listened. You cried, silently, tears tracking down your face and dripping onto the table. When he was finished, you took a deep breath and started talking.

You told him about the clinic, the one from the brochure. You'd gone, once, before you left, but you'd been too scared to walk through the doors. After you disappeared, you'd found another one, in another city, and this time you'd gone in. You'd been diagnosed with severe postpartum anxiety, with a side of PTSD from the traumatic birth. You'd done inpatient treatment. You'd done outpatient treatment. You'd done therapy three times a week, group therapy, medication, the whole brutal, exhausting gauntlet of putting a shattered mind back together.

"I wanted to call," you said, your voice breaking. "Every day. I wanted to call and hear his voice and hear your voice, but I was so ashamed. I'd left my son. I'd left my husband. What kind of person does that? What kind of mother does that?"

"A sick one," Aerion said quietly. "A sick one who needed help. You got help. You're here now. That's what matters."

"That's what my therapist says." You laughed, a hollow sound. "You sound like my therapist."

"I'll take that as a compliment. She sounds like a smart woman."

"She is. She helped me understand why I left. Not just the depression, but…everything. The loss of control. The way my entire identity got swallowed up by being a Targaryen wife and a mother. I didn't know who I was anymore. All my boundaries were gone. My job, my apartment, my body, my time. It all belonged to someone else. And I didn't know how to ask for it back. I just…ran."

Aerion was quiet for a moment. Maekar had fallen asleep against your chest, his face slack and peaceful, one hand still gripping your collar. "Your apartment," he said finally. "The one you kept. I never went there. I don't have a key. But I thought about it a lot. About why you needed it. About what I'd done to make you feel like you needed an escape hatch."

"It wasn't you," you said. "Not just you. It was everything. The whole world telling me that I should be grateful, that I should be happy, that I had everything a woman could want, and I was just…empty. Hollow. I couldn't feel anything except this grinding exhaustion and this terrible fear that I was going to break my son. Hurt him. Not on purpose, but just…through being broken myself. I didn't trust myself. And I couldn't tell you. I couldn't tell anyone. So I left."

"I wish you'd told me."

"I know. Me too. I'm trying to learn how to tell people things now. It's harder than it sounds."

Aerion reached across the table and took your hand. Slowly, carefully, giving you time to pull away. You didn't. "I'm not going to pretend the past nine months didn't happen," he said. "I'm not going to pretend I'm not hurt, or that I'm not scared you'll leave again. But I'm also not going to pretend I don't want you back. I do. I've been half a person since you left. Maekar needs his mother. I need my wife. But I need you to be well more than I need you to be here. Do you understand? If you need more time, take more time. If you need to go slow, we'll go slow. Whatever you need."

"You've gotten better at this," you said, and a ghost of your old smile flickered across your face. "The whole listening thing."

"I've had a lot of time to practice. Maekar is an excellent conversationalist, but his feedback is somewhat limited."

"No," said Maekar, without opening his eyes.

"See? Criticism, but no constructive suggestions."

You laughed, a real laugh this time, and it was the most beautiful sound Aerion had ever heard. He wanted to bottle it. He wanted to wrap himself in it and never let go.

"I missed you," you said. "I missed you so much. Both of you. Every day. Every minute. Even when I couldn't face you, I missed you."

"We missed you too." He squeezed your hand. "We talked about you constantly. Well, I talked. Maekar mostly drooled. But the sentiment was there."

"What did you tell him?"

"Everything. About how we met. About the wedding. About how you wore a suit instead of a dress and my father almost had a coronary. About how you argued with me about financial regulations on our third date and I knew I was going to marry you. About how you're the bravest person I've ever met, because you walked away from everything to save yourself, and that takes more courage than anything I've ever done in a boardroom."

You were crying again. "Aerion."

"I told him his mother loves him. Every day. Even when she couldn't be here. I told him she was getting better, and she was coming back, and when she did, we were going to be a family again. I've been telling him that for nine months. Please don't make me a liar."

You lifted his hand to your lips and kissed his knuckles. Your lips were chapped, and your hand was still trembling, and you were crying and laughing at the same time, and Aerion thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.

"I'm not going anywhere," you said. "I'm going to stay. I'm going to be here. We're going to figure this out. Together. If you'll have me."

"Always," Aerion said. "As long as it takes. However hard it is. I'm not going anywhere either."

They stayed at the café until the sun began to set and the barista started giving them meaningful looks. Maekar woke up, cranky and hungry, and you watched Aerion produce a pouch of apple sauce from the diaper bag with the efficiency of a man who had done this a thousand times.

"You're good at this," you said, a note of wonder in your voice.

"I've had practice. Also, the first time I tried to feed him, I got formula all over the ceiling. I'm still not sure how that happened. Physics-defying. Truly impressive."

"I missed all of that. The messy parts."

"There are plenty of messy parts left. He's entering a throwing phase. Every meal is an adventure. You'll get your chance."

You watched him coax the apple sauce into Maekar's mouth, dodging the grabby hands with the grace of long experience. Your expression shifted, softened.

"I'm scared," you said. "I'm scared I won't be good at this. At being a mother."

"Nobody's good at it at first. I certainly wasn't. I'm still not, half the time. Elenaa has to remind me which end the diaper goes on."

"That's not reassuring."

"It's not meant to be reassuring. It's meant to be true. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to be here. Show up. Try. Fail. Get up and try again. That's what parenting is. That's what marriage is, I think. I didn't understand that before. I thought it was about providing. About fixing things. About being the big important Targaryen who could solve any problem with money and influence. But it's not. It's about showing up. Every day. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

You were quiet for a long moment. Then you said, "Can I come home?"

Aerion looked at you. His wife. His exhausted, trembling, impossibly brave wife, who had walked into the abyss and fought her way back out again.

"The apartment's still there," he said. "I never left. I couldn't. It wouldn't have felt right, going anywhere else. I kept waiting for you."

"You kept it."

"It's ours. It's always been ours, I was just too stupid to realize it."

You reached out and touched his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "You're not stupid."

"I have my moments. This isn't one of them. Come home. Please. Come home."

You nodded, and Aerion felt something crack open in his chest, something that had been frozen solid for nine months and thirteen days, and warmth flooded through him like spring after a long, brutal winter.

"Okay," you said. "Okay. Let's go home."

The apartment looked the same. That was the first thing you noticed, standing in the doorway with Maekar on your hip. The same grey sectional, the same glass coffee table, the same stack of baby books on the end table. But there were differences, too. A play mat spread across the living room floor. A basket of toys in the corner. Pictures on the wall that hadn't been there before: Maekar's newborn photos, his first smile, the two of them at the park, Aerion looking exhausted and proud.

"You redecorated," you said.

"I had a lot of time on my hands. Also, the walls were very bare. It was starting to feel like a hospital waiting room. I needed something to look at during the 3am feedings."

"It looks like a home."

"It is a home. It's been waiting for you to come back to it."

You set Maekar down, and he immediately crawled toward the basket of toys with the single-minded determination of a heat-seeking missile. You watched him go, your face unreadable.

"Where will I sleep?" you asked. "I don't want to assume..."

"The bedroom," Aerion said. "Our bedroom. I've been sleeping in the nursery half the time anyway. Maekar still doesn't sleep through the night consistently, so..."

"No," you said. "No, I mean...I don't want to kick you out. That's not what I'm trying to do. I just...we haven't...it's been so long, and I don't know what we are right now, and I don't want to push..."

Aerion took your hands. "We're married. We're still married. I'm still your husband. You're still my wife. That hasn't changed. Nothing fundamental has changed. We've both been through hell, and we're both still standing, and we're going to figure out the rest of it. But you are not a guest in your own home. You are not sleeping on the couch. You are going to sleep in our bed, and I am going to sleep next to you, whether or not clothes are involved or anything happens at all. Because we've had nine months of sleeping apart, and I am not spending one more night without you next to me."

You stared at him. "That was very romantic. Also slightly intense."

"I'm a Targaryen. We don't do anything by halves."

You laughed, and then you were crying again, and then you were in his arms, and he was holding you, for the first time in nine months and thirteen days. You felt smaller than he remembered. More fragile. But also more solid, more real, more present than you'd been in the months before you left.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"I know. I'm sorry too. We're both sorry. Now we can stop being sorry and start being here. Together. That's the deal. That's the whole deal."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your face blotchy and tear-streaked and beautiful. "I love you. I never stopped loving you. Even when I couldn't be here, I loved you."

"I know," he said. "I've always known. Come on. Let's order dinner. You must be hungry, and I have approximately three edible things in the refrigerator."

"That bad?"

"I've gotten better at cooking, but I'm still not good. Baby food is easier. Maekar doesn't know the difference between puréed carrots and puréed sweet potatoes. I could probably feed him either and he'd just..."

"No," said Maekar, who had found a stuffed dragon and was attempting to remove its wings.

"Exactly," Aerion said. "No complaints from the peanut gallery."

The first night was strange. He ordered Thai food, and you ate like someone who had forgotten what food tasted like, closing your eyes at the first bite of pad thai. Aerion gave Maekar his bath, narrating the process for your benefit: "this is the part where he tries to drink the bathwater, I recommend discouraging it", and you watched from the doorway, learning the bedtime routine you'd missed.

After Maekar was asleep, you sat on the couch together, not quite touching, a careful foot of space between. The television was on, some mindless reality show, but neither of you were watching it.

"Can I ask you something?" you said.

"Anything."

"Did you think about giving up? On me? On us?"

Aerion considered the question. It deserved an honest answer. "I thought about it. In the beginning, especially. I was angry. I was hurt. I didn't understand why you'd left, and the not knowing was worse than anything. But every time I thought about filing papers, about making it official, I couldn't do it. Because that would mean admitting you weren't coming back. And I wasn't ready to do that. Now I'm glad I didn't. Now you're here. Now we're going to be okay."

"You sound so sure."

"I'm not sure at all," Aerion said. "I'm terrified. I'm terrified I'm going to mess this up, that I'm going to fall back into old patterns, that I'm going to miss the signs again. But I'm also hopeful. Because you're here, and you're getting help, and I've been working on myself too, I've been reading books, actual books, about postpartum depression and communication and how to be a supportive partner, and I think we can do this. Together. Properly, this time."

"You've been reading books?"

"Shocking, I know. I had to order them online. I don't think the Targaryen library has a section on maternal mental health."

You leaned over and rested your head on his shoulder. It was such a small gesture, so achingly normal that Aerion's breath caught in his throat.

"Thank you," you said. "For waiting. For not giving up. For being here."

"Thank you for coming back."

Eventually, you fell asleep against his shoulder, your breathing slow and even. Aerion didn't move. He was too afraid of waking you, of breaking the spell, of losing this moment.

When he finally carried you to bed, you barely stirred, mumbling something incomprehensible and burrowing into the pillows. He lay next to you in the dark, listening to you breathe. Maekar made a small sound through the baby monitor, a dream-sound, and then went quiet again.

His family. His whole family. Under one roof, for the first time in nine months and thirteen days.

He didn't sleep for a long time. He was too busy being grateful.

The weeks that followed were not a fairy tale. Nothing was magically fixed. You still had bad days, days when you couldn't get out of bed, days when you looked at Maekar and felt nothing but that hollow, terrifying emptiness. But now you told Aerion when it happened. Now he sat with you, brought you tea, took over childcare without being asked. Now you had a therapist in the city who you saw twice a week, and a psychiatrist who adjusted your medication, and a support group full of other mothers who had been through the same darkness.

Aerion went with you to some of your appointments, at your invitation. He sat in the waiting room and read outdated magazines and thought about how many ways he had failed you before, and how many ways he was trying to do better now.

He cut back his hours at work. He delegated. He refused business trips unless they were absolutely essential, and even then, he called every night. He stopped trying to fix things and started trying to listen. It was harder than any hostile takeover he'd ever executed, but it was also more important.

Slowly, painstakingly, you rebuilt. Your relationship with Maekar was the hardest part. He was a toddler now, with strong opinions and stronger preferences, and his preference was firmly for Aerion. You took it with a grace that broke Aerion's heart a little.

"He doesn't know me yet," you said one night, after Maekar had screamed for twenty minutes rather than let you put him to bed. "It's okay. We have time. I'll earn his trust back."

"You don't have to earn it," Aerion said. "You're his mother."

"I'm a stranger who looks like his mother. There's a difference. But I'll keep showing up. That's what you said, right? Show up. Try. Fail. Get up and try again."

"I'm very wise sometimes. It's a burden."

You laughed. You were laughing more now. It was still tentative, still fragile, but it was there. A flame that had almost gone out, carefully nursed back to life.

The breakthrough came on a rainy Sunday afternoon, two months after you'd come home.

Aerion was in the kitchen, attempting to make pancakes, when he heard a sound from the living room that made him freeze. It was Maekar, laughing. Not his usual giggle, the one he gave when Aerion made funny faces or blew raspberries on his stomach. This was a deep, belly-shaking laugh.

Aerion crept to the doorway and looked in.

You were on the floor, cross-legged, and Maekar was in your lap. You were playing some kind of game, pat-a-cake, maybe, or something like it, and every time you clapped your hands together, Maekar shrieked with joy and grabbed at your fingers.

"Again?" you said, and he nodded vigorously. "Again. Okay, again."

You clapped. He laughed. His whole face was lit up, his purple eyes bright, his mouth wide open. He looked at you the way he looked at Aerion, with complete trust, complete delight, complete love.

Aerion stood in the doorway and watched, his heart painfully full. You looked up and saw him. Your face was wet with tears, but you were smiling. "He laughed," you said. "He really laughed. At me. With me."

"I saw," Aerion said. His voice was hoarse. "I saw."

You held out a hand toward him, and he came and sat beside you on the floor, close enough that your shoulders touched. Maekar looked between the two of you, and then he grabbed one of Aerion's fingers and one of yours and tried to put them both in his mouth at the same time.

"Coordinated assault," Aerion said. "He's getting smarter."

"He gets it from me," you said.

"Undoubtedly."

You leaned your head against his shoulder, and the three of you sat there on the living room floor, the pancakes left unbaked in the kitchen, the rain drumming against the windows, a family.

Not a perfect family. Not an unbroken family. But a family nonetheless.

That night, after Maekar was asleep, you sat on the couch with Aerion, your legs draped over his lap. This had become a ritual, this quiet time after the baby was down, when you could just be two people instead of two parents.

"I want to show you something," you said.

"What is it?"

You handed him your phone. On the screen was an email, professional, with a letterhead from a company he didn't recognize. It took him a moment to parse what he was reading, and then his eyebrows shot up.

"A job offer?"

"A consulting project," you said. "Remote work. Part-time to start. Fintech. They liked my resume, and they were willing to work around...around everything. My schedule. My needs. I've been looking for months. They're the first ones to agree."

"Darling, that's wonderful." He meant it. He meant it with every fiber of his being.

"I'm scared," you admitted. "It's been so long since I worked. What if I've forgotten how? What if I can't handle it? What if it's too much, with Maekar and therapy and everything else?"

"Then you quit," Aerion said simply. "Or you scale back. Or you adjust. It's not all or nothing. It doesn't have to be all or nothing."

"Since when do you understand nuance?"

"I've been practicing. I'm very proud of myself."

You laughed. It was becoming easier to make you laugh. "I want to try. I want to have something that's mine again. Something I built. Not because I don't love you and Maekar, but because..."

"Because you need to be your own person," Aerion finished. "I know. I understand. Probably better now than I did before. Take the job. Take it, and if it doesn't work out, we'll figure something else out. But you should have something that's yours. You've always needed that."

You looked at him for a long moment. Then you kissed him, softly, gently, a kiss that tasted like tears and the faintest hint of hope.

"I love you," you said.

"I love you too," he said. "More than I know how to say."

"You're saying it just fine."

"I'm trying. That's the whole secret. I'm just trying."

You curled against him, your head on his chest, and Aerion wrapped his arms around you and held on. Not too tight, not grasping. Just holding, just being. That was the whole deal.

a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

Taglist: @samthegreenapologist @eggthefifth @jkslvsnella @mckaylarkendra5608 @br0ke-b1tch @andmyannabellee @bababsthings @smurfellereadscomics

[targlocket]

THE SEA SHALL NOT HAVE ME, FOR I AM ALREADY YOURS

jacaerys velaryon x wife!reader

cw: hotd season 3 spoilers, fix-it fic!, heavy angst, hurt/BIG comfort, fluff so much fluff, mention of violence, mourning but no death, yearning, kissing, jacaerys loves his wife more than anything, (3.8kw).

synopsis: He promised. To you, to himself, right before giving the order. "I will come back to you," Jacaerys whispered, pressing warm lips to wood, as if sealing his silent vow through the door.

a/n: mama will hold ur hand through this. it'll ALL be okay! bawled my eyes out at this but god i needed it. translations for the high valyrian used at the end!

He had never felt so cold before.

A chill seeping into the marrow of his bones and encrusting muscle and tissue, making it hard to move; to breathe.

His eyes battled the shroud of darkness, yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t halt the certainty, which in that instant appeared like his end. Not slumber, not unconsciousness, but his demise’s unyielding grip curled around him like a serpent and squeezed until it wrung every bit of life out of him.

Jacaerys felt the bite of the arrows like a brand, pulsing like another denominator of what was to come, to swallow him whole. One in his neck, one near his heart, and others in places he couldn’t name, but remembered your hands and mouth touching countless times before.

The Gods were cruel to punish him right where your sweetness had been, where your love had touched and imprinted itself onto him, now stained by sharp steel and blood.

He hopes you’ll have it in your heart to forgive him, for he cannot do so for himself. The more the world feels like a distant memory, the more his heart aches, its beating slowing, as if trying to mimic the syllables of your name one last time before it inevitably stops. One last call out to you, willing to see if you would answer, even if he knows that to be impossible.

Would you cry, he wonders, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. Would you curse him? Would you hate him? Would you damn every moment you’ve spent together, turning it into poison and ash?

Jacaerys would not fault you if you did, but his chest feels hollow at the prospect of causing such vile emotions to bloom in your tender heart, most of all towards him.

You are his most precious jewel, and losing his life is one thing, but knowing that means losing you as well? It tears at him more than those arrows have.

He thinks of his mother, who was so delighted knowing he had found someone to love, and someone to be loved by in return, truthfully and wholeheartedly. You two were meant to have a Valyrian wedding in a few moons, as it is custom, and he had been ardently awaiting to see how beautiful you would look in traditional garments. Trying to imagine it now, just as he had many times before, feels like another arrow aimed straight at his heart, plunging deep. Now, he will never get to teach you how to recite the vows in High Valyrian, won’t get to see the sparkle of joy in your eyes when you’re face to face, exchanging them, binding your destinies together for all eternity, even in death.

Death. Jacaerys supposes that if he dies without binding his soul to yours before his ancestors, he won’t have any pieces of himself that he knows will certainly be kept in the sanctity of your heart.

But maybe it is better this way, for you will not have to carry such a heavy burden ensnared in the crevices of your chest, reminding you of all you’ve lost; of all he’s made you lose.

It might seem callous of him to think so, but the thought of you mourning him brings warmth to his veins, even through the chill of the sea. Knowing you have loved him enough to let tears fall from those pretty eyes of yours makes the inevitable hurt a little less.

Someone had cared for him and felt strongly enough to weep at his departure. That, in itself, is a gift. One of the many you had given him. You yourself have been the greatest one, blessing his days and easing his worries with nothing but a look, a word, a kiss. It had come like breathing to you, and he had never felt like he was out of air until now.

The sea is seldom merciful, and no matter how much he tries to beg the Gods to spare him, Jacaerys knows this time it might be in vain.

But how can he not beg? How can he not plead? If not with his voice, then with the remaining beatings of his heart, with the last vestiges of the memories he has of you.

He wishes he would’ve said I love you more often, for it seems like he had been scarce in his vocalization of it. Now, every day doesn’t feel like enough, because no matter how hard he tries, his throat is clogged with water and the words he means to say, if only for the last time. He would’ve hoped it enough to ease the grievances he knows you would feel upon hearing of his demise.

Jacaerys wonders if you would eventually surrender yourself to another. If there would come a day where another man would sweep you off your feet, chipping away at all the parts of Jace burrowed deep in your flesh and blood. The thought makes him want to weep. You forgetting him, replacing the memories you have of him with those of another, as if painting anew on an old canvas one has no use of anymore.

If his promise would’ve rung true, Jace would be by your side now, celebrating the victory at the Gullet, hugging his mother, then you so tight it would’ve knocked the air out of you both. He would’ve twirled you around while laughing, leaning in to press a multitude of kisses onto every patch of skin he could reach, knowing it’ll make you laugh, cheeks flushed, looking at him like he’s your whole world.

May that be the last thing he wishes for before the sea takes him. May your face be the last thing on his mind before there is nothing but darkness, engulfing every bit of light that was you. May he always remember you, even when buried beneath the sea and the sand, wishing for nothing than to hear your voice saying his name one last time, your gaze softening upon looking at him, and maybe, if the Gods allow him one last mercy, the feel of your soft lips upon his own.

He knows he is not worthy, for if he were, Jacaerys would’ve held onto his promise to come back to you, to his mother, to the Realm. But he couldn’t. The Gods were ever cruel and took from him the very essence of his being, cursed to wait for his impending doom.

And wait, he had. Was it another punishment to still feel like he was hanging on but never sinking deep enough? To will him to replay every single memory of you and imagine thousands of others? To feel so close but so far away from the object of all his affections and desires?

Jacaerys would know you anywhere, he thinks. Even blind, hard of hearing, or sinking into nothingness, he would not fail to know you are close.

So why does it feel like you are? Is this another cruel trick before the ancestors welcome him to them? He swears he can feel the soft lilt of your voice somewhere in his vicinity, and it makes him want to move, to lean towards it and taste it. Make sure it’s real.

Please let it be real. To the Old Gods and the New, let it be real. Don’t dangle such hope in front of him only to take it away, for it would feel like getting speared with arrows again and again and—

“I shall watch him,” your voice sounded, just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, but also tired, croaky at the edges. What had happened? Why were you — “You need rest, my queen. Let me, for now.”

My Queen? Mother?

The sounds were a bit muted, but he could hear footsteps, then the creaking hinges of a door, followed by a thud.

A long, hitched sigh followed, the one people do when they try not to let it show they were hurting, right before the tears inevitably fall.

Were you crying? He couldn’t bear when you were. That pretty face he loved so much, marred by tears, undid him every time.

Jacaerys had to see, had to make sure you were okay, that nothing had befallen you too, that the Gods had been merciful to an angel such as you.

He was struggling. His body was not responding the way it should, barely able to feel his hands and feet properly. But that didn’t matter now, for he only needed his eyes to will open so he could glimpse you, even if it was all a cruel fiction of his imagination, probably allowing him one more wish before taking him to the depths forever.

Please.

Please let him see his wife. His lady. His love.

Please.

One last time is all he asks.

If the Gods had ever looked down upon him and smiled, let them look down and smile once more. Grant him this one mercy. Just this once. Only this once.

He knows he’s begging, but what is there to do other than implore with all the strength left in him for one last look at you? In case he is to meet his end soon, let the sight of you be what he goes down feasting upon.

Blessed be The Mother, for I beg for one last mercy, for I shall gaze upon the one I hold most dear before my death and meet my end with a settled heart—

Jacaerys wonders if you are wearing one of your soft gowns, the ones he loves most, for you look like a Fae from the library tomes you so love. Would you still wear the necklace he had given you, or have you thrown it away in a fit of grief and anger because of his recklessness? He wouldn’t fault you for it. Just wished he could give you another to atone for his many sins, for how much sorrow he must’ve brought you.

But he is wrong.

You are wearing the pendant. Your fingers are wrapped around it, settled at the base of your throat, holding so tight your hand shakes, lips pressed to it, murmuring to yourself, eyes closed in prayer.

Are you praying for him to come back to you, just as he was? The thought makes warmth bloom beneath his ribs, licking upwards towards his chest, weaving until it finds his heart, willing it to beat faster. Even so close to dying, he supposes, you still manage to affect him just the same.

If this is but a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Because standing here, looking at you, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, brings him more peace than any prayer he could’ve uttered. You are so pretty. His pretty girl. Always, always so very pretty. Even now, looking worn out, expression pinched, and hands shaking.

He wants to see your eyes, at least once, before he can't do so again.

"M-may you look at me, my love? For I want to—"

Jacaerys is startled from finishing his sentence by the loud gasp you let out, body jumping beside him, startled and alert, like a doe sensing hunters on its tail. Your eyes are so, so wide with disbelief, watching him with the sort of bewilderment one would when seeing a creature unknown or some oddity come to life. Why were you looking at him like that? If this were but a dream, then why—

"Jace," you whisper, shaky and soft, like a petal swept by the wind, hands trembling so hard the pendant slips through your fingers. "Jace," he hears you repeat, as if the sound of his name in your mouth is something foreign you have to taste again. "Gods, Jace!" Your voice cracks along the syllables of his name, before moving closer, gazing at him with those pretty eyes he near plead to see, now teary and wide, sweeping over him as if checking to see if he's whole. He knows he isn't, for the battle must've left him with more than grievances and a hollowness in his chest that could only be filled if he still had a chance to live.

Your movements are shaky and hesitant, wanting to reach for him but shackled by a fear he does not know yet. Why won't you touch him? He can tell you want nothing more than to feel him beneath your palms, and yet you waver. Why? If this is to be the last mercy before his death, why is he imagining his beloved faltering instead of pressing close, so close and grasping at him like the air one needs to breathe?

Jacaerys tries to lift a hand, grimacing when his body again does not count him as its master, and makes it hard to move properly, feeling a sharp pain lance through his forearm, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. One to which you react instantly, shaking your head as you plead with him not to move, cradling his hand between both of yours, letting Jace feel the softness of your skin again. "No, no, my love, do not move," you sniffle, blinking back those stubborn tears lining your pretty eyelashes. "Please, you must rest. The Maesters said you are not to tire yourself any further."

The Maesters? What ever could you mean?

Blinking his eyes rapidly to dwindle the fog clinging to his vision, Jacaerys's breath catches when your own room comes into view, surrounding both of you. He supposes his imagination could not help but want to remember you in the place where you felt most at ease, the one where you shared your first kiss, first bedding, and many, many other milestones that now feel like a vice around his heart, squeezing tight. Will this be the last time he gets to pine for what once was and for what could never be again?

"H-how do you feel?" Your voice shakes again, snapping him out of his reverie, gaze finding its way back to yours, feeling himself melt just at the sight of you anew. Gods, you couldn't be more gorgeous. "You had been asleep for half of a fortnight. We didn't know if you would ever wake—"

And oh, his heart shatters into pieces when your words trail off into hiccuped sobs, soft chin wobbling, not being able to hold the weight of your grief and sorrow. His sweet wife was crying beside him because of his own foolishness, and there was no punishment severe enough for his transgressions. He could be put to the sword, and it would never erase the guilt in his chest at making you shed even a tear.

It takes him but a few moments to rear his mind from blame to the words you spoke, eyes widening in bewilderment as he registers the information you bestowed upon him. "Asleep?"

His voice is rough and unpolished from disuse, and he's watching you like you brought both salvation and perdition to his door.

But you only nod, squeezing his hand tighter, bringing it up to your mouth to press warm lips upon his skin, feverish and lingering, before cradling the back of his hand against your tear-streaked, warm cheek. "Yes, my love," you confirm, tone lightening with pure relief. "The Gods were watching over you, breathing life into you anew, just like we prayed for."

Breathing life back into you.

Does that mean—

But he cannot hope yet. What if this is nothing but another trickery? The cruelest way to tear his heart asunder by making him believe he escaped from the unforgiving claws of the sea and is now granted another chance at spending a lifetime with you?

Jacaerys can feel a lump form in his throat, near choking him, his lashes dampening rapidly. "Do not forsake me, please," he pleads, willing his hand to clutch at your fingers again, with what little strength he has. "I cannot bear knowing this is but a dream." It is hard to speak as his chest heaves, blubbering like a child as he begs for a miracle from you, who he now hopes is all flesh and bones and not smoke and ash in front of him.

Your expression pinches, studying him carefully, as you so often used to do with your tomes and books in the low candlelight before bed, thumbing each page as you uncovered the secrets written through the dried ink. He feels like one now, as your eyes narrow, before those soft lips part in a round shape, understanding dawning on you.

"Oh, my sweet prince," you whisper, voice damp from your tears, but then the sweetest sound of all accompanies the wetness of your eyes.

A laugh.

Amidst all this confusion, all this befuddling turmoil between dream and reality, you laugh as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and your mouth dared to form the shape of happiness again.

You turn your head to press a fervent kiss to his hand before moving closer, cradling his face between your palms. Thumbs soften the traces of tears onto his own pale cheeks from being under slumber for so long, willing to see a flush to them soon. "I am flesh and bone, not a mere mirage," you assure, another soft, disbelieving laugh tinkling between you, as if the mere thought of him believing this to be a play of the mind is ridiculous. "The Gods brought you back to me, just as I wished for, my love."

Gods, he thought he'll never get to hear that sound fall from your lips again. It makes his vision blur with tears, lips trembling as he chokes back from babbling again like a babe, but eager to quiet the ghosts of his mind that insist this is a delusion.

"P-prove it to me," he hiccups wetly, no longer preoccupied with how weak he must look, nothing like a prince and all like a man at the end of his hope, begging you to pull him towards salvation. "Please, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," his tongue wraps around the endearment like it never forgot it, full of longing and desperation. "Show me I still have you, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you again—"

He feels his heart breaking and mending itself back together over and over, waiting for you to grant him this one certainty in his hopelessness.

And Gods, you do.

Your lips are on his before he can blubber another supplication, palms tilting him the way you want to as you slot your mouths together so, so tenderly, like two wings of a butterfly touching while they flutter.

He feels it. He tastes it. Your tears, his tears, your promise, his desperation.

Jacaerys wishes he were stronger, for his body is weakened by the tragedy that befell him, not being able to grasp you as fiercely as he would if his limbs had not forsaken him. He can only will his fingers to brush against the folds of your skirts onto the bed, curling into the material until his hand shakes with the ardent want of closeness; of wanting to do more but being cursed into only hoping.

"You have me," you whisper against his mouth, branding the truth on his lips as you continue kissing him. He can feel you smiling into it, and it is unbecoming of him how that only makes him weep harder, his own tears trailing down your cheeks and chin now, too, from how close your faces are pressed together, smushed in your eagerness to prove what he so feared was nothing but a cruel twist of his mind. "And I have you, dārilaros ñuha."

Gods, your tongue tangles around the words so clumsily, no matter how many times he had patiently taught you the right way before, and still, he would never trade it for the world. Jacaerys wants to hear it a thousand times more, and then tenfold that, for the rest of his days.

He's overwhelmed. All the hopelessness he felt before, thinking he would never get to hear the sound of your voice, taste the sweetness of your lips, feel the warmth of your love. And now you are offering him all of those and more, and he feels like he cannot breathe if you dare stop for even a moment.

"Avy jorrāelan, " he sobs, trembling lips barely able to return the soft kisses you so kindly confer to him still. "Avy jorrāelan. Always," the words tumble from his mouth, choked and utterly devout. "Not a moment went by when I did not plead with the Gods to bring me back to you. I curse the sea for trying to wrench me from your side. For its greed and its cruelty, for—"

But you silence him with a firmer press of lips, swallowing the last of his blubbering with the sweetness of your mouth, tasting salt and love and life. You exhale shakily, drawing back so your gazes meet, lips brushing, leaning to nuzzle your noses together as you whisper, voice fervent with conviction. "No more talk of misfortune," you say, nudging his cheek in reprimand with the tip of your nose. "Let me rejoice in having you again."

Jacaerys had always been weak to your whims, never one to deny you anything, least of all when spoken with such longing, such relief, bodies close and shaking with lingering grief and solace alike.

He nods, gathering strength enough to nuzzle you back, eyes fluttering at the feeling, to which you shakily let out another one of those honeyed laughs as you whisper. "But do not think I shall forgive you for trapping me in mine own chambers before rushing to battle with such recklessness."

Oh.

In the midst of all this, he forgot the events that led him to this whole predicament. Closing his mother's door, then yours, vowing to come back in the end, no matter the cost.

"But I have—"

"Coming back in such a state is hardly enough for me to count this as you honoring your vow," you say, eyes narrowing, even teary and full of adoration as they were. And he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything, but the fullness of his chest as it filled with so much love for you, it damn near burst open. "We shall discuss more of this when you've healed properly."

"Yes, my lady," he whispers, having the gall to look a bit sheepish, but alas, a small smile curls at his lips, the normalcy of your reprimand willing his senses into solace.

You harrumph, trying to show displeasure, but he knows there is too much relief blooming between you two now, softening even this attempt at being stern.

He makes an effort to tilt his chin up until his lips brush your tear-streaked, warm cheek, kissing it softly, not moving for a very, very long time.

"I'm sorry," is pressed against the damp skin, and he knows it'll take time and an exuberant amount of grovelling to will you to forgive him, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

Now that he has escaped death's grasp, he has a lifetime ahead of him to try to gain your favour.

And Gods, what a fortunate way to live out the rest of his days.

tag list: @silkaurum @oldtowrs @mademoisellepetite @dreamgirlevill @0nlybitt3r4may @rhaenyras-crown @ghostlybfgf @pinkdoeweirdo

ñuha jorrāeliarzy — my love

dārilaros ñuha — my prince

Avy jorrāelan — i love you

[byjove]

pride month is almost over I would just like to say happy pride to boring LGBTQ people in particular. everyone expects us to be brilliant creatives and scientists and interior decorators and quirky professors and tortured artists but some of us wear nothing but Kirkland Signature clothing and watch Friends and The Office and are incapable of having an interesting conversation and that is okay. our diversity is our strength.

[treefey]

"I want my media to be historically accurate"

Cool, so you want natural fiber costumes with no/nuanced corset slander, people wearing colors, historical hairstyles, people wearing hats or headcoverings and long sleeves outside during the day, no potatoes or pumpkins in pre-columbian Europe, actors with textured skin and wrinkles, minimal makeup, consulting HEMA groups and weapons scholars for all the weapons and fight scenes, a good soundtrack that includes traditional instruments?

Oh, you mean you want 100% white people. Even in crowd scenes in port cities. There's a different word for that.

[binchidavinci]

Escaped Convict

(Courtland Gentry x reader)

‘Convicted murderer Courtland Gentry escapes from the nearby state penitentiary and turns up at your house, pleading for help.’

The late-night news droned on in the background as you dozed off on your couch; you barely registered the anchor’s urgent tone in your half-sleep state. "...still searching for convicted three-time murderer and juvenile offender Courtland Gentry, considered dangerous and likely armed." You cracked one eye open: an image of a broad man clad in a blue jumpsuit appeared in the top right of the screen. He had down-turned blue eyes— one swollen shut with a bruise from his apparently violent arrest the previous year— and a weathered face that looked neither smug nor regretful. You let your eyes shut again as the solemn reporter continued. "Gentry broke free during a transfer earlier today. If you see him, do not approach; contact police immediately. On to weather, we can expect sunshine starting from Wednesday...”

You must have drifted off somewhere between the weather and the next story, the 2 a.m. TV's glow flickering across your sleeping face. It couldn't have been twenty minutes later when a scrape coming from the kitchen woke you; your eyes flew open and you sat up with a jolt. You lived alone, and could not imagine what kind of an animal could have slid open your kitchen window. As you stared wide-eyed over the back of the sofa, knuckles gripping the fabric in disbelief, you watched in horror as a figure pulled himself hastily through the frame. He pulled himself to his feet, clutching his side, and you locked eyes: prison-cropped hair and stubbly, it was the man from the TV. 'Convicted three-time murderer' Courtland Gentry looked as surprised to see you as you were him. Before you could draw breath to scream, he was crossing the room in a panic; a large, calloused hand clamped over your mouth, the other pinning your shoulder back against the cushions firmly as he reached over the back of the sofa. Your muffled shout vibrated against his palm. “Listen to me," he whispered, voice low and calm like he was trying to sound as non-threatening as a fugitive could. "I’m not going to hurt you, but you need to be quiet." His face was inches from yours, sharp blue eyes staring down at you expectantly, a smear of blood along his jaw visible in the TV's blue glow. “Do you understand?”

You froze, trying to recall advice for what to do in such an event: all you could think was to cooperate and give him whatever he wanted to try and stay alive. As you nodded frantically, your gaze drifted to the dark stain spreading across the side of his shirt: fresh blood. He sighed in relief and removed his hand from your shoulder, placing it against his bleeding torso and wincing as he pressed down on what was an obviously grievous wound. "I need your help,” he nodded down to his side, grimacing. “Got shot on the way out. Don't think it's life-threatening, but I can’t keep moving like this. So," he continued, "bandages, first-aid kit... got any?" Again, you nodded frantically, eyes gesturing over to your bathroom. He turned his head and nodded once in silent understanding, then paused, hand still over your mouth. You could feel the tremor in his fingers as he spoke. “I just need somewhere to lay low a couple hours, then I’ll be gone.” His eyes searched yours, intense and surprisingly calm given the situation. “You have my word. Now, if I let go, are you going to scream?” He waited, watching you carefully with raised eyebrows.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. A dangerous convict was in your flat, bleeding on your furniture, and yet you found yourself shaking your head no and believing it. He looked like a man who had run out of options as you stared up at him. His blue eyes were sharp but exhausted, pain etching deep lines around them. After a long, terrifying second he carefully lifted his hand from your mouth, ready to clamp it back down if you screamed. You didn’t; the only sound was some midnight TV segment chuntering on in the background. “Good,” he murmured, voice rough with relief. “Thank you.” He eased back just enough to give you space to sit up. “I— I have a first aid kit,” you whispered, scared to speak too loudly, "but it's in the bathroom." Your hands trembled as you pointed behind him to the bathroom. Courtland watched you carefully, like an uneasy dog. "Alright. I can work with that."

Shell-shocked and in a daze, you returned clumsily to the living-room with the first-aid kit. Courtland had lowered himself onto the couch and turned on a small lamp next to the sofa, wincing as he peeled his shirt up and off. The sight of his bare torso as you approached from behind— lean muscle, old scars— made your stomach twist; nonetheless, you kneeled in front of him, placing the box on the table and carefully prying the latch open. You looked up at him for permission to move closer, and, when he nodded, you slowly crept forward, squinting at his abdomen; up close, the gash was ugly and deep, much worse than the odd graze you had ever treated. You wondered whether this twenty-year-old, dusty, household first-aid kit would be up to fixing a bullet-wound, but Courtland interrupted your spiralling doubts. "This isn't my first rodeo," he gestured to his scar-addled torso. "If I could reach it, I would do this myself, but I can't, so I'm going to talk you through it, ok? Just need to do what I say." It was comical that he was trying to reassure you when he was the one sporting a bullet-wound. Your eyes darted between his and the bullet hole: this man was dying and you had nothing more than a girl-scout first aid kit to retrieve the bullet, sterilise and pack the wound. Still, you nodded, resigned to cooperating. "Okay. Clean the tweezers." You obeyed, trembling hands ripping open the plastic of the individually packed anti-septic wipe and shakily wiping down the tweezers. Courtland peered down at you as you worked. "Now pull bullet out." He said it like it was just another instruction in a recipe: you clenched your jaw and moved closer, tentatively placing one hand on his torso to peer into the wound. “I'm sorry,” you mumbled, an advance apology for the pain you were about to cause. He let out a humourless huff, gritting his teeth. “Just do it.”

And so you did: he squeezed eyes shut, save to look down a few times to direct you, and grit his jaw as you finally pried the bullet from the wound. Your stomach churned as you dropped the bloody metal onto the coffee table. "Good," Courtland affirmed. "Now we need to clean and pack it."

You cleaned the gash as gently as you could; he tensed under your hands, jaw clenched tight, but stayed perfectly still. A low groan escaped him when the antiseptic hit the raw flesh. “Easy… easy,” he breathed, eyes half-closed. One of his hands came to rest lightly on your shoulder— not restraining, just steadying himself. His palm was warm and rough. “You’re doing good."

The closeness was overwhelming. His scent— sweat, blood, and adrenaline— filled the small space between you with heat. Every time your fingers brushed his skin, you felt goosebumps rise.

After five minutes of silence, you found yourself a little bolder; you'd pulled a bullet from his side: you felt you were owed an explanation. “Why my place?” you prompted softly as you packed gauze into the hole. Courtland replied immediately, as though he were listing off attributes of a safehouse. You had an inkling he was not your average con. “Lights were off. Ground floor. Looked… safe.” His thumb brushed absently against your shoulder. “Didn’t expect anyone to be home, let alone someone like you—” he hissed suddenly as you hit a tender spot. “M'sorry," you muttered. "'Someone like me'?” He looked down at you, eyes intense through the discomfort. “Kind.” You didn’t answer. Instead you focused on taping the bandage securely, wrapping it around his lean waist. Your hands kept brushing the hard planes of his abdomen, and you tried to ignore the way your pulse jumped every time.

When you finished, you sat back on your heels. Courtland tested the wrapping with a careful breath, then reached out and took your now-bloodied hand. “Thank you,” he said, sincerity cutting through the rough edge of his voice. “I meant what I said, by the way. I’ll disappear in a few hours. Won't come back again." His thumb stroked once along your knuckles before he let go. You peered down at your hands, conflicted. "But what now?” you whispered, still perched on the floor in front of him. Courtland leaned his head back against the couch, eyes sliding shut for a moment before he spoke. “Now… you wash the blood off your hands, go to bed, and decide whether you’re going to turn me in tomorrow morning.” He cracked one eye open, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. You found yourself fighting back a smile of your own.

[rockyhatemark]

sunday blues (lars lindstrom x f!reader) summary: lars meets a new face at church and becomes attached to her and her unborn son wc: 5.9k cw: pregnancy, talks of domestic abuse, use of (y/n) a/n: this idea was born the second I finished watching the movie for the first time! took me long enough to actually write it down :’)

It wasn’t very often that Lars saw new people at church.

Living in a small town where not many people passed through, church goers were mostly regulars- people who’d lived in the town their whole lives and planned on staying.

So seeing a new head a few pews in front of him immediately caught his eye. 

He didn’t think much about church visitors, since most that did come were usually family members of the regulars. They would sit with their relatives and were gone the next week.

However this new face- or new head he supposed, since he couldn’t see their face- sat alone. 

The woman, whose shoulders were bundled in a green sweater, sat quietly. She didn’t talk to anyone, just observed the slow trickle of people shuffling to their seats. Maybe she was waiting for someone to show up?

As the minutes ticked by and she continued to sit alone, Lars wondered if she was just passing through and wanted to stop and attend a quick sermon before she continued on her way.

When the priest got up to stand behind the pulpit, Lars stopped worrying about the lonely stranger and turned his attention to the homily.

He didn’t get a chance to see what happened to her after that, hurrying out of the chapel once the service was over to rush home. Karin and Gus were going out for lunch and they needed someone to watch their daughter. Lars was happy to say yes, caring greatly for his little niece. He still wasn’t quite confident in his abilities as an uncle but he didn’t feel pressured to be perfect around her so he had no issues babysitting.

Lars forgot all about the stranger until he saw her again the next Sunday in the same spot, still alone. He didn’t make any move to go sit with her- he wasn’t the ‘go up to a person you don’t know and get to know them’ type of guy- but he paid a little more attention to her through the hour.

She seemed content there by herself, if Lars read the back of her head right. Most people he observed alone would fidget, feeling awkward and out of place by themselves, usually finding a pew to sit on with others already occupying it and striking up a conversation. It was just a human thing, Dagmar told him once. Lars couldn’t really relate. While he was starting to enjoy the company of others, he didn’t feel awkward sitting in church alone. It was peaceful. Maybe this stranger felt the same.

Once the service was over and the congregation began walking out, Lars hung back a little longer than normal. He watched quietly as groups of neighbors walked down the center aisle towards the door, offering him a smile or a ‘good morning’, which he would return with a tight smile of his own and a nod.

The stranger also took her time, not seeming to be in any rush to get home or to whatever she did after church, standing only after more than half of the crowd had left. A coat that had been draped over her lap appeared in her hands and she carefully pulled her arms through the sleeves.

Lars averted his eyes when she shuffled out of the pew to leave, not wanting her to think he was some sort of creep when she turned around to leave the church.

He expected her to walk right past him, to not acknowledge that she even knew he was there. Most visitors did. But when she came to a stop next to the pew he sat in, Lars lifted his eyes from the floor.

Pretty, was his first thought. Bright eyes, soft smile, nice face. She looked around his age. It was rare to see a younger new face in town. Her coat was large, almost hanging over her knees and kept in place around her torso with her hands that sat tucked in the pockets. It looked warm, he thought. A good winter coat.

“Excuse me? Sorry to bother you, but could you give me directions to the hospital?”

Lars’ eyes widened in surprise and a little fear. She quickly shook her head in panic when she realized what he might be thinking. “I’m fine! I just have an appointment in one of the smaller clinics there. I’m new to town so I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the city’s layout.”

That was a relief. Lars didn’t know what he would’ve done if this stranger started having a medical emergency right in front of him.

“Okay,” Lars nodded after a moment of hesitation. Not because he didn’t want to help but because he was trying to piece together why he got butterflies when she looked at him.

If she was put off by his quiet, one-worded response, she didn’t say anything. She stepped back a bit to let him exit his pew and lead her back to the doors where most everybody had already left. Her soft smile never wavered.

Once outside, Lars stepped down the stairs a little faster than he normally would out of nervousness. He didn’t often talk to people he didn’t know. It was a only simple query for directions. She followed, albeit a little slower and trailed Lars as he moved out to the curb. She followed his gloved finger when he pointed down the street.

“You, um-” He cleared his throat softly, hoping he sounded a bit more confident than he felt. “Take a left on the street with the laundromat. Down there. The white and blue building. That’s 5th street. And then go a couple of blocks west. It’ll be on the right.”

The stranger nodded along, mentally mapping her route while he spoke and giving him another grin when his words tapered into silence.

“Thank you! I probably would’ve gotten lost if I tried to find it on my own so I owe you one. It’s nice to meet you…?”

Lars gave her a closed lip smile while she spoke, blinking once she trailed off. It took a second for him to realize she was waiting for his name.

“Lars.”

“Lars,” she repeated. Lars liked the way his name sounded when she said it. “I’m (Y/n). It’s nice to meet you! I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah.”

Giving him a tiny wave with her pocketed hand, she walked off towards a small white vehicle that must’ve been hers. Lars stood for a second longer, watching her back before nodding to himself and turning towards his own car.

. . .

She wasn’t at church the next week. Or at least, when Lars settled in his pew, he didn’t see her. 

Maybe she was sick or had another appointment at the hospital? He probably didn’t scare her away from church, did he? He couldn’t think of anything he did or said that would’ve offended her. 

His thoughts swirled as he watched the regulars take their seats. Maybe she’d moved? Maybe her plans had changed and she had to skip town? Yeah, that was probably it. Or maybe she just didn’t attend church every Sunday, which was ok too.

“Can I sit with you, Lars?” Lars squeezed his hands into fists in surprise and looked to the aisle next to him. (Y/n), donning the same coat as last time, gave him a smile and gestured to the empty bench next to him. “Unless you’re saving it for someone?”

“No, you can sit.”

Lars scooted down a little more, even though there was plenty of room for her already and watched as she side-stepped closer. When her coat fell from her shoulders and she carefully settled onto the wooden bench, Lars noticed something he hadn’t before.

The sweater she wore this week, a cream colored cable knit, was loosely fit around her body- oversized around her shoulders and torso until reaching her midsection. The fabric was slightly bulging there, the near perfect roundness underneath it clued Lars in to what the sweater tried to hide. Her coat had obscured it from view last week. The appointment at the hospital had probably been for the baby.

(Y/n) noticed his gaze and smiled softly, bringing a hand up to gently cradle the bump.

“It’s a boy,” her voice was soft amidst the still bustling congregation- reverent. “Just a few more months now.”

Lars didn’t have the same reservations about pregnancy that he had a couple of years ago. 

Karin’s pregnancy had gone smoothly- no complications and a healthy baby girl in a quick couple of hours. The relief that Lars had felt once he got the news that mom and baby were in good health was insurmountable. It helped heal the part of him that was terrified to lose someone he loved from the process like he had when he was born. Of course, there was always a chance for something to go wrong, but he didn’t feel that crushing terror anymore.

“Congradulations,” Lars twisted his gloves in his hands.

“Thank you! I’m very excited to meet him. Do you have any kids?”

Shaking his head, Lars couldn’t stop himself from continuing to glance at the bump. “No. Just a niece.”

(Y/n) didn’t get a chance to respond before the priest addressed the room and they filtered into silence. Both turned their heads to the front and quietly listened to the sermon like they had the past 2 weeks, but this time Lars was even more distracted. Every brush of her hand over the bump, every touch or rub of her thumb caught his eye. He yearned to know more about her and her life even more now, but didn’t know how to word it.

Once an hour was up, Lars realized he hadn’t paid attention at all to what had been preached that day and he didn’t really care. Instead, he quickly stood before (Y/n) could and offered a helping hand under her forearm when she moved to get up. Her smile was radiant and Lars felt his cheeks turn a shade darker. In fact, his whole face felt like a heater. With the layers of fabric between the two of them, Lars knew the pain from touching her wouldn’t be too bad so he hadn’t thought twice about the contact. He was surprised when it didn’t burn at all. 

Lars let go once she was steady, but stayed close by as she shrugged her coat back on and meandered from the pew and down the aisle. He was hot on her heels, carefully watching her footing and hands twitching at every step just in case she managed to trip. The stairs outside of the chapel were suddenly more dangerous than Lars ever thought they were. Despite the hoard of people around them, Lars walked slowly and didn’t care if they were being a little obstructive. He wasn’t about to rush her.

“Thank you for letting me sit next to you today, Lars! It’s nice to get to know someone else in town besides my doctor.” (Y/n) joked, taking a couple of steps away from the church entrance and turning to face him. Lars gave a questioning smile.

“You have no family here?”

“Nope,” she stuffed her hands into her coat pockets. Lars looked at her exposed sweater. “My great grandma owned the house that I moved into but she passed away a while ago. The house has been sitting empty ever since so when I needed a new place to live, my uncle who inherited the house offered it to me for the time being. At least until I’m able to get my feet under me. But no, none of my family lives around here.”

Lars’ brows scrunched and he blinked a couple of times “You’re alone? What about… when you have the baby?”

A weak shrug. “We’ll be ok.”

Lars didn’t believe her. Karin had a village of people to help when she had her baby, and it still took months before she was able to get any proper sleep. Keeping the baby fed and changed and soothed was already hard enough. But then there’s feeding and taking care of yourself and the house. Appointments, finances, keeping a fire going. Lars saw firsthand just how much one 8 pound baby could affect several lives. He didn’t think one person could go through that alone. 

“Do you have things? For,” a small gesture to your stomach. “him?”

“I’ve got a couple of things already but I’m hoping to thrift the rest. Maybe get some help from the church if I can work up the courage to ask,” she laughed.

Lars scratched at the back of his neck. He wanted to offer some of Karin and Gus’ old things but that wasn’t his place. The stuff didn’t belong to him and what if they wanted more kids so they had planned on keeping what they had?

“I’ll be ok, Lars. Promise. I wouldn’t have moved away if I didn’t think I could handle this alone.”

He wanted to push. He wanted to know what she was moving away from. But that wasn’t his place either.

“I’ll see you next week? Save me a seat?”

A week felt too long. “Ok but- can you zip?” (Y/n) stopped her half step away to look at him in confusion until he made a motion in front of him like he was zipping a zipper. “The baby could get cold.”

“Oh!” She laughed and fumbled with her coat, carefully zipping the sides together and effectively hiding the bump underneath the fabric. Lars relaxed a bit, knowing the baby was warmer now. “Bye Lars! Have a good week!”

His response was barely above a whisper. “You too.”

. . .

You decided pretty fast that you liked this new town.

It was small, but everyone seemed friendly and it was a nice change of pace to the constantly bustling life of the city you’d come from where everyone was yelling and honking at each other in the streets, screaming profanities about something or other. This town was quiet. No honking, no shouting. Just the soft breath of wind and the hum of cars rolling down the street at a leisurely pace. 

It was a little very cold and snowy but you could see yourself spending a while here. You could see yourself raising your son here.

Going to church was one of the highlights of your week. Not because you were extremely religious but because you just liked seeing people. It was pretty lonely in your little house and since you had yet to find a job that would hire you for two months, you didn’t get much social interaction. While you didn’t really talk to anyone at church, just being around the congregation was enough.

The second week of attending, you realized halfway through the service that you had no idea where the hospital was. Being just over 6 months pregnant meant appointments were becoming more frequent to check your baby’s growth. After transferring your records from your old OBGYN, the new doctor wanted to see you right away to become familiar and check your progress. You meant to bring along the small slip of paper that had the hospital’s address written on it but had forgotten it on your fridge (pregnancy brain was your excuse). 

Asking someone for directions was going to be your next best bet so once the sermon was over and you stood to leave, you began scoping the remaining crowd for someone who looked approachable. 

The man you spotted in a pew a couple of rows back seemed nice enough. He had a soft face and sat bundled in a thick blue and cream coat. The brown hair on his head was gelled and his mustache was trimmed. He had a good vibe about him.

His surprise when you asked him for directions was cute. When he spoke, he spoke softly- so gently, it was almost hard to hear. A nice change of pace compared to the man you had the displeasure of being around for the past couple of years. The man, who you learned to be named Lars, was shy. You could tell he was a quiet person and you honestly felt a little bad for picking him out of everyone in the church to ask for directions out of the blue, but he’d done so despite his visible uncomfortableness.

The next week, when you asked to sit next to him, you half expected him to say no. You mentally prepared yourself for him to say no. But he’d nodded and scooted down to give you some more space.

His obvious shock and interest in your baby was sweet. It didn’t seem malicious in any way, just curious wonder. You felt his eyes swivelling your way for most of the sermon, but you found that you didn’t mind at all. Lars was the perfect gentleman as you left- helping you to your feet, sticking close to your back while you walked and walking side by side with you as you hobbled down the stairs- a constant, solid presence. 

When Lars asked you to zip up your coat, you couldn’t help but smile. While you hadn’t been zipping your coat up the past couple weeks, due to the horribly unflattering shape it made you when it was zipped up over your protruding stomach, it warmed your heart to see the care in his eyes once you did. He’d mentioned he had a niece, maybe he just adored kids? You made a mental note to ask him next week.

. . .

You don’t have to wait a week until you see Lars again.

After over three weeks of living in your new home, you’d run out of essentials. Body care items were one use away from empty, you needed a food restock and the cleaning supplies you'd brought with you had run dry after spending weeks cleaning up the rundown home. Plus, there were some baby items you wanted to nab before too long, just in case the baby decided to make a faster appearance than what you were ready for.

There was really only one store in town, so that was where you found yourself one afternoon, a shopping cart full of items and now perusing the baby aisles.

Diapers were one thing you were stockpiling, newborn sizes and a couple sizes up. From the suggestion of a friend, you were hunting down a specific brand and of course the brand had to be on the highest shelf. What employee thought putting diapers on a high shelf was a good idea?

Hand resting over your bump, you considered stepping onto the shelves but decided against it to save yourself and the baby from a fall. There were no employees in sight, nor were there other shoppers in your aisle. 

Sighing under your breath, you moved to start pushing your cart towards the front of the store. The diapers could wait another week. A familiar face passed by the mouth of the aisle before you could take a step.

“Lars!”

The tall man halted in his tracks to look your way. He had a half gallon of milk in his hand and had on a similar outfit that he wore to church- coat, scarf, gloves and shin-high boots- but his hair looked a little more ruffled. It fit him. Lars wandered your way, gave your belly a cursory glance and smiled softly. He followed your finger when you pointed to the box of diapers you wanted.

“Could you grab one of those boxes for me? The 1’s? I’m not tall enough and don’t want to risk climbing the shelves.”

Lars looked a little terrified that you’d even thought about doing that. The shelves were no match for his height, mustachioed man easily snagging a box and tucking it under his arm. 

“You can put it under the cart!

He made no move to do such a thing. “You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things.”

The box of diapers couldn’t have weighed more than 5 pounds; it wouldn’t be a backbreaker to pull the box from the bottom of your cart to scan once you reached cashier, but Lars seemed pretty adamant. You would’ve told him to put it in the cart but it was full enough already and would most likely topple out. 

Lars was a quiet mountain next to you while you went to check out, helping you load your stuff up on the belt and reloading your cart back once everything was scanned and bagged. He didn’t say anything when he took over the duty of pushing the cart and followed you out to your car, gently stacking your bags into your trunk.

“Will you be ok at home?” His brows were scrunched in worry, eyeing the heavier items.

“Yes, I’ll be ok. I promise. A gallon of milk won’t kill me.”

He nodded, more to himself than anything, then opened his mouth like he wanted to say something more. It took a couple of seconds of inner turmoil to actually say what was on his mind. “I told my brother and sister-in-law about you.”

You adjusted your sweater where it was starting to bunch up over your belly. “Oh?”

“Um… they wanted me to bring some of my niece’s old baby things for you. If you want them. Mostly clothes but there’s some other things too. Like a crib and stuff.”

“Really?!” You reached out to snag a hand in the silky material of his coat. Lars was surprised when he didn’t flinch. “That would be amazing! I’ll make them cookies or something- whatever their favorite desert is, I’ll make it! I can pay them too-”

“No, they said it’s a gift.”

“Ok! Yeah, you can swing by whenever, I’m not busy most days. How about tomorrow?”

. . .

Lars decided immediately that he liked your house.

The outside was a little worse for wear, but the inside was cozy and inviting. It was a small place, especially with the added hoard of baby things he’d delivered, but it didn’t feel suffocating. Lars was used to small houses anyway, he lived in one, but yours felt much more like a home. Warm lighting, plants, soft looking pillows on the couch.

You were ecstatic when you opened the door to Lars standing on your front stoop, a large box held in his arms and shuffling on his feet. He gave you a soft hello in greeting and a small smile when you waved him inside. It made his stomach erupt in butterflies seeing how happy you were to see him.

The baby items he delivered were a godsend- many of the more expensive things you needed were loaded up in Lars’ car. A bassinet, a highchair, a baby monitor- and a whole load of clothes. Lars sheepishly told you that his niece was, well, a girl and seeing how you were having a boy, some of the clothes might not be what you were looking for. You couldn’t have cared less. Clothes were clothes. Free clothes were even better!

Lars sat next to you on the floor and carefully helped you organise the tiny articles of clothing into type and season, asking you quiet questions about your life but trying his hardest not to pry about the one thing he really wanted to ask about.

Where was the baby’s father? You had no pictures on the walls, there was only one set of boots by the door besides his own and no one ever came to church with you. Maybe the father wasn’t religious and just worked all the time? Maybe you weren’t the kind of person that hung personal pictures on the wall? He didn’t know but he got more and more curious by the day.

. . .

“I want to show you something,” Lars told you one Sunday after a sermon. “Are you busy?”

You certainly weren’t busy enough to turn down time with the tall, handsome man who was starting to capture your heart. Well, until he began leading you into the desolate woods through shin deep snow. You started to get a little worried then. Maybe you should’ve made up an excuse to be busy? Was he one of those deceptively sweet and quiet murderers?

Lars kept close by as you both traversed the woods. He didn’t want you to trip over any fallen branches or step into a hole obscured by snow. You kept a protective hand over your coated bump just in case. 

Just when you started to think that maybe you should turn around and run, a treehouse came into view. Lars smiled at you when you looked at it and you instantly knew that the structure held some sort of significance for him.

“This is the treehouse! My brother Gus and his friends came here a lot and he would bring me along when I got older. It’s not used much anymore but I still come here sometimes.”

“I always wanted a treehouse growing up,” you smiled at Lars’ surprising enthusiasm for his treehouse.

“Well, you can come and use it whenever! Gus doesn’t come here anymore so it’s usually just me.” He began climbing the ladder attached to the tree trunk. You didn’t know how to tell Lars you weren’t planning on climbing any trees anytime soon, so you just agreed.

“He can come here if he wants, too.” Lars says once he reaches the platform, laying on the wood and looking down at you. “The baby. Do you think he’d like it?”

You laughed and slowly sat down on a rock adjacent to the large tree after brushing snow off of the surface. “What little boy wouldn’t love a treehouse?”

. . .

You give Lars one of your new ultrasound photos.

You don’t know why. He wasn’t the father of your baby. He was just a friend. 

In the back of your mind, you worry Lars might think it’s weird. But when his face lights up like the Christmas tree in your living room when he realizes what he’s looking at, your worries blow away in the wind.

Lars pins the picture next to the couple of other photos behind his computer so he can see it throughout the day. Kurt questions him about it but Lars doesn’t respond, too busy staring at the amorphous blob of blurry black and white pixels that sort of resembled a baby.

He spent the rest of his shift brainstorming what he should get you and your unborn son for Christmas.

. . .

Lars learns your story when he gives you a ride home from church one Sunday. 

The roads weren’t the best thanks to heavy snowfall the night before, so Lars sped to your house extra early to ask if you wanted a ride so you didn’t have to worry about driving. Of course you said yes.

While the silence in the car wasn’t uncomfortable, Lars couldn’t handle not knowing anymore.

“Can I ask you something?”

Your gaze shifts from the passing homes outside to look at the side of Lars’ face, where he kept his eyes trained on the road. His hands were gripping the steering wheel.

“You can ask me anything, Lars.” You had a feeling what was coming next.

It took a long bout of nothing before he blurted his question. “Where’s the baby’s father?”

Yep. You figured Lars would ask eventually. Actually, you were surprised he hadn’t said anything earlier.

“Back in Chicago. With his girlfriend.”

Lars glanced at you. You stared out of the window and kept talking.

“We’d been together for over five years. I thought he was the one, as delusional as that sounds now. He wasn’t the nicest, and had a temper but I was blinded by love. I know now that I was holding on to the memory of who he was when we started dating. The guy that bought me flowers every weekend and who worshiped the ground I walked on like I mattered. Then I got pregnant and he really changed. He was never home, and when he did come home he was distant. I found out through a friend that he was cheating on me and had been for quite a while. When he learned of the pregnancy, he felt stuck with me. I packed up my things and left the next day. He got mad when he saw me loading up my car and threatened some bullshit I know he won’t have the balls to follow up on. I drove straight here after that.”

Lars let your words sink in- how much you’d gone through and how brave you had to of been to uproot your life and move to an unknown town to keep your baby safe. It was extremely admirable and Lars told you as such.

“I’m sorry to hear about that. I’m really happy that you’re here.”

Lars could see your smile out of the corner of his eye. “Me too.”

. . .

It’s Christmas day when Lars gets the phone call. Or rather, Karin gets the phone call on his behalf.

Lars is at his brother’s house watching his niece open her presents, fire roaring and snow falling outside to make for a cozy Christmas morning.

Karin picks up the ringing receiver and Lars doesn’t pay attention to who she’s talking to or what she's talking about until Karin begins to sound a little concerned.

“What? She wasn’t due for another month. Is she ok? Is the baby ok?”

The glance she gave Lars told him enough. He was running out the front door without a second thought.

. . .

Lars doesn’t like hospitals. Never has. Despite the calm atmosphere of the surprisingly quiet hospital waiting room, Lars’ mind was a whirlwind.

Karin’s friend who was a nurse in the labor and delivery wing had called her after she’d tried Lars’ landline and couldn’t get an answer. Considering the fact that you had no family nearby and Lars was regularly seen out with you, she figured it wouldn’t hurt to let Lars know that you had gone into labor unexpectedly last night.

The nurse told him mom and baby were ok, just tired and healing, but he didn’t believe her. He would believe it when he saw it with his own eyes.

He spent the better part of two hours hunched over in the waiting room with his baby blanket bunched in his fists and nose buried into the worn knitting. A couple of passerbys who knew him stopped to offer words of comfort but they didn’t help. All he heard was ringing.

Would the baby be ok? Did he get enough time in the womb to develop properly? Would he have to stay in the hospital for months to be monitored, poked and prodded?

Were you ok?

You’d done it all alone. Had you driven yourself to the hospital in debilitating pain because you had no one else? Should he have offered to stay with you since your due date had been getting closer?

Lars didn’t hear the nurse the first couple of times she called out his name, only snapping out of his thoughts when she lightly touched his shoulder and he jolted away from the burn.

“(Y/n) is awake and asked for you. Would you like to come and see her?”

You looked like you were glowing when Lars walked up to your room. With the white light from outside thanks to the flurries of snow falling and the warm lighting of a couple of lamps through the room, Lars thought you’d never looked prettier. 

He loitered in the doorway for some time, worried that he was dreaming. You looked ok. Tired, but ok. And the little bundle in your arms seemed ok too. There were no big machines in the room that the baby was hooked up to, no cries of pain, just stillness.

You were gazing so softly at the little life in your arms despite your exhaustion, only looking away when you noticed the hulking figure in the doorway. Your soft smile didn’t waver when looking at him.

“Lars! You came!” You spoke in a low tone so as not to disturb your baby, but no less overjoyed. “Come sit.”

Your head gestured to the chair that was sitting next to your bed, empty and waiting for a visitor to fill it. Lars couldn’t help but compare the room to Karin’s when she had her baby. The room had been flooded with family and friends, a constant trickle of people moving in and out to congratulate mom and baby. There was no one here besides you and your son. Lars decided he actually preferred your room. It was peaceful.

Lars felt too big for the chair he carefully sat in, perched on the edge to be as close to you as possible. He had a perfect vantage point to study the boy in your arms, who you tilted his way to give him a better view.

He was definitely small- smaller than his niece had been- but healthy looking. He had two eyes and two ears. A nose and a mouth. A soft dusting of hair on his crown. His breathing seemed strong. Lars felt his anxiousness begin to melt away.

“Sorry if I scared you, Lars. The nurse told me she’d called you to let you know I was here since I told her I didn’t have any family for her to contact. She knows we’re close so she figured you would be the next best person to get a hold of.”

The blanket in his hands twisted around his fingers. “It’s alright. I’m glad you’re both ok.”

You beamed at your son. “A couple of hours old and he’s already a drama queen. Don’t know why he decided he needed to come so early but all things considered, he’s healthy. Just a little on the small side. The hospital wants to keep us here for a couple of days to monitor him and make sure all is well but he’s eating just fine and he’s able to maintain his body temperature pretty good. A little miracle.”

Lars agreed.

“Do you want to hold him?”

He’d had plenty of practice holding his niece when she was a baby, but this felt different. This baby felt more fragile, more delicate, and something he was terrified to break the new life. You could read his expressions pretty well by now.

“You won’t hurt him, Lars. He’s stronger than he looks. But you don’t have to hold him if you don’t want to.”

He did want to. Lars draped his baby blue blanket over the little body in your arms and nodded. 

Lars’ body dwarfed the infants. He was pretty sure he could easily hold him in one hand. The baby weighed practically nothing. He’d woken a little at the shift from your arms to his but settled easily back into sleep once Lars nestled him in the crook of his arm.

“He’s so little,” Lars whispered. 

“A whole 5 pounds,” you hum, resting back against your pillows to watch the interaction with adoration.

“My niece was 8 pounds.” Such a minuscule difference in numbers that meant everything when it came to newborns. “Have you named him?”

Your head shook while you picked at the tape holding the IV in your hand. “Not yet. With how crazy my life has been lately, I haven’t put much thought into it. Now that he’s here though, I can find a name that will fit him. Want to workshop some with me?”

You wanted his help? Naming your baby? 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Lars. More than anything.”

lars my beloved. part 2 to colt sex scene stand-in is next :D

[bigbigbigtruck]

i’ll be real, kitten, daddy needs multiple wealthy and powerful folks to die in a painful, drawn-out, and generationally humiliating manner

[loreleyfromouterspace]

I love how when Rocky brings up his "mate" Grace goes into woke inclusive teacher mode and doesn't assume their gender by choosing a gender neutral name etc. because he understands that gender and relationships work differently with Eridians but when he first meets Rocky he's like 🫵 that's a little guy right there!!! My rock man!!

[hauntedhowlett]

grace finds a camera and a stack of film in addition to the polaroid (of himself, alone) that was tucked into his personal belongings. the first picture he takes is of himself in the lab holding up his cup of surprisingly perfect space coffee in a “believe in the hail mary” branded mug. he scribbles, “time to get to work” across the bottom.

he takes a picture of yao and ilyukhina’s name patches that he’s pulled from their flight suits. another picture of the empty control room. two more pictures of the view from outside the airlock — the vastness of space and the twinkle of stars.

when rocky shows up, he’s found a much more interesting subject to photograph. he’s got some pictures of the alien tinkering with something, giving him a thumbs “up” (“no, that’s down”) or jazz hands. rocky can see him holding something up, can hear the click of the shutter and the whir of the internal components that spit out the photo, but grace has to explain the entire concept to him.

“we take photos to remember things,” he says.

“human brain weird,” rocky replies. “can remember some things, but not all. eridian remember all.”

grace’s collection grows. pictures of rocky in his enclosure, goggles and gloves drawn on the clear xenonite. rocky sleeping and grace in the corner, holding up a peace sign. rocky moving across the tunnel in the lab so quickly he’s just a brown blur.

he’s still got some film by the time they make it to erid. he documents the progression of his ecosphere on the alien planet, from tiny bubble to full on habitat. he’s got a picture of him and rocky, standing proudly in his new and improved life support suit. rocky and adrian, standing by the water. his first class of students, standing behind him in their celebration clothing for the first eridian-human graduation ceremony.

rocky will occasionally sneak away his favorite photos to transcribe them onto small stone slabs that line the walls of his home with adrian. in each of the pictures, there are noticeable changes to grace — more grooves in his face, a dip to his posture.

when grace’s eyes can no longer see light, rocky gifts him with one of these slabs. it’s a picture of grace flanked by rocky and adrian. in front of them is a smaller eridian, half the size of its parents, its carapace made up of marbled grey and brown stone. grace is laughing, watching as the young eridian tries to find its footing in the life support suit.

grace traces the grooves of the stone with his fingers.

“it’s us,” he says. “it’s a picture of us.”

“it is memory,” rocky replies. “for grace.”

“thanks, buddy.”

[smuttylittlelife]

what if ryland grace & roommatef!reader, who may or may not have crushes on each other, run into their exes while out together...

author's note: this is all just my imagination :) some of it maybe ooc ryland… but let’s all just have some fun! (pls.) very suggestive and just a little hint of spice at the very end. also sry this is long, but why make two posts when i can just give it to you all at once!

running into ryland’s ex ⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

you two are out picking up a few things for dinner, one saturday afternoon. ryland is trailing behind you, holding the basket, trying to glimpse at the grocery list over your shoulder as you scan the aisle.

“ah ha! chocolate chip cookie dough wasn’t on the list!” he says, matter of factly. you roll your eyes, turning to look at him. 

“i don’t necessarily hear you complaining when i ask if you want a sweet treat after dinner,” you sass him back. you two bickered like a married couple. you both loved pushing each other’s buttons. to everyone around you, it was so obvious it was your sick and twisted way of flirting. even if you swore you were just friends.

ryland gives you a cheeky little smile, and you turn back to the shelf to realize there is one box of pasta left of the ones you were looking for, and it’s pushed further back than you can reach. 

“hey science boy,”  you jab at him, a smirk on your lips. ryland looks at you over his glasses, his signature disapproving look, and it makes you giggle. “make yourself useful and grab that box of shells for me, please.”  you point to it and step to the side so he can do it. 

“You lie to me, call me names and now you want my help?”

“you are such a baby, dr. grace. i’ll do it.” you walk over to the shelf, holding onto it, stepping on the bottom shelf to grab the box. if there is one thing ryland loves about you, it’s your innate stubbornness and attitude. but you’re so small compared to him that when you sass him, he thinks is comical. And when you’re mouthing him off, finger jabbing his chest, ryland knows there is nowhere he’d rather be. but watching you climb the grocery store shelf, to prove a point, might be a close second.

he has a huge smile on his face, as he watches you struggle. he sees your hand waving about, trying desperately to reach the box, and when you inevitably push it back more, he lets out a laugh at your dramatic whine.

“okay, i’m sorry. let me help.” he walks over, wrapping an arm around your waist, only to ensure you don’t fall and hurt yourself, of course, and reaches back further than you ever could to grab the box. you can feel the warmth of his body radiating off of him as he’s pressed into you, and the way his hand is sprawled against your stomach makes your heart pound faster. 

the smell of your shampoo, combined with his proximity, is making him dizzy. he places you down, hand now resting gently on your hip, as he hands you the box, you’re both so close to each other, staring into each other's eyes like you’re the only two people in the universe. it’s short-lived until you both hear a voice behind him.

“ryland?” 

you both whip your head in unison to see the person the voice belongs to. you’ve never seen her before, but she’s really pretty. she’s tall, just a couple of inches shorter than ryland, slender, and with long brunette hair cascading down her back. you turn to look at ryland whose tense, looking at her like he’s seen a ghost. 

“linda. h-hi,” he stumbles back a little, and you take a step back so he doesn’t step on you. all the color has completely drained from his face. you don’t know if you should step in or stay out of it. 

“it’s been so long. how are you?” her eyes are twinkling looking at him. your racking your brain trying to remember where you know that name from - and then it hits you. she’s his ex. ryland is nervously wiping his hands against his pants. 

“good. i’m good. i’m her- we’re here just picking some stuff up for dinner.” he reaches for you, to put his arm around you, and you slot right into his side, like two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together. he holds you tightly close to him, and your arm comes around his back. you two have hugged here and there, but there’s something about the way he’s holding you right now that’s making your stomach flip. 

you give her a small smile and wave to be polite. but from everything ryland has told you about her, you really just want to drop kick her in the middle of the store. you can see her enthusiasm to see him flicker away when she sees you next to him. he turns to what looks like  to place a kiss on your head, but whispers “follow my lead, please,” really closely to your ear. his lips are dangerously close to your ear, and you nod your head once at the simple direction. 

“sorry, i don’t mean to be rude. linda, this is my girlfriend,” he introduces you to her, and all the air in your lungs is sucked out. you take in a deep breath at his words. partner. you can feel your knees want to give out at the thought of it being true. but the feeling of his hand rubbing up and down your back grounds you back in the moment. where you have to pretend to be his girlfriend. 

“girlfriend. wow. how long have you two been dating?” she asks, sounding almost like she’s holding onto hope that she still has a chance. but you lean your head onto him, and ryland’s fingers slyly sneak to your waist, one of them circling your skin just underneath your shirt. 

your breath hitches slightly before responding, “what is it, two years now?” well, it’s not a complete lie. you’ve been living with him for two years, just not dating him. he turns to look at you, and your heart stops beating for a second. the look in his eyes almost makes you forget all of this is fake. he pulls you so your chest is pressed into his side; his voice is soft and sickly sweet as he responds to you. “best two years of my life, sweetheart.” 

his other hand reaches to your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. his finger, tracing your jawline, stopping to hold your chin. you swear you can see his eyes flicker to your lips. but he reaches up to boop your nose instead, your face scrunching as you smile at him.  you would’ve forgotten linda was there, had ryland not said something. 

“how’s mark? last i heard, you two were getting married?” you can hear the sourness in his words, and her face falls immediately to the ground. “we’re not together anymore. we broke up at the end of last year.” if she were anyone else in the world, you might feel bad for her. but unfortunately, you’re way too petty to be sad for the woman who decided ryland grace was a waste of her time. “i’m sorry to hear that,” ryland says softly, and she nods. “it’s fine. im actually glad i ran into you. i’ve been thinking about us a lot, and i’d love to grab a coffee. maybe talk about how things ended.” she says, rocking back and forth on her heels. ugh, the nerve this girl has. asking her ex-boyfriend, you’re boyfriend roommate out in front of you! 

ryland’s mouth falls open slightly, speechless from her words. he looks down at you, then to her. and the words flow easily out of him. “actually, no. i’m happy with how everything turned out.” but he’s looking down at you, smiling, and your knees go weak. 

“but it was good to see you. i wish you the best,” he offers her a smile, and waves at her. ryland’s grip on you remains the same as you turn around to walk the opposite direction. you can’t help but turn around and offer her one last wave. “it was nice to meet you lisa!” you call out, purposely getting her name wrong. truly, it’s the very least you wanted to do to bruise her ego. 

ryland snickers, squeezing your hip. his ear comes close to your ear again: “you’re a menace,” but it comes out breathy from his laughter. the feeling, makes you shiver. you walk down a couple of aisles, just to make sure you’re a safe distance from her. “sorry i didn’t mean to just spring that on you. i just seeing her caught me off guard. i'm sorry if i made you uncomfortable.” ryland is still way too close to you, and you’re having a hard time remembering how to breathe. 

“hey, i’ll be your fake girlfriend anytime. you’d do it for me,” you smile, and yet again, there you two are, staring into each other's eyes. ryland isn’t even being discreet about looking down at your lips, and you aren’t either. you can feel yourself leaning in a little until it hits you. 

“i forgot to get tomato paste.” your head falls onto his chest, the realization hitting you that linda probably still in the aisle you guys left her in. ryland laughs, cradling your head against him. “c’mon let’s pay for this, and we’ll just go to grocery outlet and get it there.”

“deal,” you say, speed-walking past the aisle you two left linda in, to the cash register.

running into your ex ⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

it was very rare for you and ryland to go out and drink. usually opting to stay in your cozy apartment, with a bottle of wine and whatever movie you two decided to watch. but with another school year coming to an end, and ryland yet again getting voted teacher of the year, you had to celebrate. 

ever since you two ran into ryland’s ex, something has shifted between the two of you. a lot more lingering touches and stares. it’s like you got a taste of what life could be like if you both just confessed already, but no one wants to break first. so you’re just dancing between the line of friends and something more. You two sat at the bar, mirroring each other. both resting your head on your hand, a huge matching smile on both of your faces.

“i love all my students, but man, does it feel good to know i will never have to see jake ever again,” he takes a swig of his beer, and you laugh. jake, his student was a menace, to put it nicely, and made ryland’s year a living hell. but he sure kept you entertained with all the stories. 

“you mean you won’t miss the kid who set his lab worksheet on fire so he didn’t have to complete it?” ryland loved the sound of your laugh. he would become a clown if that meant he’d hear it for the rest of his life. constantly telling you really bad puns or dad jokes, that you somehow still really enjoyed, and made sure to tell you anything slightly amusing that happened in his day. “oh gosh. don’t remind me.” 

“mr. grace, i thought it was unfair for teachers to have favorites,” you tease, switching to play with the straw in your drink. ryland wishes he could hear you say his name like that over and over again. “hmm. it may be unfair, but we definitely have them,”  ryland brings his arm down to rest on the bar, dangerously close to your hand. 

“who would’ve known the school’s teacher of the year could be such a bad boy?” ryland hmms at your comment, trying to hold back any groan from the effect your words have on him. he’s be anything you wanted as long as he was yours. maybe it’s the alcohol in your system, giving you the extra confidence to drive him crazy. or maybe you're just tired of dancing around the truth and want nothing more than to feel the weight of his body on top of yours. ryland shifts in his seat, his pinky sliding against the back of your hand by accident. but the charged stare between you two only makes your mind wander off more. 

but of course, your daydreams are cut short by a voice you didn’t expect to hear.

“this seat taken?”

you force your gaze over to the unwelcome guest, and your heart sinks. you’re ex, the reason you had to move in with ryland in the first place, motions to the empty seat next to you.

“yes. now get the hell away from me, andrew.” you try to shoo him away, but he just laughs, inviting himself to sit behind you. you instinctively get up, slotting yourself in between ryland’s legs and getting as close as possible to him. you mouth, sorry, to him, and she shakes his head. his hands naturally find your waist, and it feels possessive. as much as ryland wants to enjoy the permission to have his hands on you, he’s tense knowing your ex is here, essentially terrorizing you. his jaw tight, eyes darting between you and the idiot behind you.He looks into your eyes, gaze softening, and whispers, “you wanna go?” but before you can answer, your ex opens his big stupid mouth again.

“c’mon princess, don't be like that. i know you miss me.” he quips, and you can practically hear the smile on his face. ryland watches as you close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to not let his words get to you. he knows you well enough to know that if you’re angered enough, this will either end with you angrily crying and spewing hateful words or slapping him. and right now, he’s trying to avoid both. his thumb draws circles on the front of your hips as he tries to flag the bartender to close out your tab. you're trying to ignore him, really trying, but he knows the more he keeps egging you on, you’ll eventually cave and have to say something. He just has to find the right angle.

“this who you left me for, princess? i know he can’t treat you like i can.” you scoff at his words. ryland knows for a fact that without even dating you, he’s treated you better by a landslide. and if you gave him the chance, he’d worship the ground you walked on, because you deserved that. “please let me fucking kill him,” you whisper, and ryland laughs. “just ignore him, we’ll go home soon,” you can tell ryland is also on edge. his calm and steady voice is laced with something bitter and sharp. As the bartender approaches you two, ryland fishes for his wallet and gently guides you to sit on his thigh. His hand draped over your hip as he handed his card over to the bartender. you rest your head on his shoulder, fixing your eyes to stare away from your ex. 

“c’mon baby, i know he can’t fuck you like i can,” your ex reaches out to try to touch your knee. and if this wasn’t your last straw, it sure as hell was ryland’s. he stands up, pushing you behind him, grabbing hold of andrew’s wrist. his grip is firm, and ryland is seeing red. regardless if he is your boyfriend or not, that is now how you talk about any woman. and he’s definitely not going to stand for anyone disrespecting you. 

“you can make yourself look as pathetic as you want by trying to get her attention this way, but you’re not about to lay your hands on my girl, you hear me?” you mouth falls open at ryland’s words. you’ve never seen him act this way before. sure, he’s a middle school teacher who occasionally needs to get stern with his students. but the mix of aggression in his voice towards your ex, with a possessive hand on you, and the words “my girl,” lingering in your mind, made your knees weak. you shouldn't be turned on right now, but you can feel the heat pooling in your lower stomach as the thought of being his girl flashes in your mind. 

andrew lifts his hands up in defeat and takes a step back when ryland lets his wrist go. the bartender hands ryland his card back. he puts it away, nodding at the bartender to thank him, and gently guides you with a hand on the small of your back out of the bar. ryland is still seething from that man thinking he has any right to look in your direction, let alone touch you. 

you’re walking down the block, still in a daze from ryland defending your honor, when he pulls you into an empty alley. your back is up against a random building as ryland tries to control his breathing. you can see the worry in his eyes, probably scared he took things too far. his hands go to touch you, but he flinches back, as if he’s scared to touch you without your permission. 

“are you okay?” he asks, voice still a little tough, chest rising and falling rapidly. You nod your head, and reach out to touch him. “i’m okay, ry.” you hand snaking up to rest on his chest. you can feel his heart pounding, and you feel bad for the stress you caused. he can see your eyes fill with worry, and he grabs hold of your hand on his chest. “this isn’t your fault, okay. that guy is an imbecile, and he shouldn’t have said those things to you.” he squeezes your hand, and you nod. you don’t trust your voice right now. sure, you guys have been more physically affectionate and gotten extremely cozy, playing the part of boyfriend and girlfriend way too often, but there is something different in this moment. It’s a little too real and too intimate. 

“I’m sorry if i took it too far. he was just saying all those disgusting things to you, and something in me just took over. i just couldn’t stand there and do nothing, but if i made you uncomfortable, i understand.” he's rambling, not even looking you in the eyes anymore, almost a little shy. you smile at how soft he turns when it comes to you. he’s hovering over you, face so close to yours, and your mind flashes back to the bar and how close you were to giving in to your feelings for him. you'd give anything right now to truly experience being ryland grace’s girl. 

your hand cups his cheek, forcing his gaze up to look at you. “don’t apologize. you did nothing wrong,” he nods, but you can tell he doesn’t believe you. so you try a different approach to reassure him, “plus, it was really hot.” ryland’s eyes go wide at your words, and the devilish grin on your face makes his whole face flush. “yeah?” his voice is quiet and so shy, the complete opposite of how it was in the bar. “mmhmm,” you squeeze your thighs together, feeling yourself get worked up at the thought of it, and ryland groans when he catches you. his hand find their place on your hips again, and he presses himself into you, against the wall.  

“never seen you so angry before, mr. grace,” you lips ghost over his, and he lets out a little whine from the sound of his name leaving your lips. you can’t take it anymore; the feeling of him feels so good against you, and you need his lips on yours. you lean in, kissing him, and he freezes for a second, not registering that this is real. your hands snake into his hair at the nape of his neck, and he melts into you. it’s slow, and sensual, and you feel his tongue swipe at your bottom lip, begging you to enter. 

you arch off the wall, his grip on your waist getting firmer, as you deepen the kiss. you pull the hair at the nape of his neck, and he whines when the kiss ends. he’s looking at you, eyes hooded and filled with need. “gonna make me your girl, ryland?”  you look up at him through fluttering lashes, your voice laced with desperation. ryland moans, pressing his hardening cock against you, and you smirk. but before you can bring his lips onto him again, alarm bells go off in his head, and he pulls away.

the anxiety has returned to his eyes, and he begins to ramble, “wait, are you sure this is what you want. you’ve had an emotionally taxing night, and we were drinking, and i don’t want to do something you’re gonna regret later. we can take a pause and just go home and reassess in the morning if you want-” you cut him off with a hand slightly squeezing the bulge in his pants, and his hips buck into your grasp. “i want this. i've wanted this for so long,” you start peppering his jaw in kisses, continuing to rub him over his jeans. you feel his cock twitch, and you pull away, smirking. “now take me home, ryland. we have a lot of time to make up for." ryland is speechless, knowing you've wanted him as long as he has. he feels like an idiot for not acting sooner. he takes too long to respond, so you decide to tease him a little more. "but you know, only if you want." you shrug, trying to push past him.

“yes, ma’am,”  he obliges, grabbing your hand and leading you on the walk back to your apartment. you giggle as he begins to pick up speed, you practically jogging behind him. it was going to be a long night. 

[escapic-mezzanine]

Gwayne Hightower with a wife who is very restrained in showing her feelings.

wc: 1.6k+

Your husband had many flaws, just like all men.

A few of them he acknowledged, some he refused to see… He could be arrogant, patronising, sometimes spoiled and cocky. None of those traits made your feelings for Gwayne faint.

Feelings that he sometimes called ‘harboured’ to which you reacted with a blush and turn of your head. You argued that there was nothing secret, certainly not harboured in them, since he knew of them very well.

Affection came naturally for Gwayne. Even with the imperfections of his temper and customs of a highborn lord’s firstborn he was true and expressive in his statements. Especially when it was towards his family.

Displays of devotion were nothing shameful to him. Quite the opposite, actually. He was proud of being a Hightower and to that house he owed his life. Still, it wasn’t even close to the glory he felt about being able to share it all with you, his dearest lady wife.

He gained not only your love but also respect with how loyal and caring he could be but that didn't make your own habits any easier to let go of.

You were taught not to show honesty of your emotions. It could be old teaching of septas that more resembled crones and hags than caretakers, but that was all you knew. You viewed that not as weakness but as a vulnerable point that people take advantage of to hurt you.

Not your Gwayne, of course. You were able to understand his genuine nature rather quickly, and he left you with no worries about his intentions. Still, the court of Oldtown wasn’t the simplest one, same about your lord husband’s father and kins.

If they ever were to hate you, which you feared deeply, at least it would not be because of humiliation. Your behavior was always suitable for your position, looks adequate for an occasion and manners… restrained to say the least. It felt safe. A proof of your self-controlled being.

Even if sometimes hiding your face in the crook of your husband’s neck and ignoring the servants that could witness it was all you wanted.

At first Gwayne took that as a part of your serious demeanor. He would have to respect that, he thought, and learn to give you all the space you wanted. Surely he could get used to the behaviour of an old lord who only ever offered his arm to his spouse to present in a more favourable light.

But then he discovered you were fond of his jokes and witty remarks. You laughed and spoke silly things after a cup of wine with him when no one heard. You were far from real seriousness, far from what he knew from his sister and some other ladies.

He tried telling himself that it was all proper, perhaps. Just the way things should be between a man and his wife. He remembered very little of his own parents' marriage but he couldn't imagine his lord father indulging in these sorts of affection that haunted his mind.

But Gods, sometimes he felt like he was going crazy over it.

You loved him as he loved you, he knew it. You showed it with deep care, and said it to him when he asked. It crossed his mind that perhaps you lied just to please him. He wanted you to be able to speak freely, even if the truth wouldn’t be the one he wished to hear. He wanted to know if it was rationality that forced you into this arrangement…

But you never brushed his hands away. Never grimaced in annoyance when they found their way to your lap. You picked them up gently, cupped and squeezed in your own smaller hands. Not once you stepped away when Gwayne wrapped his arm around your shoulders.

Yes, he was much more familiar with reading the manners of a court than other people’s feelings, but gods, he did know how to read his own wife. His wife, who didn’t hate him, even if he used to question that in the beginning. A wife who loved him and battled her own shadows of the past.

Eventually he learned to understand that you simply struggled with such acts and he shouldn't feel too bothered about them. Your behaviour wasn’t aimed to hurt him, after all.

It could be hilarious, actually, seeing how sometimes your calm nature shattered with the feelings that overtook your body. It was like an armada of ships crashing into the shore and even though Gwayne noticed your worries and wished to soothe them, he always failed to hide his smirk. He wasn’t necessarily trying to make you break your calmness and get a reaction from you, but it fed his pride a bit every time he managed to do that unintentionally.

Your behaviour was even more evident in moments when he himself could not hold back from affection. When led either by longing or worry all he could think of was looking all over you, making sure you were in safety and good health. When his arms moved around you subconsciously, without him noticing at first. He didn’t mind anyway, especially when his initiative made you feel a bit more secure about expressing yourself.

It was after he completed an essentially important deal as a representative of Hightowers of Oldtown. The business forced him to leave your home for weeks. You awaited him patiently, exchanging many letters. Yet the words that often appeared too hollow to Gwayne wasn’t enough.

He came back tired but motivated with his palms aching from gripping the reins and the want to caress your skin.

He saw you standing in the yard, waiting like the devoted wife you were. After such a long separation there you were: beautiful like the day he married you. Almost on wobbly feet, he noticed, and clearly a part of you wanted to break and run to him, fall into his arms. Still, you didn’t even budge to move closer. You fooled yourself that you hid your shaking hands behind your back before he had the chance to see. Naive. He did have a good look at you and at least he assured himself you were fine.

Even though your eyes were filled with tears which you kept ignoring, your voice was calm. Emotionless even, some could think. Not Gwayne. He knew that your way of dealing with too many feelings was burying them even deeper inside your chest.

“The children have missed you,” you spoke calmly when he approached.

Gwayne's smile almost fell. It wasn’t an unwanted greeting, no. He missed your children exactly as much, but it was you now in front of him, not them. You must have seen his expression turn faint, more like a grimace now.

Just as the words left you properly, your breath hitched and you raised your hand to cover your mouth.

Before you could turn away to hide your disheveled state Gwayne closed the distance between you and gathered you in his arms. It was like a safe cage that you wouldn’t break out from even if you tried.

The sobs that broke out of your throat were pieces of restraint you forced yourself into. Even if your own behavior, the only one you viewed as appropriate, actually hurt you it was also an anchor. Something familiar in the grim days when your husband's absence howled in the halls of Oldtown.

“Then perhaps I should walk past you, my wife, and go straight to them?” He teased with a voice quiet enough only for you to hear.

Gently he tangled his fingers in your hair, making you exhale deeply. Your head fell to his shoulder and with a sniffing, you finally wrapped your arms around your husband.

Gwayne breathed in your scent, focused on how your hair brushed his face, felt how your skin was against his again, just as it should be. Gods, you were fit to be together. Your moderation and stability with his wit and audacity.

“I fear I was starting to go mad without you, my lady…” he muttered when his lips brushed over your ear.

“I too am very glad you're back,” you admit weakly, swallowing the small whimpers that made you feel dizzy from embarrassment.

You wanted to hide your face again but Gwayne didn’t let you. Slowly, with soft brushes of his hands, he made you pull your head away and look at him. He cupped your cheeks and smiled. It was catty in a way; a look you would hate to see if you didn’t miss him so greatly.

“Can you say it for me, wife?” It sounded like a chaste plea. Perhaps it would be if he hid how much pleasure he had out of it. You almost rolled your eyes, wanting to step away but you found yourself unable to. Gwayne caressed the sides of your face like he was trying to memorize it once again. “Please, would you say it out loud for your husband? If that’s the only thing I need to hear now?”

You nodded slowly.

“I missed you, Gwayne.”

Not speech of a foreign language, just what you used to see as shameful.

It was no longer embarrassing to admit and certainly not embarrassing to feel, and yet the words felt unfamiliar on your tongue. Sharp at first, like something forbidden. Then nicer, and eventually it turned sweet. Almost as lovable as the new expression on your husband’s handsome face.

“I love you…”

“I love you too, husband.”

a/n: more gwayne fanfics are coming!!