sideblog for from the desk of the raven fanfiction, headcanons, and assorted flights of fancy i'm reading and loving sometimes i write current interests: pedro pascal characters, oscar isaac characters, assassin's creed, star wars, call of duty
When you were pregnant, Simon was so worried she would be huge like he was. He lived in terror that the birth would be horrendous for you. He felt so guilty, blaming himself for a scenario that he made up. The thought of doing anything to hurt you was torture for him.
But, when she came out, she was tiny. Little fingers and just over 5lbs. Simon had never held something so little. He could hardly even believe it when he took her into his arms for the first time. This tiny little thing was his and yours. Perfect and ridiculously miniature.
Her little fingers wrapped around his thumb as she makes little frustrated sounds. “Don’t think she’s a big fan o’ me, Lovie.” It comes out as a joke, but for him, it’s a half truth. One of his biggest fears coming out, trying its hardest to damper his mood.
“She’s just hungry, Si. She likes you plenty. She’s only about an hour old.” You smile tiredly as you look at your large husband cradling your impossibly tiny little girl.
Your daughter pulls his thumb forward, trying to nurse on him. “Ah wrong one, darling. You’ll need mummy for that.” He laughs. You swear if you didn’t know any better, you would think he was crying.
the 141's favourite place (or places) to kiss you 💋
Price is a master at forehead and head kisses in general. One of his big hands cupping the back of your head as he leans in to press a firm kiss against the skin of your forehead. He loves when you're in bed together, spooning you from behind as he kisses the top of your head and breathes in the scent of you. Something about a forehead kiss makes Price feel in control, makes him feel like the protector. He knows that he can keep you safe in his arms.
Gaz loves to kiss your hands because it's smooth and such a gentlemanly thing to do. He claims it's the most intimate place to kiss. Whether he's holding your hands while you're walking down the street, he's helping you out of the car or you're feeding him something. He kisses your palm, your fingers and your knuckles. He also loves to kiss the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse point is, feeling the flutter of your heart beneath his lips that gives away how much he affects you.
Ghost is a classic mouth kisser. His lips might be chapped and scarred, but they somehow feel like heaven against your own. He always gives you a long, deep kiss before he goes on deployments, like he's trying to memorise the feel of you. When he gets home he does the same, sighing against your lips. It's a reminder that you're real and alive. When you kiss him back, tongues meeting in a dance as old as time, it proves that despite all his flaws, you still love him.
Soap will kiss your neck at any opportunity. He loves the way you shiver every time. He'll come up behind you when you're getting dressed, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck before simply walking away. The spot where your neck meets your shoulder is his favourite, especially when you're both relaxing on the couch. He'll leave kiss after kiss there, maybe sneaking in one or two bites if you let him. There's something so intimate about it that he loves. No one else kisses you there, only him.
Simon who yearns for his pregnant wife. (MDNI 18+)
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Simon Riley wasn’t sure what the hell he was listening to.
Or more accurately… what kind of nonsense these sergeants were going on about.
"Fuckin' hell.” one of them, Ramirez, muttered over his mug. "Wife's knocked up with number two, and it's like tryin' to hump a bloody beach ball. No positions work, she's always knackered, and half the time she just wants to sleep. Sex? More like a chore I gotta check off the list."
The others chuckled, nodding like it was the gospel. "Tell me about it.” another chimed in. "Mine's the same. Gained a ton already, and the hormones? Christ, one minute she's all over me, the next she's cryin' over a stupid animal shelter Ad. Wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."
Simon didn't move, didn't breathe a word. His gloved hands tightened around the edge of his tac vest, but not from anger. No, it was something hotter, sharper, coiling low in his gut.
They were wrong.
So bloody wrong.
He thought of you—his wife, his everything—curled up in their bedroom back home, that soft swell of your belly just starting to show under his old shirts you loved to steal. Five months along, and you were glowing, all curves and fire, your body a map he couldn't stop exploring.
He shifted, feeling an erection growing under his gear. Just the thought of you did that to him now. The way your breasts were fuller, heavier, straining against the lace he bought you the last time he was on leave.
How your hips swayed a little wider when you walked, teasing him without even trying. Sex wasn't a chore—no—it was a privilege.
Last night, you'd been on your side, his hand splayed over the bump where their little one kicked, and he'd slid into you slow, deep, your gasps mixing with his growls. "Simon..” you'd moaned, arching back against him, your skin fever-hot and slick. He'd cum faster than a fucking virgin, all because of how beautiful you were, swollen with his child.
The sergeants droned on, oblivious. Simon pushed off the wall, a ghost in the dim light, heading home.
He needed you now—needed to feel that life you'd made together, to bury himself in the woman who turned his world from shadows to something worth fighting for.
As he stepped into the your home, the door clicked shut behind him, he found you on the couch, feet up, reading one of those baby guidebooks with a smirk.
"Miss me, Lieutenant?" you teased, eyes sparkling.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he knelt before you, hands gentle on your thighs, trailing up slow as his gaze darkened. "Every fuckin' second, lovie. Especially now."
His voice was rough, laced with that hunger only you ignited. And as he leaned in, lips brushing the curve of your belly before he found his way between your thighs, he knew this was heaven, not hell.
Simon was such a heavy sleeper, which honestly made no sense. With the kind of work he did, you would have thought he had developed insomnia years ago. It was something you secretly envied. The way he could fall asleep so effortlessly felt almost unfair. The second his head touched the pillow, he was gone.
Actually, he could sleep pretty much anywhere, and waking him up was another story. It usually took a few gentle nudges and a couple of soft kisses pressed against his jaw before those pretty, sleepy eyes finally blinked open. And he snored, too. Not loudly, just a low, rhythmic rumble against your ear. It secretly became your own little lullaby, a sound that meant you were safe, he was home, and the rest of the world could not reach you here.
When he slept, he was basically a human weighted blanket. He was so big you often felt like you disappeared between the sheets and his massive frame, but you did not mind. You loved the way his hands always knew exactly where to find you. An arm draped heavy across your waist, his face in your tits or tucked into the crook of your neck, his chest a solid wall of warmth against your back or legs tangled up with yours.
He had this subconscious reflex: even in his deepest sleep, if you shifted or shivered, his arm would instinctively tighten, pulling you flush against him as if his body was wired to protect you from the very air around you. Seeing the man who could stare down a threat without flinching melt into a puddle of softness just because you were near? That was a sight that never failed to make your belly swim.
You used to be a notoriously light sleeper, tossing and turning for hours. Nothing helped. You tried everything. Different pillows, white noise, herbal teas, sleep schedules. It always ended the same way: staring at the ceiling at some ungodly hour while everyone else seemed to be asleep.
That was until you started sleeping next to Simon.
The moment you curled up against his warmth, your eyes would begin to drift shut on their own. It felt like your body had finally found something it trusted enough to let its guard down around. There was a profound, quiet magic in his steady breathing, and the way his raspy voice would whisper "g'night, luvie" or "c'mere, sweetheart, it's time to sleep" right before he drifted off.
And the mornings? Those were the best. He would wake up slow, his eyes heavy and hazy, and before he even fully registered the daylight, he would seek out your hand, lacing his thick fingers through yours. He would pull you back down for lazy, lingering morning kisses that tasted so sweet you could melt right there on the spot.
Somehow, between his snoring, his death grip on your waist, and the way he would steal almost all your blanket which you hated the most, Simon had become the only thing in the world that could keep you grounded. He was your home, your warmth, and the best part of every single day.
A meet cute with Javi, and we stumble on an unintentional little praise kink.
WC: 1200
It's not a thousand words, but A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words Challenge hosted by the irrepressible @the-blind-assassin-12 ! Thank you Alyssa for hosting such a fun challenge!
The number 3 rattles on its tracks, and as it rounds a curve, the wheels start to squeal.
The P.A. crackles to life, and a staticy voice announces, Clark Street! Next Stop Clark Street!
"Clark Street? Did I miss..."
You open your eyes to the muttered question filled with worry beside you.
Turning your head toward the fellow next to you, his warm brown eyes were perfect circles, his brows disappearing into his honey brown curls. His head swiveling and his neck long to locate a sign. He looks like a meerkat.
"Where are you headed?"
He jumps a little, coming out of his little bubble of concern.
"I, ah, well, I was going to Broadway."
"Times Square Station?"
"Yes, Times Square," though his voice is anxious, it was also warm and accented.
"That's... you've overshot by a bit. Doze off?"
"I, well, no, I was going over this script I'm writing, and I just got lost in it, I guess."
He looks down at his watch, then up at the map, grimacing as he counts the stops.
"Well, it's no big deal, we're crossing into Brooklyn, but you can just jump off and pop back on going the other way."
"I think I am going to miss my appointment." Then he looks down at his feet, his brows tightly knit and the sweetest, saddest pout you've ever seen.
"Eeshh, I'm sorry. Can you text whomever you're meeting?"
He quickly nods as he pulls out his phone.
"If anyone can get this meeting moved to tomorrow, it's Nick." He starts typing away, his phone pings, he reads, snorts in embarrassed amusement at whatever it said, and types some more. Then sighs.
"Sssso, what's your script about?"
This guy. It's as if the clouds parted from the sky, his face radiant. And he launches into a summary, but then starts including asides about influences and particular shots that must reference this or that.
Chuckling, you suggest that he should name the dog after Gene Hackman's character in The French Connection.
His eyes go round again, but this time in surprised delight, and he starts scribbling the note on his script.
"Well, this is me coming up," you sigh, pointing up to nothing in particular. "Nice talking to you."
Then he takes your raised hand in both of his, cradling it and looking into your eyes, the very picture of earnestness.
"Thank you so much for - everything... I just," he sighs, "my friend Nick, he has a tight schedule tonight, so now I am on my own. I guess I can eat dinner at the hotel, but-"
You look at him, for a beat, and surprise yourself-
"Well, if you want, you're getting off here anyway, to turn around- we could have dinner, and then you can head back to Manhattan."
"You wouldn't mind? I would love that!"
"Not at all," you said, and introduced yourself.
"I'm Javi."
The train squeals to a stop, and the conductor announces again that it is the Clark Street Station.
"So where are we going?"
"Well, lots of good places to eat, along the way to my neighborhood- "
"Sounds great. What neighborhood are you in? So many cool Brooklyn neighborhoods from movies! Would I know it?"
"I dunno, I'm in Red Hook."
"Hm. It does sound familiar..."
You don't get all the way to Red Hook, regardless of how sweet this guy looks, you know enough not to bring him to your apartment. You stopped at a café with lots of open seating outside, not too far from the Station.
Javi chats away about his favorite New York movies, but doesn't forget to ask about you and your interests... and your favorite New York movies, Nick Cage movies, and if you like cheesecake.
This is so unlike you to be so impulsive with a stranger, no less. But the man just seems like a walking, talking green flag, and it was kind of nice not to just go home after work and stare at the TV or scroll on your phone... or, let's be honest, do both, only half-paying attention to the show or movie you put on. Thinking this sort of guiltily, you blurt out-
"Is it true that studios push writers to have characters narrate and repeat plot points because we're all splitting our attention between screens?"
Javi sighs the sigh of the woe-begotten and beleaguered, "It is a problem. And of course there are people who notice and complain about the writing being childish if you do it, AND if you don't do it there's people who complain about plot holes, that they didn't know what was going on!"
Suddenly, Javi looks at you suspiciously and waves a forkful of cheesecake at you. "And which one are you?"
You laugh and grimace. And he looks to the sky like he's looking for strength.
"I am both," you admit. " But, but, I don't complain. When I realize I am getting distracted and don't know what's going on, I put my phone down and rewind. I promise!" You cross your heart. "Honestly, I'm usually good, I futz with my phone mostly when I'm listening to the news or other more listen-not-look type things. But I have caught myself being bad." You look at him with big, sad, guilty eyes. "Sorry."
"Naughty," he jokes, wagging a finger. "You have to be a good girl if you want good stories."
You choke a little on your cheesecake, trying to recover with a sip of your drink. Javi just looks at you with concern.
"Are you okay?"
Relieved, he didn't seem to notice your ridiculous reaction. You try to move on-
"Fine! Anyway, Nick Cage, huh?"
The two of you veer into a small park. You know it's time to part ways, but you're just not sure how to do it. Luckily, Javi is so much more outgoing than you; he takes your hand, just like that, so easily, it doesn't feel weird, forced, or too forward... It's just friendly.
"Can I see you again?"
"Oh yes, please," you blurt out, but you refuse to feel embarrassed by it. "I'd really like that."
"Great!!" Javi is sweetly acting like he's the one who has won the big prize at the carnival. He pulls out his phone and you get yours, he takes a quick selfie with you and sets it up for you to type in your details. He texts you the selfie, and you save it and his number.
"So we just went south, you just head up a few blocks to Clark Street and hop back on the train." You press your lips together in a small smile and go to wave. But he steps into your space, brushing your cheek with his soft lips, with a small kiss. You think, oh, Europeans, and you ready yourself to kiss the other cheek... but he murmurs your name and your knees liquefy.
Then his lips reach your ear-
"Until next time. Be good."
His lips curl into a wicked smile that you are shocked to see on this Labrador of a man, and he heads toward the station, leaving you staring, mouth open just a little.
THANKS FOR READING! 💚 YOU CAN FIND MORE JAVI AND OTHER PPCU FIC ON MY MARSTERLIST!
cw: disassociating, maybe absence seizures. very brief, very light, soft but interrupted smut. Hurt/comfort. TBI. soap x reader. (Another Whumpee!Soap piece what can I say. He is my muse.)
Johnny and his post-tbi disassociation, the distances and absences you've become familiar with.
How his smile fades at the dinner table, eyes drifting away to some distant place. His hands just... pausing over the dirt while you're both in the garden.
At first it broke your heart. The doctors had said 'be patient' but no one had explained what that meant.
No one had explained it would mean conversations stopping for minutes on end. No one had explained it would mean taking sharp objects from his hands just in case he forgot they were there. No one had said how much it would hurt to see your Johnny come back from wherever he goes and tears spring in his eyes. Scared, or lost, or angry. Or wherever it took him that moment.
You learn, slowly, that the best thing to do is wait. Sometimes you keep talking, gently. Sometimes you sit in silence with him. Sometimes you keep your hand steadily brushing through his hair—he'd started letting only you care for it since coming home from the hospital, slow nights spent cleaning around the bandages turned into your little routine. Sometimes just a hand over his, something to hold onto when he surfaces again.
Mostly though, it's become just... a part of your days. His and yours. They frustrate him still, but mostly it's better. It's okay.
That is until he's panting over you, lips pressed to your neck as he moves slowly. Hips thrusting between your legs, trying to bury himself and stay there forever where it's warm and safe.
And he pulls back to smile down at you. And you see it long before it happens. The gloss washing over. Bright blue eyes greying over.
And Johnny just.. stills.
"Johnny..." You manage, hand coming up to cup his face.
He's still for a long moment. Longer than usual by your count.
Your eyes sting before you can stop them. Hand brushing back Johnny's hair. The other stroking absently over his arm.
"John..." You try again, throat squeezing down around his name.
And finally he inhales. Blinking back to you. His eyes find yours. And that familiar realization passes through them. His forehead drops to your shoulder. He doesn't move for a moment.
"I'm sorry, Love. I'm so sorry—"
You feel him shift, like he's going to move to get up. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close.
"Shh don't apologize. Are you alright?"
He manages a nod.
"Want to keep going?"
He's still for a moment. His breath is warm, shakey against your chest.
Finally, he shakes his head.
"Alright," you whisper. "That's alright."
He moves slowly out from between your legs. Only moving as far as to lie next to you, head still buried in your neck.
You lie there for a little while, just breathing together. His weight against your side something solid to hold onto.
Your hand moves through his hair, slow and steady. The other rests against his arm.
His tears come gradually. He doesn't make a sound, just the wet against your skin, and the occasional unsteady breath.
At some point his grip on you shifts. Tightens, his fingers finding yours and holding.
You feel the moment his breathing evens out. A slow exhale. The tension leaving his shoulders by degrees.
You press your lips to his hair.
"Bath or shower?"
He breathes. Then, quietly: "Bath."
You ease yourself up and pad to the bathroom, running it warm. Not hot, he'd told you once, early on, that too much heat made it worse.
When you come back for him he's sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. Staring at the floor. You can see the wet at the corners of his eyes he's still trying to hold back.
You stand in front of him and open your arms. He folds into you without a word, face pressing into your stomach. His shoulders shake.
You hold him and let him cry into you. Your own tears dripping from your cheeks to his head.
It takes a moment. Moving slowly from the bed to the filled tub. But eventually, you're both in the water. His back to your chest, your chin resting on his shoulder. His hands have found yours beneath the surface and he's holding on with both of his.
"Still here," you murmur.
His grip tightens.
You press your lips to his cheek. The corner of his jaw. The soft skin just below his ear. And then longer on the back of his neck.
"Love you," he says, voice rough and quiet.
"I know." You hook your chin on his shoulder again. "Love you too, Johnny."
John "Soap" MacTavish
Soap pretends like he doesn't care much about birthdays, brushing it off with a lopsided grin-"Just another day, bonnie." But the second he walks in and sees the place decked out in handmade decorations, a cake topped with candles, and you grinning like a kid in a candy shop, he goes silent. His heart stutters. You remembered. No-you cared. When you sing for him, off- key and dramatic, he laughs so hard he nearly cries. He kisses you with icing still on his lip and mumbles, "Best bloody day I've had in years." Later, he wears the birthday crown you made him the entire evening, even during dinner. Especially when you call him "Your Majesty."
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Ghost is rigid about his birthday. He tells you not to bother, brushes it off with a clipped, "Don't like celebrating." But you still bake his favorite dessert, leave a wrapped book beside his nightstand, and cook dinner like it's any normal day-except it's all his favorites. He notices. Of course he does. That night, after a quiet dinner and soft music, he sits beside you and says, "You didn't make a big deal. I appreciate that." Then he hesitates, voice softer. "But you still made it mine." When you hand him the card with a hand-drawn skull doodle on the front, he stares at it for a long time. Then gently tucks it into his drawer.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz lives for birthdays-his or anyone else's. But when you take the reins? He's completely floored. You plan an entire day of surprises: brunch with his favorite coffee, a scavenger hunt of memories across the house, and even a rooftop dinner under string lights. When he realizes you remembered the exact brand of cologne he loves-one he only mentioned once months ago-he gets real quiet. "You really went all out, huh?" he says, blinking fast. Later, with cake smudged on his nose and you singing terribly behind him, he pulls you into a hug so tight it leaves you breathless. "This is the best birthday I've ever had," he says, and he means it.
John Price
Price insists on no fuss. "I've had more birthdays than I can count. No need to make a thing of it." But when you invite a few close friends for a backyard BBQ, make his favorite whiskey cake, and give him a handmade leather bookmark with his initials... he goes quiet. You sit on the porch with him later, stars above, cake between you. He leans back in his chair and says, " You didn't need to do all this." Then glances at you, voice softer. "But I'm glad you did." He doesn't need grand gestures- just the warmth of your effort. That night, he falls asleep with your fingers laced through his, heart full in a way words can't capture.
Gary "Roach" Sanderson
Roach's birthday is all color and chaos. You go full DIY:streamers, balloon animals, hand- painted cupcakes with googly eyes. He walks in, sees everything, and immediately tackles you into a hug so tight you both fall onto the floor laughing. There's even a tiny bug- shaped piñata you made-he shrieks with joy when he sees it. The whole day is joy and light, music blasting, confetti flying. But the part he remembers most? You sitting beside him, gently placing a candle in a cupcake, and singing just for him. His eyes get glassy as he says, "No one's ever done this much for me." And you know, even in a blur of sugar and chaos, it means everything.
Nikolai
Nikolai tries to downplay his birthday "Old men don't need cake." But you plan a cozy night anyway. You cook dinner using his mother's old recipe, find an old Russian Vinyl to play softly in the background, and gift him a worn poetry book he thought he'd never find again. He's stunned. He runs his fingers across the pages, eyes misty."You remembered," he says in a voice barely above a whisper. After dinner, he dances with you slowly in the kitchen, the song playing low, your cheek against his chest. "This... this is perfect," he murmurs in Russian. "You made me feel young again." His smile lasts all night-and well into the next morning.
Alejandro Vargas
Alejandro's birthday is one big celebration-and you make sure of it. He comes home to music, food, candles, and your excited grin. You invite close friends, prepare tacos exactly the way he likes, and surprise him with a handmade gift-a scrapbook full of your memories together. He flips through it, laughing at every silly picture and soft note." You remembered everything, mi amor." You drag him into a dance under fairy lights, your arms looped around his neck. He holds you close, breath brushing your ear as he whispers, "You made me feel like a king today." Later, he keeps the scrapbook beside his bed-where it'll never be far from reach.
Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra
Rudy's birthday is always quiet by choice. But this year, you make it gentle and intimate-breakfast in bed, handwritten notes tucked into his pockets, and a slow afternoon walk through his favorite trail. He doesn't say much, but the way he looks at you says it all. When you surprise him with a charm bracelet-each one representing something you've done together-he freezes. "You made this?" he asks, voice cracking. Later, you both lie on the couch under a shared blanket, a movie humming in the background. He kisses your forehead and whispers, "I've never felt more loved than I do right now." And you know you've given him more than a birthday you gave him peace.
Valeria Garza
Valeria acts like she doesn't care-"It's just another reminder I'm older and meaner." But when she walks in to find a luxurious spread of her favorite sweets, a playlist of her favorite music, and a golden tiara with BIRTHDAY BITCH" written on it, she howls with laughter. "You really think you're funny, huh?" Still, she wears the crown all day. You take her out on the town-dinner, drinks, dancing-and when you get home, you surprise her with a framed photo of you two, shot candidly on some lazy morning. Her voice drops low. "You make me feel... soft. That's a dangerous thing, cariño." But the way she kisses you says she wouldn't trade it for the world.
Keegan Russ
Keegan never expects anything for his birthday, and honestly? He's used to it going unacknowledged. But then you show up- soft smile, a warm home-cooked meal, and a small box wrapped in camouflage paper, just for him. The card inside just says: "Thanks for surviving another year with me." He chuckles. You make his favorite snack, pull out his worn hoodie, and put on that one terrible movie he secretly likes. "You didn't have to do all this," he mutters, but he can't stop the way he melts against you on the couch. For someone who's always braced for disappointment, the quiet warmth of your effort is a gift he didn't know he needed. And he's grateful.
König
König gets nervous around attention, and birthdays are no exception. He expects something small, but when he walks into the room and sees the soft glow of candles, a table covered in Austrian treats, and a handmade birthday banner in his native tongue, he freezes. You kept it quiet-just you and him but filled the space with everything he loves. He fidgets when you sing, red in the face, but he's smiling too much to hide it. You hand him a knitted hat with bear ears, and he bursts into surprised laughter. "You remembered I liked those," he says shyly. Later, curled up beside you with his new hat on, he murmurs, "This was the nicest birthday I've ever had."
Nikto
Nikto doesn't care for birthdays. They remind him of things he'd rather forget. But you insist on giving him something-small, private, thoughtful. You bake a dark chocolate cake and light a single candle. "One wish," you say. He hesitates, then blows it out without a word. You gift him a silver ring with engraved Cyrillic "You're not alone anymore." He doesn 't respond right away. He just slips it onto his finger, flexing it slowly like it weighs something more than metal. That night, he lies beside you, staring at the ceiling. "No one's ever remembered," he murmurs. Then, just once, he presses his forehead to your shoulder. That's his thank-you. That's his heart cracking open.
Krueger
Krueger is stoic about birthdays-more philosophical than celebratory. But you still mark the day. You wrap his favorite pastries in wax paper, leave them on the kitchen counter beside a vintage military watch you found in a dusty collector's shop. No card, no balloons- just quiet intention. He notices. He always notices. He doesn't say thank-you, not in words. But later, he lingers in the doorway, watching you fold laundry, his gaze unusually soft. "I didn't expect anything," he says. You reply, "That's why I did it." He nods, once. Then he sits beside you in bed and offers a piece of his pastry with careful fingers. For him, that gesture is celebration. And you feel it deeply.
Philip Graves
Graves is used to throwing himself birthday bashes. He's the life of the party, the man of the hour. But when you plan a low-key surprise picnic with a view of the stars, bourbon in a flask, and a heartfelt playlist of "his" songs? He's speechless. The bravado fades. You hand him a wrapped gift-leather driving gloves, monogrammed. "You spoil me," he teases, but his voice cracks a little. When you light a candle stuck into a slice of pie and sing quietly, he just stares at you, heart pounding. Later, while lying beside you under the stars, he murmurs, "You didn't throw me a party. You gave me me. That's the best thing anyone's ever done."
Farah Karim
Farah always forgets her birthday. Not intentionally-there's just always something more important. But you never forget. You cook her childhood dishes from what little she's told you, fill the house with jasmine and cardamom, and greet her with a kiss and a simple, "Happy birthday, love." You gift her a pendant carved with her mother's name in Arabic. Her hands tremble when she opens it. "This... this is perfect," she whispers, holding it like treasure. That night, she tells you stories of old birthdays she spent alone, in silence. And how this one-this warm, quiet day with you-was the one she'll hold closest. "You give me something to celebrate," she tells you. "Not just today. Every day."
Hadir Karim
Hadir doesn't want candles or cake. But you make his birthday into a day of peace-just the two of you in a quiet park, walking beside wildflowers, wrapped in the sound of wind. You hand him a canvas bag of art supplies and say, "In case you ever want to create again." He freezes. You don't push, just sit beside him on the grass, letting the gift speak for itself. Later, at home, you leave him with tea and space. He finds a small portrait of him you painted tucked into a book on the nightstand. He says nothing that night, but the next morning, you wake to find him sketching your silhouette with soft lines. It's his thank-you.
Alex Keller
Alex pretends not to care about birthdays, but he lights up like a Christmas tree when he sees what you've done. You cover the apartment in silly banners, make an "Alex Day" playlist filled with chaotic songs, and greet him in a party hat shaped like a taco. He laughs until his stomach hurts. The cake is homemade, the gift a leather bracelet with your initials etched into the underside." You're ridiculous," he says, grinning. "And perfect." He insists on dancing with you in the kitchen, the dog barking in the background. You end the night on the couch with your legs tangled and his hand on your thigh. "This is all I ever want," he murmurs." Just you."
Kate Laswell
Laswell rarely makes space for herself-but you make space for her. Her birthday is peaceful: a long bath drawn by you, a charcuterie board of her favorites, a classical playlist humming low. You gift her a handmade journal, leather-bound and full of soft, blank pages. "For the thoughts you never say," you tell her. Her fingers run over the cover like it's made of gold. Later, you sit on the floor while she reads aloud the card you wrote, voice warm and steady. "Thank you for seeing me," she says softly. You don't need fireworks-Laswell's love language is quiet understanding. And you gave her the one gift she never knew she wanted: stillness. With you.
Vladimir Makarov
Makarov doesn't want a party. He barely acknowledges the date. But you remember. You cook his favorite food-rich, dark, and heavy-and leave a single wrapped box on the table. It's a locket. Inside is a tiny photo of you. He opens it in silence, then tucks it into his pocket like it's made of blood and memory. That night, you don't say happy birthday. Instead, you pour him a drink, sit beside him, and rest your head on his shoulder. "I didn't think anyone would dare remember," he says at last, voice low. "But you did." There's no thanks. But later, he pulls you closer in his sleep. It's the first time he lets you see him dream.
A very unhinged collection of smutty headcanons about Javi’s favorite positions, his obsession with reactions and eye contact, how touch-starved he actually is underneath all the control issues, and why spooning sex would emotionally destroy that man.
WARNINGS: 18+ only – mdni, smut, explicit sexual content, cockwarming, oral sex, fingering mention, riding, praise kink vibes, emotional vulnerability, possessive Javi, Javi ruining lives again
When it comes to sex positions, I honestly think Javi’s favorite is cowgirl. Mostly because he’s such a visual man and he needs to see what he’s doing to her while he fucks her. Like he loves watching her ride him, watching her move on top of him, bounce on him, all of it. He’d absolutely keep his hands on her hips or thighs the whole time too.
And obviously he has the perfect view – her tits bouncing, her body, her face, her expressions, literally everything. She’s sitting right there facing him and he can just fully watch her fall apart because of him. That alone would drive him insane.
And I also think he’d love the fact that he can actually see himself sliding into her too. Like yeah, that man would absolutely look. No question.
I do think Javi is naturally more dominant and likes having control, but honestly in this case I think the visual part wins. He just enjoys looking at her too much. He’s the type of man who gets turned on by seeing the reactions he’s getting out of her, and I think watching her ride him would absolutely ruin him in the best way possible.
DOGGY STYLE
I think his second favorite is definitely doggy style, mostly because that’s where he has the control. He sets the pace, the speed, the rhythm, everything. He’s the one in charge there.
And like I said with cowgirl, Javi loves the visual of watching his cock slide into her. He’s absolutely obsessed with that. But with this position I think he also loves the fact that he controls everything himself. The speed, the depth, the angle, all of it. This is very much his territory.
And obviously he has the view too. Javi absolutely appreciates a woman’s ass, let’s be serious here. Plus he can hold onto her hips, grab her hair, lean over her, hold her tits, touch her however he wants. So even if it’s not as visual emotionally because he can’t fully see her face the whole time, it’s way more physical and hands-on for him.
It’s very much about control, touch, and feeling her react underneath him. Holding her by the hips while she’s literally falling apart because of him? Yeah, that would absolutely get to his head too. So doggy style is 100% one of his favorites too.
MISSIONARY
I also think he definitely likes missionary. And yeah, people act like missionary is boring, but honestly I don’t think Javi would see it that way at all. He’s not really a “boring sex” kind of man, but for him missionary is way more about intimacy and closeness.
There’s eye contact. And he absolutely loves looking right into her eyes while he’s inside her. Especially when he’s close. And honestly? I fully believe Javi needs eye contact when he cums inside her… like that man wants to look at her while it happens because to him it feels insanely intimate and insanely hot at the same time.
And I think he keeps trying to hold that eye contact even before he comes, while he’s thrusting into her. But at the same time he’s also the type to kiss and bite at her jaw, her neck, her shoulders, little things like that while he’s on top of her. Missionary lets him do all of that.
And obviously he’d never say anything mean or complain or whatever, but Javi definitely needs to know she’s enjoying herself too. He wants reactions. He wants her moving with him, touching him, scratching down his back, holding onto him, all that stuff. It turns him on way more when he knows she feels good too and isn’t just laying there completely still.
Plus they can kiss the whole time, stay close, touch each other everywhere. It’s a much more intimate position emotionally.
And honestly? I don’t think he’d do missionary like that with just anybody. I think this is one of the positions that becomes way more special when he actually cares about the person. Which is funny because people love calling it boring, but for Javi I think it would secretly be one of the most intense ones emotionally.
LAP SITTING / STRADDLING
And then there’s lap sitting / straddling, whatever you wanna call it, and I think Javi absolutely loves that one too. Honestly it’s kind of like a mix between cowgirl and missionary for him.
Because like with cowgirl, she’s still the one controlling the pace. He’s sitting on the couch or maybe on the car seat and she’s riding him in his lap while he just holds onto her. But unlike cowgirl, she’s way closer to him physically, and that’s where it becomes more like missionary too. There’s way more intimacy and closeness involved.
He can hold her ass, hold her back, wrap his arms around her while she moves on him. And honestly? I really don’t think this is something he’d do with just anybody. This does not feel like random hookup Javier to me; this feels very emotional. Like this is not the position for some informant or random girl he sleeps with once. I think for him there has to be real emotional closeness there.
Because this position is honestly kind of vulnerable for him too. They’re pressed against each other, hugging, kissing, whispering things to each other. And yeah, he’s also really deep in this position, which I think would absolutely get to his head too because Javi is very physical and very intense when it comes to closeness.
So for him it’s not just about sex at that point. It’s about wanting her as close to him as possible, physically and emotionally at the same time. He wants to hold her against him while her pussy literally wrapped around his cock.
And when he cums? Yeah, he’s absolutely looking her in the eyes or kissing her while it happens. Holding her close, arms around her, maybe forehead against hers. For Javi this position feels deeply personal and honestly probably one of the most intimate ones he could have with somebody.
SPOONING
And lastly… spooning sex – honestly I think this is the absolute peak of intimacy for Javier.
This is not something he’d do with somebody he’s not emotionally involved with. And even in a relationship, I don’t think it would happen right away. I think this kind of position only comes once he truly trusts her, or once he finally lets himself have this level of closeness and vulnerability with someone.
Because this is very intimate for him. She’s pressed against him with her back against his chest while he thrusts into her from behind, setting the pace slowly himself. He can literally feel every part of her body against him. He can hold her tits, touch her everywhere, rub her clit while he fucks her, make her orgasm even harder that way. It’s all extremely close, extremely physical, extremely connected.
And the whole time he’s holding her, wrapped around her, probably kissing her shoulder or neck, whispering things into her ear that he normally wouldn’t even say out loud, this position feels incredibly personal for him.
Honestly, I can even see spooning sex turning into cockwarming with Javi sometimes because let’s be real… that man would absolutely love just staying inside her afterward… like after he cums, I don’t think he immediately pulls out at all. He stays there, still inside her while he slowly softens, just holding her close and breathing against her neck.
Because for him, that’s not just physical anymore. That’s comfort. That’s safety. That’s him showing love in the most intimate way he knows how without even needing words.
No thoughts just price who insists he doesn't want a baby until you end up holding your cousins one year old...
Because really, price is too old for a baby and as much as he gets dizzy with the thought of breeding you, actually being a parent feels a bit too close to the shitty house he grew up in. It was a discussion you've had before, and though you wanted one you respected johns decision.
Price is forced to rethink that stance when you drag him to your family reunion, though.
"Wow! Look at you, pumpkin!!! You've gotten so big!" Price whips around at your voice, and his heart nearly stops at the sight of you holding a pudgy little baby. The sweet girl squeals in delight, open palms waving at your face while you laugh.
You glance across the room, and upon meeting eyes with price come walking over with baby in your arms. It looks so natural, and price can see the glint of your wedding band underneath pudgy fingers.
"You wanna hold her?" You ask, that knowing glint in your eyes.
"Uh– no– i shouldn't– hey!" Price grimaces when you place baby in his hand anyways, arms fully outstretched to hold baby away from him "uhm! Love! What do i–"
Whatever price was about to say is cut short by baby squealing happily, eye's squinting in delight as she makes grabby hands towards price and yells "baba!!! Baba!! Hold!!"
You snort at the absolutely horrified expression price makes, then quickly explain "her dad wears the same hat. She's just curious. Here, hold her like this–"
You guide price to hold the baby properly, stepping close enough he can feel the heat of your body. It's so damn domestic it makes something simmer under his skin.
"Hi there, little one." He murmurs softly, soft in the way he never is.
"Hi!! Hellooooo!!! Hai!!" She babbles, reaching all the way up to bap at price's face. You swear you can physically see his pupils dilate.
He spends the rest of the day carrying baby around and cooing at her while her parents socialize, earning many brownie points with your family.
That night, back at home with your hands running through the hair on his chest, price presses his lips into a thin line and huffs "so...about kids of our own..."
John "Soap" MacTavish
Soap goes into full panic mode at first-he's halfway to calling emergency services before you croak out, "It's just a cold." But once the panic wears off, he's all in. He builds a blanket nest for you on the couch, insists on feeding you his special soup (which is 80 % hot sauce), and keeps trying to make you laugh to distract from your sniffles. He checks your temperature every five minutes -dramatically placing his hand on your forehead like a medieval healer. "I'm your knight nurse," he says, chest puffed out. He won't let you lift a finger and guards your rest like it's a mission. His favorite part? Sleeping curled up at your feet to "keep watch."
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Ghost is quiet but impossibly tender when you're sick. You wake up to find a humidifier running, tissues beside the bed, and him perched nearby reading with his mask off- just for you. He doesn't ask you to explain symptoms, he knows them before you say anything. You barely murmur "headache" and there's a cold cloth already pressed to your forehead. When you shiver, his arms come around you without hesitation. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, it's soft: "You'll be alright, love." He sleeps lightly beside you, flinching awake if your breathing changes. He won't leave until you're better-and even then, he checks on you like you're the most fragile thing in the world.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz is calm, reassuring, and surprisingly organized. The moment he sees you sniffling, he pulls out a basket: meds, thermometer, soft socks, and the "Sick Blanket" (he absolutely has one designated). He cracks jokes while fluffing your pillow, kisses your feverish forehead with a frown, and brews you tea like it's a science. "Doctor Garrick, at your service," he says, pretending to write notes on your symptoms with a spoon. He puts on your favorite movies, dims the lights, and lets you rest against him while he rubs circles into your back. When your fever breaks, he whispers, "Told you I'd get you through it," before tucking you in for another nap.
John Price
Price takes one look at you wrapped in a blanket, nose red and eyes watery, and immediately kicks into dad-mode. "Alright, love," he says gruffly, "bed. Now." He makes tea exactly the way you like it, with just the right temperature and honey amount. He doesn't hover, but he's always nearby- tidying quietly, checking on you between chapters of the book he's reading by your side. He rubs your back when you cough, tucks you in without a word, and presses soft kisses to your forehead when he thinks you're asleep. When you weakly mutter" thank you," he smiles under his beard." take care of my own," he says, and means it.
Gary "Roach" Sanderson
Roach is like an energetic nurse who's desperately trying not to overwhelm you. He zooms around the house collecting supplies, stacking tissues and cough drops next to you like treasure. "Do you want soup? Blankets? Movies? Water? Socks?" he blurts, eyes wide with worry. But once you groan and wave him & over, he finally calms, crawling beside you and resting his head gently on your chest. He stays still as long as you need. When you fall asleep, he draws little doodles on your tissue box or sticks googly eyes on your medicine bottles just to make you laugh when you wake. And when you do, you see his gentle smile and whisper, "Best nurse ever."
Nikolai
Nikolai treats your illness like a dignified royal crisis. He brings soup on a silver tray, fluffs your pillows like a hotel butler, and calls you "my little plague bunny" with an affectionate smirk. He stays close-always within arm's reach-reading old Russian poetry or humming softly as you nap. When your fever spikes, he murmurs softly in Russian and kisses your temple, whispering promises that you'll feel better soon. If you whine even once, he gathers you in his arms like a baby bird and rocks you gently. "Sleep, "he says. "Your tsar is here." You suspect he enjoys pampering you, but in truth, your comfort is his greatest concern.
Alejandro Vargas
Alejandro takes your fever very personally. "Who did this to you? Tell me. I'll fight the virus myself." He's joking kind of but he's also fiercely determined to make you feel better. He sets up a cozy corner with blankets and plumps every pillow three times. He cooks up spicy home remedies from childhood, coaxing you to eat even when you grumble. "One bite for me, cariñio," he says, cupping your cheek. He checks your temperature constantly, but never pushes he just hovers with this deep love in his eyes. "Rest," he whispers, tucking you in. I've got you. Nothing's getting past me- not even a damn flu."
Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra
Rudy's calm voice is the first thing you hear when you're dizzy and aching. "Shh, it's okay. I'm right here." He knows how to care for people he's done it before-but with you, it's different. His hands are gentle, his care unwavering. He brings cool cloths for your forehead, brushes your hair away from your eyes, and hums old lullabies while spoon-feeding you soup. If you can't sleep, he reads to you-soft, steady Spanish filling the room like a warm hug. He doesn't leave your side unless absolutely necessary. "Just focus on healing," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your fever-warmed brow. "Let me be your strength today."
Valeria Garza
Valeria pretends to be annoyed by your weakness. "You're soft," she scoffs, watching you huddle under blankets. But beneath the sarcasm, she's all in. She orders soup, snaps at the delivery guy for being late, and wipes your face with a damp cloth like she's cleaning a priceless artifact When you ask for water, she raises a brow." You have legs," she says, then fetches it anyway. She teases, but she doesn't leave. Ever. She'll curl beside you on the couch, stroking your hair, watching you sleep like a hawk. When your fever breaks, she grumbles, "Took you long enough." But her arms don't let go.
Keegan Russ
Keegan notices you're sick before you do. You start rubbing your temples, moving slower, and his eyes narrow. "You're burning up," he mutters, already reaching for the medicine cabinet. He doesn't say much after that just moves through the house with quiet precision, drawing curtains, pouring water, bringing you a cool towel. He's not overly gentle, but he's careful, deliberate. When you apologize for being "a mess," he looks up from tucking the blanket tighter around you. "You don't apologize for getting sick," he says firmly. You fall asleep to the sound of him cleaning up the medicine wrappers. When you wake, he's still sitting there-book in hand, keeping watch like a sentry.
König
König panics the moment you sneeze. "Oh mein Gott-what's wrong? Do you need a hospital?" He's massive, flustered, and has no idea what to do first. But once he gets guidance, he's unstoppable. He brings too many blankets, too much tea, and so many different cold medicines that you have to stop him. He paces, mumbling to himself in German, then shyly peeks in on you every few minutes. "Are you... warm enough?” he whispers. When you drift off, you feel the bed dip-he's sitting beside you, one large hand resting gently over yours. "Sleep, Schatz," he murmurs. "I'll stay right here." You wake later to find him asleep at your feet, still keeping guard.
Nikto
Nikto doesn't speak for a while when you get sick. He just acts. The kettle starts whistling, medicine lines up on the counter, a cool cloth touches your neck-all before you can ask. He never makes a fuss; he just moves like he's done this a thousand times. "You need rest," he says softly. "I will handle everything." He keeps your space dim and quiet, staying close but never hovering. You drift in and out of sleep to the sound of his voice murmuring in Russian-low, steady, grounding. When you wake, he's sitting beside the bed, hand loosely holding yours. "Better?" he asks, not Looking up. His tone is flat, but his thumb never stops tracing your wrist.
Krueger
Krueger doesn't show worry like most people. He just appears in the doorway with medicine, water, and an unreadable look. "You didn't tell me you were sick," he says quietly. "That's foolish." But then he kneels beside you, pressing a cool hand to your forehead. "You burn like fire." He insists you rest while he cleans, moving through your home in near silence. He's unexpectedly gentle when he brushes your hair away, wrapping a blanket around you before slipping on his gloves again. You fall asleep to his faint humming an eerie tune that still somehow soothes you. When you wake, he's still there, sitting in the chair by your bed. "You survived," he murmurs, a rare smile ghosting his lips.
Philip Graves
Graves treats your cold like it's DEFCON 1." Alright, sweetheart, I'm taking over," he declares, immediately confiscating your phone and tossing it onto the couch. "No work. Doctor's orders-mine." He cleans the place up while blasting country music, then brings you soup that smells way too spicy. He fluffs the pillows, turns on your favorite show, and sits beside you with a grin. "I'll stay 'til you're better. Don't even try to argue." When you start feeling worse, his playfulness drops; he wipes your forehead with gentle hands and whispers, "Hey, look at me. You're okay." The next day, you wake up wrapped in his hoodie, a note on your nightstand: "Patient stable. Doctor proud."
Farah Karim
Farah handles your sickness with calm professionalism-organized, efficient, and deeply caring. She cooks homemade broth, checks your temperature, and places a damp towel over your forehead with practiced precision. "Rest," she says softly. "That's an order." When you try to get up, she simply raises an eyebrow. "You're not winning this argument." She keeps your space spotless and the air cool, sitting beside you quietly while reading reports or knitting something small. Every so often, her hand brushes your hair or squeezes your shoulder. "You don't have to be strong today," she murmurs.
Hadir Karim
Hadir goes into caretaker overdrive, though he tries to act nonchalant. "It's nothing," he says as he's already cooking soup and adjusting your blankets. He makes the room smell like mint and cloves, opens windows for fresh air, and hums quietly while tending to you. When you thank him, he shrugs. "You'd do the same." But later, when he thinks you're asleep, he whispers, "You scared me. I don't like when you're quiet." He checks your pulse more times than necessary and keeps one hand on you at all times, grounding himself in your warmth. When you wake up better, he just smiles softly. "Told you I'd chase it away."
Alex Keller
Alex treats your sick day like a mission-he's determined to nurse you back to health. He makes checklists, keeps your meds on a timer, and brings water every hour. But his gentleness shines through everything he does he kneels beside the bed to check your temperature and kisses your forehead with a teasing smile. "See? Still alive. That's progress." He tells you goofy stories to keep your spirits up, and when your voice goes raspy, he reads to you instead his voice calm and steady until you fall asleep. The next morning, you wake to breakfast in bed and his sleepy grin. "Operation Get You Better complete. Debrief with pancakes?"
Kate Laswell
Laswell doesn't panic-she plans. Within minutes, she has medicine, soup, and a humidifier running. "You're going to rest," she says firmly, sitting beside you with her tablet in hand. But even while working, she keeps a hand on your knee or wrist, just to remind herself you're there. Every so often, she glances over, frowns softly, and murmurs, "Drink more water." She's steady, unshakable exactly what you need. But when you drift to sleep, she finally lets her guard down, brushing your hair off your forehead and whispering, "You don't get to scare me like that again." You wake to her dozing beside you, glasses askew, hand still linked with yours.
Vladimir Makarov
Makarov doesn't do gentle-except with you. When you're sick, he's a storm of control and care. "Lie down," he orders, already fluffing your pillows. "You don't move until I say." He wipes your forehead with a cloth that smells faintly of vodka and lavender, muttering under his breath about your stubbornness. He feeds you soup himself, spoon by spoon, glaring when you try to protest. "You will eat. "But later, when your fever spikes, his voice drops to a whisper. "Don't you dare fade on me," he murmurs, brushing your hair back with shaking hands. When it finally breaks, he exhales against your skin. "Good," he says softly. "I hate seeing my strength look fragile."
Baelor discovers his wife's personal reading material and it's very different from the books he's used to.
Pairing : Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader
Warnings : explicit language
Word Count/read time : 1.3k / 6 minute approx
a/n : In an effort to take a more "post it anyway" attitude I'm sharing this, it's basically a first draft/concept piece, it's not finished but should be mostly readable. My plan would be to develop the concept further, create more of the "wife" character and have them working their way through a variety of spicy scenes but idk
The stack of books had been inconspicuous enough, piled next to his wife's dressing table, in the shadowy space between it and the wall. They were haphazardly stacked a foot high, some with their spines facing out and others with their spines toward the wall. He had only noticed them after the top one had slipped off the stack and hit the floor with a soft thwack. Intrigued, he had left his small desk by the window and gone to replace whatever had fallen, the book now splayed open on the floor was a little larger than his palm and would be less than half an inch thick when closed, hardly a book at all.
Baelor picked it up, skimming over the text, stopping suddenly, his eyes caught by a phrase
"The princes tongue slipped between the wet folds of her cunt, lapping at her like a man parched. She gripped at his dark hair, drawing him in closer, forcing his tongue deeper."
His brow furrowed, what manner of thing had he stumbled on? What was his wife keeping squirrelled away in this dark corner of their room. Intrigued he flipped the book closed and studied the front.
The cover was dark in colour and flimsy, and was barely any more substantial than the thin pages between. The corners were curling up and the spine was cracked in several places showing it had been well thumbed. Even the ink on the pages was a paling grey rather than the strong black used in the library books he was more used to. The whole thing had a temporary quality to it, like too much rough handling and it would disintegrate.
There was no information on the cover, but after leafing through a few pages he found what appeared to be the title page. It read simply "The Dark Prince", it had no author or any further information about where it had come from or what it was about.
Perplexed he sat down on the edge of the bed, opening the book to its first page and he started to read.
It was unlike anything he had ever read before and Baelor devoured the pages. It told the story of a prince with dark hair and dark eyes and the wooing of his second wife, initially it seemed as if the pair despised one another, but Baelor found that didn't stop them succumbing to their lusts on almost every page. He couldn't help but laugh to himself each time the two apparent enemies found themselves alone in a dark corridor or hidden away behind a conveniently placed rose bush and where able to rid themselves of their clothes in seconds.
As he read, Baelor forgot about the missives he was supposed to be replying too and became engrossed in the story in front of him, he didn't mind at all that the plot was nothing more than a way to move the two characters from one illicit tryst to another and he soon settled back against the pillows, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his feet crossed at the ankles.
He was almost at the climax of the story (and yet another climax for the characters) when the door to the bedroom opened and his wife walked in, closing it quickly behind her with a soft groan. With closed eyes she pressed her hands into the small of her back and stretched, her chest thrusting forward as her head fell back.
"I thought I'd never get away,' she said softly, her eyes still closed.
She had spent most of her afternoon in the great sept, praying with the other women of the court in celebration of the Mother. Baelor knew his wife's devotion was mostly for appearances and she'd have hated the hours lost in the draughty sept, kneeling for hours in mock piety.
"All the kneeling and praying and kneeling and praying, gods, it's utter murder," she continued, having not noticed her husbands silence.
She finally turned her attention to him, her eyes inquisitive as she took in his prone position on the bed and the small object in his large hands. She smiled as she took a step toward him.
"I see you've found my personal library," she said softly.
"It's been a most enlightening afternoon actually," he replied, "I had no idea such reading material was available,".
She couldn't help but grin, moving toward him again, the distance between them quickly shrinking.
"You don't have the right people in your employ then, my love," she purred as she started to climb onto the bed with him, her hands pulling at the skirts of her dress so she could kneel beside him.
"These are courtesy of one of your ladies then?" he asked.
"One of the maids, she told me about a house on the street of silk that deals in more than just flesh, she's been bringing them to me whenever she learns of a new one,".
"Which one are you enjoying?" she asked, prowling up the length of his body on her hands and knees.
"Ah, The Dark Prince," she purred, "he cuts a rather familiar figure don't you think?".
Baelor's eyebrows quirked upward, inviting her to say more and she just grinned at him.
"A dark haired prince with a mysterious gaze, next in line to the throne who needs a new wife?" she explained, "doesn't he sound a bit like you?".
Baelor laughed, reaching out to his wife and stroking her cheek.
"Nothing like me,".
"Entirely like you," she replied, letting herself be drawn closer to him by his gentle touch on her cheek, "even the way you like to fuck first thing in the morning," she teased, her lips now just a breath away from his.
"Are you suggesting the author of this text has intimate knowledge of me?" Baelor asked softly , feeling the heat of her body rolling over him like a wave. She shrugged, a grin still on her lips.
"Perhaps she just made a good assessment of your more… personal tastes?" she replied as she placed one hand on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.
Baelor placed his hand over hers.
"You know I've taken no lovers since we married?" he asked solemnly.
"I know," she said, her heart swelling with love.
She lowered her head and kissed the back of his hand where it covered her own. She looked up at him through her lashes, mischief in her eyes.
"But you were a young prince once, and I presume you sowed your wild oats from Dorne to the Wall? Perhaps she's a lover from years gone by?".
Baelor laughed again and shook his head.
"I learned too hard a lesson about wild oats," he said softly.
"She's just someone with a wild imagination then," she replied, lowering herself onto her hip and curling against her husband, their hands still joined and resting on his chest. She lay her head on his shoulder and sighed.
"Have you read the bit in the bath?" she asked, "that's a particular favourite of mine,".
"Yes, I have," Baelor replied, lifting the book up and using his free hand to flip the pages back a few to a very detailed section in which the characters couple in large, copper bathtub.
"Sounded a little impractical to me," he added, a playful grin turning up the corners of his lips, "not to mention, messy,".
"Shall I call for a bath? We can discover together how impractical and messy it really is,".
Baelor laughed again, lifting her hand up from his chest and kissing the inside of her wrist.
"Is that what you want? Do you want to reenact your favourite parts?" he teased, his tongue flicking out and tasting the skin of her wrist.
She lifted her head and looked into his eyes, he was thrilled to see them alight with excitement.
"Would you? Can we?".
"There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, my love,".
This is for @glitterypirateduck winter challenge! I took inspiration from the song Let It Snow, because who wouldn't want to use this man as a source of warmth. Really.
John Price is your neighbor. Just your friendly neighbor. Nothing more.
At least, until the heat in your flat dies.
Warnings: Swearing, fluff, sweetness overload, really this is all just cute and fluff.
Word count: 2.5k
You still weren't quite sure how you'd fallen into this thing with John Price. You'd moved in to the flat next to his, the shared wall between the two of you giving you only hints of his life. Mostly, there was silence.
But sometimes there was the rumbling of a deep, lovely voice. Singing. The muted sounds of a TV. Music.
The first time you talked to him, you were coming back from a date that had ended badly. You still weren't sure whether to be angry or upset, and had settled on some potent mixture of the two.
John Price was standing outside, shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, heedless of the chill of the evening. He nodded once to you, gaze sweeping over you.
“Evening,” he greeted, neutral pleasant.
“Hi.” You managed a smile. “Haven't had the chance to introduce myself yet.” You held out a hand to him, giving him your name.
“John Price.” He shook your hand, firm but not painful. Quick.
“Nice to finally meet you.” You glanced beyond him to your door, the temptation to cry rising as upset won over anger. “Hate to run, but…”
“Of course.” He stepped back, out of the way. “Have a good night.”
You bit your tongue to keep the bitter words trapped, simply nodding to him before stepping past him. Your hands only shook a little as you unlocked your door and stepped inside.
You kept your emotions to yourself until you showered, hot as you could stand. Then you allowed yourself some release.
After that, it became much more common to see him, at least when he was home. You passed him frequently when you came home, and once or twice he rescued you by getting the door when you had bags of groceries.
The two of you circled each other, pleasant and friendly and not much else.
Despite his charm, despite his kindness, despite his obvious good looks… you couldn't believe anything more. He was friendly, and that was all. He was neighborly, and that was all.
Even if he was good-looking. Even if the way he looked at you made you both self-conscious and want to preen. Even if you developed a little crush on him despite your best intentions.
And you held on to those thoughts all the way up until your heater broke.
You stood in the middle of your flat, shivering, bundled up in layers and silently cursing the snow outside. And cursing the landlord, who promised he'd get the heater fixed… in a couple days. Three, or maybe four. But you'd be fine, right?
Which left you seething and debating the merits of buying a space heater, if you could find one. It was late in the season, but maybe you'd be lucky…
The knock on your door startled you, and you about jumped out of your skin. Who…? Frowning, you stepped forward slowly, hands trembling from the cold and nerves.
John Price stood outside your door, arms crossed loosely in front of his chest.
“John?” You blinked at him. “Can I help you?”
“Actually, might be able to help you.” He scratched at the hair on his jaw, brilliant blue eyes holding you captive as easily as breathing. “Heard something ‘bout your heater through the wall.”
You warmed, ducking your head briefly, even though you knew you had nothing to be ashamed of. “Ah. Heard that, huh?” You huffed a little laugh, shaking your head. “Sorry, I forget how thin these walls are sometimes.”
“Don't fret,” John assured you. “I'd offer to take a crack at your heater but I might make it worse.”
You smiled, torn between amusement and embarrassment. “It's fine, I think I'll just go find a space heater.”
John paused, not moving from your doorway, one hand hooked at the collar of his shirt, gaze fixed on you. “Or,” he offered slowly, weighing each word as he spoke. “You can stay at mine.”
You blinked. Twice. “...Beg pardon?” You must have misunderstood him. There was no way–
“I've got a second bedroom,” he said, shrugging, like it was nothing. Like it was that easy. “You're welcome to it. Be awful cold without heat.”
You swallowed. That was… a lot. And far too generous. “I couldn't, that's too kind.”
His lips quirked in a smile, the first real one you'd seen from him. “Yes you can,” he countered. “It's just a few days, yeah? Won't bother me, I wouldn't have offered otherwise.”
You bit your lip, torn. It would be warmer to stay with him, and cheaper. “Are you sure?”
“I'm sure.” He even nodded for emphasis, holding your gaze.
“Okay.” You breathed in slowly. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“Gather up whatever you need,” he said, something pleased in the tilt of his lips. “Just knock when you're ready.”
“Thanks.” You waited until he stepped back and turned towards his own door to close your door.
Not that it helped at all with the temperature.
Clenching your jaw and trying not to think about it, you grabbed a bag and some clothes. You weren't going to impose on him any more than necessary - you'd come back to shower and take care of your own things. And you'd be fine at work.
Your first knock on the door was tentative, almost too soft. You shifted your weight from foot to foot, a little anxious. You knew enough about John Price to trust that he wasn't a crazy murderer, or anything like that. He'd always been friendly.
You were mostly sure you could trust him.
The door opened, warmth spilling out over your half-frozen fingers. John had shed his jacket, leaving him in a soft-looking shirt that clung to his chest in ways you tried not to notice.
“C'mon in.” He stepped out of the way, ushering you in. You couldn't help but shiver as the warmth of his flat cocooned you, your skin tingling where it was exposed. “Bedroom's this way.”
You followed him quietly, though you couldn't help but look around curiously. The flat was sparse but clean, walls mostly bare. Simple furniture in the main room, very little decoration.
It felt a little impersonal… except for the book on the couch, the couple dishes in the sink.
John led you back to the bedroom, nodding you inside. The bed was made up all in pale blue, with an extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed. Honestly, this was better hospitality than you'd gotten from some family members.
“Thank you, really.” You paused in the doorway, still clutching your bag.
He smiled again, easy as anything. “My pleasure. Get warmed up, I've got the kettle on.”
You couldn't help but smile at his retreating back. He was too kind.
It didn't take long to warm up enough to be comfortable, and you even shed a layer to be more comfortable. “Should I keep my shoes on?” You called from the doorway, uncertain. You couldn't recall if he'd been wearing any.
“Nah, leave ‘em.”
You kicked your shoes off but left your socks, padding out to the kitchen to a charmingly domestic scene. John stood with one hip leaned against the counter, mug in one big hand, another steaming gently in front of him. He was also wearing socks, thick gray ones.
“Got milk and sugar, if you'd like.” He nodded to the mug to be clear what he meant.
“Thanks.” You fixed your cuppa and clutched it between your hands, fingers tingly-hot as they finally fully thawed. “Can I at least treat you to dinner?”
He tipped his head down a little, smiling. “Won’t say no to that,” he murmured.
Discussing food was surprisingly easy with him. He seemed happy to go along with whatever you wanted, although true to his word he didn't argue with you about paying.
The first night passed easily, with bits of conversation between the two of you. You caught him looking at you more than once, something soft in his gaze. Like he couldn't believe you were here.
You warmed under that gentle gaze, the little embers you'd tried to smother in your heart catching and trying to grow.
Two days passed in the same kind of ease. His flat was bigger than yours, and set up backwards as far as you were concerned. The second time you opened a door expecting the loo and got the linen closet you swore loudly. John just laughed at you, leading to a round of playful bickering.
(“It's not my fault that this is all backwards!”
“Well perhaps if you looked before you opened the door you'd realize it was on the wrong side.”
“Perhaps if this place was oriented correctly I wouldn't have to.”)
The two of you got along quite well, better than you'd expected. Better than you'd ever hoped. The ease with which the two of you conversed fanned the little flames secreted in your heart.
The fourth morning was clear and cold, faint light coming through the window in your room. You dressed, even more glad to be in John's nice warm flat when a perfunctory look out the window showed snow still falling.
“Morning,” John greeted you, flashing you a smile, hair still a little rumpled from sleep. You tried not to be charmed.
(It didn't work, you were hopelessly charmed by him.)
“Good morning.” You couldn't help but smile at the sight of him. “How long have you been up?”
“Couple hours. Tea?”
You hummed your assent, though you drifted to the kitchen window to look outside. Snow drifted down in fat flakes, languidly coating the world in white. “How long has it been coming down?”
“Started in the middle of the night.” John pulled out the mug you were beginning to think of as yours. “Don't have to go anywhere today, do you?”
“Fortunately, no.” You shivered at the thought of having to go out in the cold. You kind of hated when it got this cold - the snow was pretty but ice made for treacherous commutes to work. “You?”
“No.” The mug clinked as he set it next to you. “Got everything I need here.”
You turned, just catching the tail end of his teasing little smile as he stepped back. You blinked at him but didn't push, not quite sure if you wanted to know.
Tea was perfect to keep you warm, and you settled near John. He shifted enough to press his knee to yours, and you just relaxed into it.
He'd gotten you used to little touches over the last few days, and you didn't quite want to admit how much you loved it.
“Care to make a day of it, then?”
You blinked at John, curious. “What do you have in mind?”
“We could watch that movie you've been wanting to watch.” John's lips twitched in amusement. “More tea. Order in for lunch.”
“You're going to spoil me,” you teased, although you were only half teasing.
“Only if I'm doing it right.” He smirked, watching you as you ducked your head, fiddling with your mug.
“You don't have to, you know.” You looked at him out of the corner of your eye, gripping your mug a little tighter so you wouldn't fidget with it.
“What if I want to?” He tipped his head a little, watching you, blue eyes intense.
You warmed under that look but resisted the urge to hide. “Well… that would be a different story.”
Emboldened by your reaction, John moved closer, his thigh now pressed against the length of yours. “I'd like to spoil you for longer than just the few days it takes to get your heater fixed.”
“Would you really?” You blinked at him, a little incredulous and a fair bit flattered.
“I would.” One of his hands landed over yours, big and warm and calloused. “Would you let me?”
You swallowed. Part of you wanted to say yes, wanted to bask in the warmth of him, wanted to give in. But you were scared. There were so many things that could go wrong…
“I don't know,” you whispered, your fingers curling under John's. “I could try.”
“That's all I ask.” He leaned a little closer to you, so close he could probably feel the thump of your heart. “Just need to talk to me, hm? Tell me if anything is too much.”
You nodded, swallowing, eyes wide as he held your gaze. “Okay.”
“Good.” He backed off again, slowly pushing to his feet. “Go get the movie set up, I've got tea handled.”
You blinked, feeling almost bereft as he stepped away. But you shook the feeling off, instead going to the couch to set up the movie.
It only occurred to you long minutes later, when John brought your tea fixed how you liked, that you'd gotten very comfortable here very quickly. But so had John. He'd learned your preferences faster than you'd expected.
“Warm enough?” He asked, voice a low purr as he settled next to you.
“Yeah,” you answered, which was mostly true. Your feet were chilly, but that was manageable.
He eyed you for a moment, and you had the feeling he knew exactly what you didn't say. But he didn't say a word, just grabbed a throw blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over your lap, fussing over you in a way totally foreign to you.
Foreign… but nice.
Halfway through the movie John paused it to discuss lunch. You ended up not ordering in - snow was coming down harder now, a thick coating of white obscuring streets and sidewalks. Neither of you wanted to go out, or force anyone else out.
“We'll find something here,” you said with a shrug, unconcerned. “I've got food at mine, too.”
John hummed, one arm settling around your waist. “Could do cheese toasties.”
“Are you offering to cook for me?” You couldn't help your smile, or the way you leaned in closer to him.
“Can’t make anything fancy,” he murmured, smile small but warm. “But I can do this.”
That smile finally did you in. You kissed him. Nothing more than a brief press of your lips to his, just enough to feel the warmth and pressure, the gentle scratch of facial hair. He looked a little stunned when you pulled back… for all of two seconds. Before he kissed you again, one big hand cupping your cheek.
“Is this okay?” He whispered when he pulled back, scant space between the two of you.
“More than,” you assured him, hands resting against his chest.
He hummed, the sound vibrating against your hands, and kissed you again.
If this is what him spoiling you looked like… Well. You could get used to this.
Even if it kept snowing like this. You weren't worried about being cold anymore.
John "Soap" MacTavish
The day you both signed the discharge papers, Soap burst out laughing-loud, unfiltered, relieved. "We actually made it, love," he said, wrapping you in a bear hug and spinning you around like a kid on Christmas. Retirement didn't slow him down; if anything, he turned your new home into a fortress of comfort and chaos. He took up woodworking, built a swing in the backyard, and tried to teach the neighbor's kids Scottish phrases. Every morning started with a coffee and a forehead kiss, and every evening ended with a whiskey toast. "To us," he'd say, grinning. "Still here. Still breathing. Still stupid in love with you." The war ended, but his heart never stopped charging toward yours.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
Retirement was never something Ghost let himself imagine- until you made it real. When the final mission ended, he stood in stunned silence, fingers twitching like he expected another call. But you were there, arms steady, gaze soft. You helped him unpack every layer of armor he wore- physically, emotionally. Your shared home was quiet, tucked deep in the countryside. He took long walks at dusk, sometimes alone, sometimes with you, always in silence that felt safe. He never stopped wearing masks, but he let you see beneath them. When he finally said "I love you," it was over tea and toast, his voice low but sure. "Guess I finally believe we deserve peace."
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Gaz celebrated retirement like it was a festival-barbecue, friends, music, and you at the center of it all. He always said he'd only leave when you both made it out alive, and now that promise echoed in the laughter at your backyard party. He turned into that neighbor who volunteered for everything- coaching soccer, helping with community watch-but always came back to you first. Every anniversary was a new adventure: camping in the woods, scuba diving, dance lessons that ended in giggles. "We fought for this," he'd whisper, holding you at night." Every moment is a victory." Even in the calm, he was your shield-always protective, always yours.
John Price
Price didn't celebrate retirement. He just sat on the back porch with a cigar, your hand in his, and breathed for the first time in decades. The lines on his face softened with every sunrise, his voice growing gentler when he read the paper aloud to you, asked about the garden, or debated which dog breed to adopt. "I didn't think I'd get here," he admitted one evening, staring out over the hills. "Didn't think we'd both make it." You leaned into his side, and he wrapped his arm around you firmly. "But here we are," he murmured. "And I'll spend the rest of my life being grateful for it."
Gary "Roach" Sanderson
Roach took to civilian life with a quiet sort of awe, as though every mundane moment was a gift. You'd find him staring out the window at birds or journaling with the kind of focus he used to save for tactical plans. "We did it," he whispered one morning while brushing his teeth, toothpaste foaming, grin bright. "We actually get to be boring." He took up photography-mostly of you doing absolutely nothing: yawning, laughing, sleeping on the couch. Every photo caption was "proof we survived." He didn't need grand adventures anymore. Just holding your hand at the farmer's market or arguing over dinner plans was enough. You were his new mission.
Nikolai
Retirement was less about peace and more about stories for Nikolai. He never stopped flying, never stopped tinkering, but now it was for joy-not war. He bought a massive plot of land and built a cabin where laughter echoed louder than gunfire ever did. "You remember that time in Prague?" he'd say, sipping tea with you on the deck. He retold every battle like a drunken folktale, but he always ended with, "But you, you are my favorite story." His touch never lost its fire, but it became slower, deeper, reverent. He aged like a storm becoming sky-gentler, wiser, and still entirely unpredictable.
Alejandro Vargas
Alejandro became a legend even in retirement -hosting training camps for local youth, advocating for veterans, and turning your home into a warm, vibrant sanctuary. "This is the life I fought for," he'd tell you, watching sunrises from your shared balcony. His pride never faded, but his eyes crinkled more when he smiled. He danced with you barefoot in the kitchen, humming old ballads under his breath. Even with his battle scars, he was soft with you-folding laundry, planting flowers, reading your favorite books out loud in Spanish. "We have time now," he'd whisper at night, arms wrapped tightly around you. "Time to live. Time to love. Time for us."
Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra
Rudy moved like a man who had been holding his breath for years and finally exhaled. Retirement made him quieter, gentler. You'd catch him pausing in the middle of stirring a pot or brushing your hair back with awe in his eyes, like he still couldn 't believe you both made it. "We're okay," he said one morning, coffee steaming between you. "Really okay." He took up gardening and carpentry, channeling his precision into birdhouses and flowerbeds. He called you mi sol, his sun, always with that soft look. At night, you'd lie in bed tangled up in warmth and memories, and he'd whisper, "You're the reason I fought so hard to survive."
Valeria Garza
Valeria's version of retirement was dramatic, lavish, and perfectly over-the-top. "I didn't claw my way through hell just to live in a shack," she told you, sipping champagne in a silk robe at your cliffside villa. But beneath the sharp wit and indulgent lifestyle, there was tenderness-quiet dinners for two, slow mornings in bed, nights spent tracing old scars with reverence. She started painting again-only you, over and over, in every light. "I made war into art," she'd say with a smirk," but this-this is peace." Her love was possessive, passionate, and endless. And even in the quietest moments, she looked at you like you were the prize she never expected to win.
Keegan Russ
Keegan didn't adjust easily to retirement. For a while, he flinched at sudden sounds, slept with one eye open, and kept a gun by the bedside. But you were there steady, gentle, always patient. Slowly, he softened. He started fixing things around the house, spent hours walking the dog, and eventually took up hiking. "Being outside without a mission... feels weird," he admitted once." But good." You built routines-brushing your teeth together, arguing about paint swatches, making Sunday pancakes. One day he pulled you into a hug so tight it stole your breath. "I never thought I'd have this," he whispered. "I never thought I'd get to grow old with someone."
König
Retirement was surreal for König-like waking up in someone else's life. No orders. No bloodshed. Just sun-dappled windows, quiet mornings, and you by his side. At first, he struggled to adjust. He was jumpy, restless, afraid of the silence. But you gave him space, and with time, the fear receded. He started building furniture-big, sturdy things that made him feel useful again. He made you a bed frame with his initials carved into the side. You caught him watching you often, not with intensity, but with quiet wonder. "You're the first place I've ever wanted to stay," he confessed one night, arms wrapped around you. "Thank you for being home."
Nikto
Nikto never thought he'd live long enough for retirement. But when the war finally ended, he chose seclusion-not out of shame, but peace. With you, he built a life far away from cities and chaos. Your days were spent in the stillness of snow-covered forests, your cabin quiet but warm. He didn't speak much, but when he did, it was only to you. "I never thought I'd deserve this," he once whispered while tracing the curve of your hand. "You prove me wrong every day." He rarely smiled, but his love showed in the smallest ways-chopping extra firewood, always serving you food first, guarding your shared silence like a treasure.
Krueger
Krueger vanished from the world after retirement, taking you with him to a mountain lodge where no one knew your names. The quiet suited him. He didn't need fanfare. Only you. He rose early, watched birds, read obscure literature. You shared long silences that spoke volumes-his gloved hand resting on yours, his shoulder brushing against you in the kitchen. "Peace isn't what I expected," he said one night, voice low and reflective. "But I find myself craving it." He carved wood figurines when he thought you weren't looking-every single one of them shaped in your image. "I spent a life destroying," he said once, softly." Let me spend this one preserving you."
Philip Graves
Graves built you a house from the ground up. "Real American retirement, baby," he said, grinning like a golden retriever in jeans and work gloves. He took pride in everything-perfect lawn stripes, a well- stocked grill, teaching the neighbor's kids how to play baseball. But at night, when the tools were down and the lights were low, he held you like the most sacred thing he'd ever known. "I never thought I'd get out alive," he whispered once, chin resting on your shoulder. "Never thought I'd get to love you without fear." He made you pancakes every Sunday, kissed you like a promise, and made you laugh until your ribs hurt. You were his victory.
Farah Karim
Farah didn't slow down in retirement-she redirected. She built schools, organized aid, and mentored young women in her hometown. But no matter how far her work took her, she always came back to you. She insisted on gardening together, saying that nurturing life was the most radical act of peace she could perform. "I've seen too much death," she told you softly, cupping a rose with calloused fingers. "But this? Us? This is life." Her kisses were always firm, grounding, as though anchoring herself in you. And at night, with your head on her chest and her heartbeat steady beneath your ear, she'd whisper, "I survived for you."
Hadir Karim
Hadir chose a quiet life after war-one without public redemption, but filled with private healing. You moved somewhere green and open, where he could breathe without ghosts on his heels. He built things- fences, furniture, a little greenhouse just for you. "You deserve beauty," he said, watching your fingers graze the leaves. He never spoke much about the past, but you felt it in the way he held you gentle, careful, reverent. "I never imagined a future, "he confessed one rainy morning, arms around your waist. "But now I can't stop picturing growing old beside you." His smile was rare, but when it came, it was yours alone. A silent vow. A new beginning.
Alex Keller
Alex became a local legend in retirement- teaching self-defense classes, fixing up old motorcycles, and charming the entire town. But no matter how far his reputation spread, he always came home to you. "You and me, we beat the odds," he'd say, grinning while flipping pancakes in the kitchen. He took hundreds of photos-sunsets, rivers, your sleeping face-all tacked to a wall labeled Life After. "Every one of these," he said once, pointing to the wall, "is a reason I'm glad I survived." He never lost his humor, never let the light leave his eyes. Loving you wasn't a second chance. It was his first real life.
Kate Laswell
Laswell approached retirement with grace, settling into coastal living with her sleeves rolled up and a smile just for you. She didn't stop strategizing-now it was vacation itineraries, home renovations, garden planning. "I still need to be useful," she'd joke, sipping wine beside you. But she also learned how to be still-quiet mornings curled up on the porch swing with a book and your hand in hers. She touched you like a memory she never wanted to fade. "I didn't know I could have this," she confessed once, voice thick. "You gave me forever. Let me spend it loving you." And every day, she did -fully, tenderly, without fail.
Vladimir Makarov
No one expected Makarov to retire. Yet somehow, there you both were in an abandoned countryside estate turned sanctuary. He didn't call it peace, just "the silence between storms." He cooked for you, guarded the gates, and buried the weapons beneath the rose garden. "I was never meant & to grow old," he told you, lips brushing your temple. "But you... you rewrote the script" His love was sharp and possessive, but no longer cruel. He carved a ring from iron and slid it on your finger without ceremony. "If I must live," he murmured, "then let it be with you. And if I ever fall, bury me beneath the roses you planted."
Hi Dov can you do a story where Maekar and Baelor help their wife ( reader insert) during labour and then hold their tiny baby for the first time ( relating to the size thing with these men) and their wife melts from seeing them with the tiny baby. I don’t know if this makes sense. I love your stories your writing is so good.
This was my first request!! I'm so excited that I wrote it all out in one sitting oops. Hope this is what you wanted and THANK YOU for the request and your kind words ❣
meeting their tiny newborn for the first time
Includes: Baelor Targaryen x wife!reader / Maekar Targaryen x wife!reader
Warning(s): mention of pregnancy and delivery, and a shit ton of fluff
Baelor had faced a lot of things without flinching.
He had stood in war councils where men argued about acceptable losses with the particular detachment of people discussing grain yields. He had ridden into battles where the outcome was genuinely uncertain. He had sat beside his father through long nights of difficult governance and never once let the weight of it show on his face in ways that would not serve the room.
He had believed himself, if not fearless, then at least practiced in the management of fear.
He had not, it turned out, ever been truly afraid before.
This was afraid.
You had been in labour since before dawn. The maester had assured him twice now that everything was progressing as it should, which was the sort of statement that contained enormous room for interpretation and therefore provided approximately no comfort whatsoever. The women moved around the chamber with purposeful efficiency. Candles burned. The fire had been built high.
And you were — gods, you were extraordinary.
That was the thing that kept striking him at irregular intervals, breaking through the fear with the force of something obvious that he nonetheless kept rediscovering. You were working harder than he had ever seen any person work at anything, with a focused endurance that humbled him completely, and between the waves of it you looked at him with those exhausted clear eyes and occasionally squeezed his hand and once told him he was allowed to tend to other matters if he needed to.
He did not even make the slightest attempt to move.
He stayed exactly where you needed him, which was beside you, holding your hand with both of his and being as steady as he knew how to be while internally dismantling at a rate he hoped was not visible on his face.
“You are doing wonderfully,” he said quietly, during a brief respite.
“You do not have to—” a sharp breath. “—say that.”
“I am not saying it to be kind, my love. I am saying it because it is true and you should know it.”
You looked at him. Even exhausted, even in the middle of something that was consuming your entire body, you looked at him with that expression that had always made him feel simultaneously seen through and held.
“You are terrified,” you said softly.
“I am perfectly—”
“Baelor.”
A pause.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Somewhat.”
Your fingers tightened around his.
“Me too,” you said. “Stay close.”
“I am not going anywhere,” he said while approaching to kiss the crown of your head. “I promise you I am not going anywhere.”
The baby arrived as the afternoon light turned gold through the windows.
Baelor heard the cry before he saw anything else — small and furious and immediate, announcing itself to the room with the complete conviction of someone who had things to say — and something happened in his chest that he did not have a name for.
At least not yet.
The maester’s voice. The women moving. And then, after a small eternity measured in held breath—
“A girl, your grace. Healthy. Perfect.”
You made a sound that he would remember for the rest of his life.
He looked at you first. Always you first. Your face, tear-streaked and exhausted and suffused with something so luminous it barely seemed like an ordinary human expression — relief and love and wonder all arriving simultaneously and too large for any single face to contain cleanly.
“Baelor,” you said. Barely above a whisper.
“I am here, my love.” He brought your hand to his lips. “I am right here.”
Then the midwife was beside him and there was a bundle of linen and a very small face and she was saying something about holding her and he was—
He was holding his daughter.
The world went very quiet.
She was— gods, she was so small. He had known, in the abstract, that newborns were small. He had not understood, in any way that mattered, what small would mean until this moment — until he was standing here with her cradled in arms that had carried swords and shields and all the heavy machinery of war and finding that she occupied barely a fraction of the space. Her entire self fitting within the span of his chest. Her head, impossibly small, resting in the crook of his elbow.
She had stopped crying.
She was looking at him — or looking in his direction, her dark unfocused eyes finding his face with the vague determined attention of someone trying to make sense of entirely new information — and he was looking back at her and the world had narrowed to exactly this.
This small person. This extraordinary, perfect, impossibly small person.
He was not aware of the tears until one landed on the linen and he blinked and discovered, with some distant surprise, that his vision had become blurry.
He did not attempt to correct it.
“Baelor.” Your voice, soft and wondering.
He looked up.
You were watching him from the bed with an expression he had never seen from you before. Something that contained all the love he had ever felt from you and something additional besides — something that seemed to arrive specifically from the image of him standing there holding her, from the particular sight of those large careful hands cradling something so small and fragile with such absolute and instinctive gentleness.
“Come here,” you said softly.
He crossed to the bed. Sat carefully beside you. Adjusted his hold so you could see her face and he could see yours and she was between you both in the golden afternoon light and he thought, with the total clarity of a man who has just had something fundamental rearranged inside him—
This.
This was the thing everything else had been in service of. Every council, every campaign, every careful year of doing what was right and needed. It had all been moving toward this room, this light, this small face between them.
“She is perfect,” he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended.
“She is.” You leaned your head against his shoulder. “What do you think she will be like?”
Baelor looked down at his daughter, who had reached a conclusion about his face and seemed to find it acceptable, her tiny features arranged in an expression of profound seriousness.
“Formidable,” he said quietly. “If she gets the traits of her mother.”
You laughed, soft and exhausted and warm against his shoulder. His daughter, apparently opinionated about the noise, made a small sound of commentary.
Baelor felt something move through him that he understood, with complete and quiet certainty, was going to be the dominant experience of the rest of his life.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Then to yours.
“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair. For her. For this. For all of it.
You said nothing. Simply tucked yourself more firmly against his side and looked at your daughter in his arms with that luminous exhausted expression.
The afternoon light moved slowly across the room. Outside, the world continued with its business. In here, the three of you existed in the particular golden quiet of something just beginning.
And Baelor Targaryen, who had faced many things without flinching, held his daughter in careful hands and felt, for the first time in his life, that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
The maester had made the mistake, approximately two hours into the labour, of suggesting that Prince Maekar might be more comfortable waiting in the adjoining chamber.
He had not suggested it again.
Maekar stood at your bedside with his arms crossed and his jaw set and the expression of a man conducting a military assessment of every person in the room and finding most of them wanting. He had said nothing for several minutes, which you had learned over the years was not the same as him being calm. Maekar silent was Maekar building toward something.
You recognised the signs.
“He is moving too slowly,” Maekar said. Quietly. To you, but loudly enough.
“He is moving at the correct pace,” you said.
“How would you know what the correct—”
“Maekar.” You said his name with the specific weight that meant not now and felt his hand tighten around yours in response.
A pause.
“He should be doing something,” he said. Lower this time.
“He is doing something. Several things. You are simply not qualified to evaluate them.”
A sharp look. “I am perfectly capable of—”
Another wave of pain hit you and whatever he had been about to say dissolved instantly. His hand tightened further around yours — not hurting, never hurting, but gripping with the focused urgency of a man who had decided that holding your hand was the one useful function available to him and intended to perform it to the absolute best of his ability.
“Breathe,” he said roughly.
“I am aware of how breathing works.”
“You were holding it.”
“I was managing it.”
“Breathe properly.”
“Maekar—”
“Please.”
You breathed properly.
He exhaled when you did, which told you everything about the state of him that his expression was working so hard to conceal.
An hour later, though, he had progressed from silent assessment to active commentary.
“That draught he gave you an hour ago,” Maekar said, his eyes tracking the maester across the room with the focused attention he usually reserved for opposing forces on a battlefield. “I want to know what was in it.”
“It was for the pain.”
“I know what it was for. I want to know what was in it.”
“Maekar—”
“I am asking a reasonable question.”
“You are interrogating a man who is trying to help me deliver our child.”
“I am ensuring the man helping you deliver our child is doing so competently.”
The maester, to his considerable credit, had developed over the course of the afternoon a practiced ability to continue working while being watched with open suspicion by a Targaryen prince. You made a mental note to thank him afterward. Possibly with a substantial gift.
“My prince,” the maester said, with the careful diplomacy of a man navigating a known hazard, “I assure your grace that everything is progressing—”
“You said that an hour ago.”
“And it remains true, your grace.”
“Then why—”
“Maekar.” You squeezed his hand hard enough to redirect his attention. He turned immediately, violet eyes finding your face with that instinctive priority he had always given you over everything else in any room. “Look at me.”
He looked at you. The aggression in his posture dropping several degrees the moment his focus narrowed to your face.
“Come here,” you said. He obeyed instantly “You are frightening them.”
“I am not frightening anyone. I am asking reasonable—”
“You are frightening everyone including me slightly, and I know you.”
His jaw tightened. “I am not trying to—”
“I know.” You brought his hand to your cheek, held it there the way he could never quite resist. Felt him go still beneath it immediately, the tension not disappearing but quieting. “I know you’re not. But I need you here.” A beat. “With me. Not over there making the maester nervous.”
A long pause.
“He should not be nervous,” Maekar muttered. “He should be competent.”
“He is both. They are not mutually exclusive.” You held his gaze. “Stay with me.”
His thumb moved against your cheek.
“I am not going anywhere,” he said roughly.
“I know. But stay with me. Here.” You pressed his hand more firmly against your face. “Stop watching him and watch me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The frustrated helpless energy of a man built for action being asked to simply endure settling into something quieter and more painful beneath the surface.
“I cannot do anything,” he said. Very quietly, just for you. “I cannot — there is nothing I can—”
“You are here,” you said. “That is everything. That is all I need.”
His throat moved.
“That is not enough,” he said. “It is not sufficient—”
“Maekar.” You waited until his eyes found yours fully. “It is enough. You are enough. Just hold my hand and stay with me.”
A long shaking breath left him.
He stayed. For about forty minutes before the maester said something about positioning that Maekar found professionally inadequate and you had to grip his wrist with both hands to prevent him from offering a detailed counter-assessment.
“He is wrong,” Maekar said, with quiet fury.
“He has delivered hundreds of babies before this one, my love.”
“That does not mean he cannot be wrong about—”
“Maekar Targaryen.” Your voice came out with the specific gravity of a woman who is in labour and has reached the limit of her available patience. “If you say one more word to that man, I will not speak to you for a week.”
A pause. “You would not.”
“Try me.”
He closed his mouth.
Turned back to you with the expression of a man who had been outmanoeuvred and knew it and was choosing to accept this particular defeat gracefully.
“Fine,” he said stiffly.
“Thank you, my love,” you sighed in contentment.
“I still think he—”
“Maekar.”
Silence. The maester, across the room, exhaled a breath he did not know had been holding in.
The baby arrived as the evening bells rang over the city. Maekar heard the cry and went completely still.
It was so sudden and so total — the change in him — that it was almost more striking than the sound itself. One moment he was wound tight with barely managed tension, the next he was simply still, every line of him arrested mid-motion by that small furious sound filling the room.
The maester’s voice. The women moving efficiently. And then—
“A boy, your grace. Healthy. Strong lungs, as is evident.”
You laughed. It came out exhausted and wondering and slightly tearful all at once.
“Maekar,” you managed.
He was already looking at you. Had been looking at you, you realised, from the first cry — not at the maester, not at the baby, at you. Making sure. Checking every detail of your face with that focused violet gaze that missed nothing.
“I am alright,” you said immediately. The breath that left him was enormous.
Then the midwife was saying something about did his grace wish to and Maekar was turning and there was a bundle of linen being placed in his arms and—
He went very still again. A different kind of still this time. You watched it happen.
Watched the exact moment Maekar Targaryen, fourth son, the sword of his family, the man who had spent his entire life being hard and necessary and difficult to reach — looked down at the small face in the crook of his arm and simply—
Stopped.
Not frozen. Not rigid. Just— stopped. Like every process that was not directly related to looking at his son had been suspended indefinitely without his input.
The baby was so small.
You had known he would be. You had tried to prepare for it. But the reality of it — the reality of those large, scarred warrior’s hands, hands that had held swords and pulled bows — cradling something so impossibly small and fragile with an instinctive care that looked entirely natural and entirely new all at once—
Something happened behind your sternum that you had no name for.
“Maekar,” you said softly. He did not respond immediately.
His eyes had not left his son’s face. The expression on his own had moved through several things in rapid succession — shock, something raw and bewildered, something that looked almost like fear of an entirely different quality from anything that had come before — and settled finally into something you had never seen from him.
Something completely undefended. Wonder. Just wonder. Plain and helpless and entirely his.
“He is—” Maekar started. Stopped. Started again. “He is very small,” he said finally. His voice was completely wrecked, and you did not think he was aware of it.
“He is,” you agreed gently.
“I did not—” He stopped again. His arms adjusted fractionally, infinitesimally, with a care that made your heart clench. “I was not prepared for how small.”
“I think no one ever is.”
Maekar looked up at you then. And gods — the look on his face.
You had loved this man through prickliness and fury and walls built so high you had needed a running start to clear them. You had loved him in every version of himself he had ever reluctantly allowed you to see.
Nothing had prepared you for this version.
This man, enormous and scarred and quietly terrifying to most people who encountered him, standing in the candlelight holding a baby who occupied barely a quarter of the space available in his arms, looking at you with his eyes wet and his expression completely bare and something in him so thoroughly dismantled that there was no telling when or whether he would manage to put it back together.
You were not certain he would want to.
“Come here,” you said. “Both of you.”
He crossed to the bed immediately. Sat beside you with the careful deliberateness of a man transporting something precious and fragile, which was new enough from Maekar that it made your chest ache sweetly.
He adjusted his hold so you could see your son’s face.
Your son looked back at you both with the vague unfocused intensity of someone assembling a picture of the world from very limited initial data.
“He has your mouth,” Maekar said quietly.
“He has your brow.”
“Gods help him.”
You laughed softly. Maekar’s mouth moved at the corner.
Then he looked back down at the baby and the almost-smile faded back into that open wondering expression and he was quiet for a long moment.
“I did not know,” he said finally, just for your ears, “that it would feel like this.”
“Like what?”
A pause in which he seemed to search for words with the usual difficulty and the unusual willingness.
“Like everything I have ever been angry about,” he said slowly, “was because I did not have this yet and did not know what I was missing.”
The tears that had been threatening for the better part of an hour arrived without further warning. Maekar noticed immediately, and his free hand found your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye with that careful gentleness he had spent years learning to let you see.
“I did not mean to—”
“You didn’t,” you managed. “That was— Maekar, that was the most beautiful thing you have ever said.”
He looked faintly alarmed by this information. “I have said better things.”
“You genuinely have not.”
He looked at you for a moment. Then back at his son. Then back at you.
“I love you,” he said. Gruffly. Plainly. The way he said things when he had decided that the time for managing them had passed. “Both of you. I want that to be — I need you to know that.”
“We know,” you whispered.
Your son, apparently having formed a sufficient initial picture of the world, made a small sound of opinion about it. Maekar looked down at him with an expression of complete helpless adoration that he was not even attempting to conceal.
“He is going to be very loud,” he said.
“He is your son.”
“That is not—” A pause. He closed his eyes for a beat and sighed. “I suppose that is unfortunately fair.”
You leaned your head against his shoulder. He pressed his lips to your hair and held them there, the way he always did when words were insufficient, which was more often than he would ever admit.
Outside the window the city bells rang the evening hour. Inside, the candles burned warm and low and your son regarded the world with serious violet eyes that were going to break hearts someday, you were already certain of it.
And Maekar Targaryen, who had spent his entire life being told what he was for, held his son in careful hands and finally, completely, understood.
a few friends had gathered to celebrate a mutual friend’s engagement, and of course, to fawn over the giant rock sitting pretty on her left hand.
“it was the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,” she says, eyes misting up. “flowers everywhere. candlelit dinner on this beautiful terrace. he even hired a string quartet.”
everyone awws at once.
you twist your own ring around your finger.
“you’ll never believe what james did for me!” someone else says, and like it always does when you all get together, it becomes less of a conversation and more of a contest.
they all take turns gushing over their partners and all the grand, romantic gestures that have happened recently, each story somehow bigger than the last. flowers. surprise trips. hotel rooms covered in rose petals. tickets to shows they had only mentioned wanting to see once.
all in some absurd, glittering attempt to prove who is adored more.
they all turn to you.
what had you and simon been up to recently?
you swallow.
the last date the two of you had been on had been watching a movie on Netflix, takeout and wine littering your coffee table, your legs thrown over his lap while he rubbed absent circles into your ankle.
it had been nice.
it had been normal.
but at this table, normal feels embarrassingly small.
“when you’ve been together so long, and with his schedule, it’s hard, y’know, to find those moments—”
another friend waves her hand, not unkindly, but ready to move away from what clearly wasn’t going to be an interesting enough story.
“that’s why you have to find those moments. what has he done for you lately? like for example, jack just planned this entire weekend getaway for us after my boss had been such an asshole and it was so romantic. he bought us tickets to—”
her voice begins to fade into the background.
you look down at your ring again.
it’s not that you think simon doesn’t love you.
of course he loves you.
he loves with the weight of his hand at the small of your back in crowded rooms. he loves with the way he always sleeps closest to the door. he loves with the way he notices when you are too tired to eat and sets something in front of you without asking. he loves with the way he comes home half-dead and still checks the locks, the windows, the thermostat, anything that might touch you before it touches him.
but sitting there, surrounded by candlelit dinners and surprise weekends away, a different question curls itself beneath your ribs.
does he still care?
you had already known what you’d signed up for when starting this relationship. simon was never one for giant declarations of love or grand, pretty spectacles. he didn’t perform affection well. never had.
hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time he’d brought you flowers or planned a proper date.
you shuffle in your seat.
“that’s really sweet,” you sigh.
rugby playing on the tv is what greets you, simon fully settled on the couch, a beer in hand.
his head lifts as soon as he hears your key in the door, shoulders falling even more relaxed at the sound of your footsteps entering the house.
usually, that would be your cue.
you’d toe your shoes off by the door, wander straight to the couch, and drop yourself onto him like it was the most perfect fit. he’d grunt like you’d knocked the air out of him, even though you both knew he could carry you around the house with one arm if he wanted to.
you’d recount whatever pointless gossip had been fed to you that morning, and he’d pretend not to be listening while remembering all of it.
instead, you busy yourself with the mail in the kitchen.
simon notices.
because of course he does.
you try the sink next, if only to give your hands something to do.
the tap sticks.
you yank it harder, and when nothing comes out but a high-pitched wheeze, you let out a frustrated groan.
simon is behind you before you can even turn around.
“probably clogged,” he says.
you sigh.
“i can call a plumber tomorrow.” then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to face him. “we should do something tonight.”
his head tilts.
“we are,” he says, voice low and rough with confusion. “watching that new movie you wanted to see.”
you make a small noise under your breath.
his eyes flicker from the sink to you.
“no, si. i mean get dressed up. go out.” you swallow around the embarrassment already forming. “a real date.”
“why?”
your stomach lurches.
you know him. know he doesn’t mean it with any malice or cruelty.
but after an entire morning of listening to women talk about being chosen loudly, extravagantly, beautifully, that one word lands like proof.
why would he need to?
why would he think to?
why would he care to?
why would you ask for more when this is what you agreed to?
“forget it,” you say quickly, already stepping away. “i have a bit of a headache. ’m going to take a nap.”
simon says your name, but you don’t turn around.
the clanking of metal banging against each other is what wakes you.
for a moment, you don’t move.
you just lie there, blinking at the dim light of your bedroom, listening to the low metallic scrape from somewhere down the hall. the house is quiet around it, warm with evening, the television now turned down low enough that you can barely hear the commentator’s voice.
another clank.
a muttered curse.
you rub at your eyes and make your way to the kitchen.
simon has wedged himself inside the cabinet beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting in the cramped space, one arm braced against the floor while the other reaches up into the mess of pipes above him.
“si?”
he grunts, focused on giving the valve one final screw and your gaze follows down to the toolbox lying next to his hip.
“line was damaged,” he says from under the sink. “it’ll need replacing proper, but i’ve got it for now. try it.”
wordlessly, you step to the sink and lift the handle.
water rushes out, hot and clear.
for some reason, it makes your eyes burn.
simon shifts, dragging himself out from under the cabinet with a quiet exhale. he sits back on his heels and looks up at you from the floor, forearms smudged, hair mussed, expression unreadable except for the little crease between his brows.
“i told you i could call a plumber,” you say.
he shrugs.
“got me right here, don’t you? i don’t mind.”
your chest tightens.
because it was never going to be flowers. it was never going to be candlelit dinners. it was never going to be a string quartet playing underneath a perfect night.
it was always going to be simon, sitting on your kitchen floor with a wrench in his hand, looking at you like the solution to a problem is obvious because he’s already there.
you sit down at your kitchen table, eyes already watering from overwhelm, when a memory comes so quickly it almost embarrasses you.
you, curled on the couch with him months ago with your laptop open, showing him a table from architectural digest with the sigh that you do when you’ve found something you absolutely loved.
“look at this, simon. isn’t it perfect?”
he had just hummed as you continued scrolling before you start laughing.
“absolutely not. who spends five thousand dollars on a table?”
simon hadn’t said much at the time. he rarely did when something lodged itself somewhere deep in his mind. continued stroking your hair, looked at the screen for a second longer than necessary, and went back to whatever match had been playing on the tv.
three weeks later, there had been lumber in the garage.
then sketches.
then sawdust tracked through the hallway.
then simon, scowling and cursing at a video tutorial, rewinding the same twenty seconds over and over until he understood the joint he wanted to make.
you’d laughed then.
you remember that, too.
you remember standing in the garage while he sanded the surface smooth, remember telling him he was insane, remember him saying it wasn’t that hard with all the grim seriousness of a man who had absolutely made it hard.
you remember the first night you ate dinner at it.
you remember how pleased he’d looked when you wouldn’t stop touching the grain.
you remember tearing up at the effort before sinking to your knees beneath that very table and thanking him so thoroughly that, to this day, he can’t sit at the damn thing for too long without his eyes darkening and his pants growing tight.
your eyes move across the room.
towards the cabinets he sanded down because you said the old ones made the kitchen feel too dark.
the backsplash he learned to tile because you had paused too long on a photo of handmade ceramic.
the wall he knocked through because you hated how boxed-in the room felt.
the bedroom he painted three times because the first two colors looked different once they dried, and he had only sighed, changed shirts, and opened another tin.
a house that had been perfectly fine when you bought it, just never quite yours, until simon got it in his head that he could make it so.
your heartbeat quickens.
the whole morning suddenly feels absurd in a way that makes your chest ache.
his gaze lands heavy as he watches every expression form across your face.
“you wanna tell me what got you in a mood earlier?” he asks.
his voice is even, but his hand drums once against his thigh.
your six-foot-four lieutenant of a husband, nervous at the thought of upsetting you.
you shake your head at first
then stop.
because no, that isn’t fair either.
he does love you. he loves you in fixed pipes and sanded wood and walls torn down to let in more light. he loves you in the things he can touch, carry, mend, build. he loves you so steadily that it has become the floor beneath your feet.
but you still want flowers sometimes.
you still want to be asked to put on a dress.
you still want him to look at you across a dinner table he did not build and make you feel, just for an evening, like loving you is not only something he maintains but something he celebrates.
“i know you care about me,” you say quietly.
his brow furrows.
“never said you didn’t.”
simon stills.
“i know that,” you repeat, softer this time, because you do. God, you do. “I just… I think I need more sometimes.”
something shifts in his face.
“more,” he repeats.
you huff a laugh, embarrassed now. “not more than this.”
your hand moves over the table again and his eyes follow the movement.
“just more…” You search for the words, then give up on making them perfect. “more on purpose, maybe. dinner. flowers. you telling me to get dressed because you made plans. stupid things.”
“they’re not stupid.” he immediately corrects you, firm and like he’s already offended on your behalf.
you look up at him and he pushes himself off of the floor.
you watch him stand, slow and heavy, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it aside. he comes toward you with that careful, deliberate look that always makes your stomach dip, like every bit of his attention has narrowed down to one target.
you.
“friday,” he says.
you blink. “friday?”
“dinner.” his gaze drops over you, not subtle in the slightest. “wear somethin’ nice.”
despite yourself, you laugh, small and wet in disbelief at how easy it is with him.
simon’s hand comes up, thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear can fall.
“are you asking me on a date, riley?”
his mouth twitches.
“seems like i am.”
you look down at the table, at the careful seams, the polished wood, the impossible thing he made with his own two hands because you wanted it and he saw no reason you shouldn’t have it.
then back at him.
“good,” you say, standing slowly. “and since you fixed the sink…”
simon’s eyes darken.
you take one step toward him, then another, until your fingers catch in the waistband of his jeans and tug him close.
his hand finds the edge of the table behind you.
your table.
his eyes flick down to it, and whatever memory crosses his mind makes his jaw tighten.
you smile.
“careful,” you murmur. “you look a little proud of yourself.”
his hand settles heavy at your waist, lifting you to rest on the edge.
Simon is actually the one who brings home the cat in the first place.
He was on a mission, camped out on a high ridge, when he suddenly feels a very light weight sitting on his back. There's a deep, sort of hiccupping, rumbling noise that turns out to be the cat's purr. It's really taking advantage of the fact that he can't move without revealing his position to the enemies.
Afterwards, the cat refuses to leave him alone and no one else will take it, so he ends up with it.
Only, once he gets it home, the cat decides it actually prefers your company over his. He would be more annoyed about it if you weren't so enamored with the little beast.
It does everything with you. Sleeping, eating, even bathing. No matter what, it decides it has to be wherever you are at all times.
"Traitor." He mutters to it one day when it curls itself in his spot on your lap.
Meanwhile, he was pretty much just chopped liver in its eyes. At best, a food source, but that was it. It could literally not care less about him.
And he wonders why you named it "Simon"...
Captain John Price
John doesn't want a cat. He doesn't even want a dog. He's the kind of guy that thinks all pets are dirty and far too much work for him. You knew this coming in.
That's why he really cannot believe his eyes at what he's seeing.
"What," John stares at the small, rather wiggly, bundle of blankets in your arms. A tiny pair of bright green eyes is staring at him. All he can do is blink back, "is that."
You glance down at the tiny kitten in your arms, "It's a cat."
He pinches the bridge of his nose, "I know what it is. I want to know why you have it."
"He was just sitting on the stoop!" You hold the kitten up to your face, "C'mon, John, it's destiny!" You gently wiggle the little creature back and forth.
The kitten mews loudly. That alone is daring him to say no.
Unfortunately, when it comes to you, he is a very weak man.
"Fine," He sighs, "But you're the one who cleans up after it."
"Thank you, thank you!" You kiss his cheek and rush off, tiny kitten still in your arms.
Despite his complete refusal to have anything to do with the kitten, you still find him later, snoozing in his favorite chair with the cat curled up around his neck. Doesn't want a cat...yeah, right.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Kyle likes your cat well enough, but doesn't really care too much about how they feel about him. He kind of sees them like a tiny roommate who cannot care for themself, but that's it.
Then, to your cat, he is essentially just another human to do its bidding.
Kyle is in your kitchen, preparing coffee for the two of you. Your cat is sitting on the counter beside him, watching.
He feels a small tapping on his forearm and looks over to find the creature's paw outstretched and resting on his arm. Their eyes are intently staring at him.
"Whatsit, huh?" He scratches under their chin, "You...thirsty?"
It squawks in response, which tells him nothing. He's pretty sure that's a negative though.
"Hungry?"
Another squawk, leaning more into a mrow. He decides to take that as him getting closer to the root of the problem.
"...D'ya want a treat?"
This time, he gets a loud meow.
"Okay, okay, I'm working on it." He opens the fridge and tugs out the little bag of cat treats you keep around, "Demanding little thing."
Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish
Johnny loves your cat so much, it is actually ridiculous.
From the beginning of your relationship with Johnny, your cat is his little buddy. His bestest friend. There is no separating them.
What makes it even funnier?
Your cat loves him just as much, maybe even more.
Johnny steps foot in your home and the very first thing you hear is a questioning "Meow?" from a distant corner, out of sight.
He grins at you and whistles shortly.
There is the sound of small paws sprinting in your direction as your cat responds, only a blur of color as it latches onto the leg of his pants and tears its way up into his arms, making little noises of curiosity and excitement the entire time. As soon as it reaches his shoulders, it settles down with a satisfied meow, pushing its face into his.
Johnny's smile gets brighter and you only roll your eyes and snatch your cat off his shoulders, hugging them to your chest as you stalk off towards the kitchen. You willfully ignore the loud protesting meow your cat lets out.
Johnny, however, doesn't. He pads behind you, "Aw, c'mon, bonnie! It's not his fault he likes me more!"
"Don't start." You roll your eyes. Your cat wiggles in your arms, trying to get to escape and get back to his favorite human.
"Ah'm jus' saying! Ye shouldnae be jealous tha' Ah'm his favourite!"
Girldad!Dunk because all I can imagine is this man, with a teeny tiny little girl sitting on his knee, teaching her to sew and mend or making flower crowns.
Girldad!Dunk because I want to see him with this baby that looks absolutely tiny and fragile in his arms (because she is), but anyone else holds her and you realize just how chunky she is.
Girldad!Dunk saying he's glad she's taken after a beauty like you and not a lunk like himself. Girldad!Dunk learning to love parts of himself after you point them out in your daughter.
Girldad!Dunk making sure to call her smart and beautiful every single day— he doesn't want her to inherit any of the self-loathing he has ingrained in himself.
Girldad!Dunk taking Maekar's offer to come to Summerhall, because although he is done with princes, he knows it would give her a chance at a better life than he ever had.
Girldad!Dunk shyly asking the maester at Summerhall, if he got the time, is there any chance he could teach her how to read? All he wants in this world is for his daughter to have more than what he did.
Girldad!Dunk wearing her clumsily made favor at tourneys (really, you did most of the work, but she helped!) and when he wins, he rides right past the royal and noble boxes to the crowds to crown your daughter Queen of Love and Beauty.
Girldad!Dunk teaching his daughter as she gets older how to wield a sword, because of course he's going to, she'll need to know how to protect herself.
Girldad!Dunk, and because the smallfolk tend to name their daughters after flowers, she's called Daisy, and whenever he sees one he brings it to her.
Taglist - Ask to be added! @h6avenly @qardasngan @nanamin-chan @beebeechaos @dont-try-pesticide
I have a bigger girldad headcanon with all the guys in the works, but who knows when that will be done, so enjoy this in the meantime!
Please like, comment, and reblog, and let me know what you thought or what you'd like to see next, my askbox is always open!
