what kind of bird are you?

Henry Letham (Stay)

realises during a quiet late-night in his studio

you’re sitting on the floor surrounded by his half-finished paintings reading while he’s having a silent internal anxious episode about how much he hates this painting

he looks over at you just quietly reading looking cute and his world stops spinning. for the first time in ever he actually wants the company of someone else instead of wanting to be alone during these moments

crawls down onto the floor to sit with you and plops his head in your lap

becomes super protective and clingy after he realises he's down bad

Ryland Grace (Project Hail Mary)

one of his students asks him if he's in love with you (they met you ONCE to drop off his lunch that he forgot) and he gets all blushy and hides behind a giant science textbook until they drop it

(they don't: the only way to get them to shut up is to say OK FINE yes i love her. then they start calling him Mr. Love. sigh)

goes home and thinks about it like wait that's a good question

tells you about it and you're like "haha kids are crazy. what did u say tho???.."

he pauses and puts his bags down then says: "well. i said yes"

you're super happy but you don't make it a big deal just kiss him silly (his glasses are all crooked and he's covered in lipgloss marks, grinning like an idiot)

writes your name in the margins of his notebook like a lovesick student eeee

Ken (Barbie)

obvs it's in the most dramatic, over-the-top way possible

you do something tiny like comfort him when he realises you have to deal with patriarchy ("so, it's not just horses?")

once he calms down from crying about that, he looks up at you stroking his hair and realises he is crazy about you

has a full internal crisis and starts crying again until you're like ?? is it about the horses again?? but he won't tell you what's up

starts planning a ridiculous romantic gesture then and there to profess his love to you

Holland March (The Nice Guys)

he is for sure drunk and pathetic on your couch. he's like a homing pigeon to your apartment: no matter how drunk he is, he will find his way to yours easy (somehow can't get himself to his own house tho)

you’re cleaning his wounds and calling him an idiot for getting involved in whatever mess it is this time

you stick a cigarette between his lips and light it to shut him up. he freezes and is 100% erect in 2 seconds flat

"that's the sexiest thing i've ever seen in my life" + pulls you onto his lap while you squeal and pout for him to let you finish patching him up

"i think i love you" "you're just saying that because you're drunk" "no i'm not. i'll say it again tomorrow"

wakes up with the WORST hangxiety and is like "did i say i love you? good. because i meant it"

Lars Lindstrom (Lars and the Real Girl)

clocks on slowly and gently over many many many moments

hits him when you smile at him warmly while doing something ordinary together, or come outside to bring him a cup of cocoa whilst he's chopping wood

gets all shy and overthinks it for days, hiding away before accepting it. you're like "lars i've not seen you in a week did i do something?" and he hangs up the call, drives straight to your house and kisses ypu for the first time

⤷ “hey sweetheart, did you need som–”

⤷ “shush, i’m concentrating”

⤷ if he had a rough day teaching (or a bad interaction back when he was still in the scientific community), he immediately seeks out your comforting embrace once he gets home

⤷ one day while you were kissing his face, he reached up to remove his glasses so they weren’t in your way

⤷ when you realized what he was doing, you interlocked your fingers with his to stop him, and continued about your business

- Colt Seavers -

⤷ he’s down bad for you, so anything you want, it’s yours

⤷ cuddles? hand holding? kisses? your wish is his command

⤷ please be careful while snuggling with him though, this poor boy has at least ten bruises on him at all times from getting thrown around for his job

⤷ you both like laying on top of the other when relaxing, and Colt falls asleep every time

⤷ if you’re draped over him, he’ll have his arms wrapped around you and knock out in minutes– he claims you’re like a cozy weighted blanket

⤷ on the flip side, if he’s laying on top of you, he’ll bury his face in your neck and drift off while your hands comb through his hair

⤷ whenever he’s sitting in a chair, you like standing in front of him to hold his face and press gentle kisses into his skin

⤷ Colt just sits there and soaks it up, completely drunk on your love

- Holland March -

⤷ oh you’re touchy? don’t need to tell him twice— he’s allll over you

⤷ especially when he’s drunk, Holland’s hands are physically unable to stop roaming your body

⤷ one time, when you were guiding him to his car after a night out (he was DRUNK drunk), he was shocked to find a pretty girl on his arm and couldn’t stop spewing out cringey pick up lines

⤷ you just buckled him up, kissed him on the cheek, and got in the driver’s seat

⤷ he normally blacks out after drinking too much, but his resolve to stare at the pretty lady driving him home won out

⤷ after a particularly long day of detective work with Healy, he’ll collapse into your arms without hesitation

⤷ likes to bury his face in the crook of your neck or lay on your stomach if you guys are lounging

⤷ you idly scratch his head or play with his hair in these positions, and he absolutely melts

⤷ when he’s smoking, you’ll kiss him around his neck and face… sometimes the cigarette gets forgotten as a result

- Court Gentry -

⤷ BIG MUSCLESS… who said that

⤷ anyways you’re one of his “safehouses”

⤷ every time he shows up at your doorstep all battered and bloodied, he berates himself for always endangering you even though he’s double and triple checked that he wasn’t followed

⤷ before the regret can fully sink in, you never fail to dissipate it when you embrace him and usher him inside

⤷ to Court, your house is cozy and warm, but your arms are warmer

⤷ when he gets in his head about how dangerous his job is and how he’s risking your life, you shut him up with a kiss and firmly restate that you’d rather take the risk of being with him than choose to be with anyone else

⤷ if it was an especially rough mission, you force him straight to the bathroom where you turn on a hot shower and prep first aid materials

⤷ you take your time to wash him, and Court finally lets himself relax while you lather him up and massage his tense muscles, careful to avoid his injuries

⤷ in bed, you love to delicately trace his scars, fingers just barely ghosting his skin

⤷ you also make a habit of reaching under his shirt, running your hands along his abs

⤷ when he inevitably has to leave, the two of you stand in front of the door for a while, with you slowly kissing his face and refusing to let go

⤷ “darling, I really need to leave now”

⤷ “one more minute, please”

⤷ when you whisper into his ear like that with that pleading tone, he can’t refuse

- Jacob Palmer -

⤷ as much as you love touching him, he’s equally all over you

⤷ he’s used to girls getting with him to ogle at his body, so when you simply caress his face and hold his hand, he falls hard

⤷ the two of you spend a lot of time in bed, morning and night, just talking about life while being a mess of tangled limbs

⤷ he never realized it before you, but he loves being held– with previous girls, he was always the one to take the lead and initiate touch, but now that he has you, he’s able to let loose and be the one receiving all the affection

⤷ spooning is the go to sleeping pose, and you guys definitely switch between being the big/little spoon

- Lars Lindstrom -

⤷ back when he was still hesitant to touch you, he would often give you his special blue blanket to snuggle with 

⤷ whether you guys are at church, on a walk, or resting at home, holding pinkies is a must

⤷ one morning, he was putting on one of his many sweaters, and you took a special liking to it

⤷ “that’s a nice sweater”

⤷ his head whipped up to look at you, and after a moment of processing, he couldn’t repress the genuine smile spreading on his face

⤷ you held the sleeve of his sweater for the rest of the day, and you couldn’t help but notice that he wore it a little more often ever since

⤷ at night, he’s grown accustomed to falling asleep with his hand intertwined with yours

⤷ you’ll work up to cuddling/spooning, and you reassure him there’s no rush

⤷ Lars was pleasantly surprised to find that your touch doesn’t burn as much as others

- Officer K -

⤷ for the longest time he only had Joi, so this boy is touch starved like crazyy

⤷ he loves coming home to you and he deeply treasures the fact that he has someone tangible to hold and be held by after a long day

⤷ you’ve formed this nightly ritual of him coming home and collapsing into your arms– you like to lay there as he tells you about his day while you rub soothing circles into his back

⤷ if his hunting job was particularly brutal or bloody, you gently peel off his clothes, draw a bath for him, and help him clean up

⤷ his favorite part is when you wash his hair– the way your fingers scratch his head just right and how they trail down his shoulders to gently squeeze his arms really gets him

⤷ one rainy night, he led you out to the rooftop, hands intertwined as you let the rain hit your skin and drench your hair

⤷ he reached out to tuck your soaked hair behind your ear, and when he let his hand hover beside your head, you guided it to rest on your cheek, nuzzling into it

⤷ K doesn’t smile often, but in that moment, he couldn’t help it because of how real everything felt to him

- Sebastian Wilder -

⤷ one of your favorite pastimes is to curl up with him at night and listen to his grand plans for his club, all while absentmindedly tracing shapes on the palm of his hand

⤷ after his performances, you love pulling him in by his tie for a kiss (and he’s so into it)

⤷ when you’re done with him, his tie is loose and his hair is all messed up, but he’s got this drunk smile plastered on his face

⤷ you guys go out to jazz clubs at least once a week, and without fail you’re holding his hand under the table

⤷ he’s a traditionalist, so he loves offering his arm to you whenever you guys are walking together, which you gladly take

⤷ your shared bed is small, but it doesn’t even matter because of how thoroughly entangled you guys are while sleeping

- Ken!! -

⤷ after a long, laborious day of beach, he’ll happily prance into your open arms (beach is not an easy job!!)

⤷ if you’re holding on to his arm, he’ll puff out his chest a little and deliberately walk past the other Kens to make them jealous

⤷ you love running your hands down his abs or feeling up his biceps and this man absolutely soaks it up

⤷ he lovesss when you make him feel macho

⤷ but in the privacy of your dreamhouse, Ken will cling to you like a koala

⤷ bonus: one day, you asked him to stay the night to cuddle, and let’s just say his reaction was NOT as subtle as he thought it was

⤷ he had to excuse himself (which meant walking a few feet away, still directly in your line of sight) to triumphantly pump his arms and yell “SUBLIME!!”

⤷ he comes back all nonchalant, so you just scoff with a smile and drag him inside your dreamhouse by the hand

He nudges his way as politely as possible through the groups of people dotted here and there around the bar. Place is busier than usual, now that he thinks about it. Almost like half the town's trying to blow off steam from the long work week gone by. The booths are all taken, they always do fill up early enough - a lot of rodeo fans trying to land themselves a cowboy for the night, or any man convincing enough to look like one. Rhett avoids eye contact. Won't make that mistake again.

There's an empty seat near the end of the bar. He's willing to bet the change in his wallet that there's something wrong with it. Everyone knows that if there's an empty seat left in The Buckle, it's not by accident. He decides to stand next to it instead. Better that than risk his ass when it inevitably breaks. If he's going to embarrass himself tonight, he'd rather not do it stone cold sober.

The plan is to have two drinks, three at a push. He'll take his time on the ride home, roll the windows down to keep himself alert. Empty road the whole way out to the Abbott ranch, no one'll be the wiser. Hell, he'll sleep in the cab of his truck if he has to - wouldn't be the first time.

He scans the room as subtly as he can as he orders, trying to pinpoint any potential unwanted conversation - the Tillersons, namely. His poor head's already suffering from the sweltering heat of the day, he doesn't need their shit on top of it.

So far, so good. No one he recognises. Nothing beyond a quiet nod of acknowledgement, at least, and he's thankful for that. But for some reason, he finds himself faltering. Gaze flitting back to the same point, to the far side of the bar. He shouldn't stare - his ma would tell him she taught him better than that - but he can't help it. It's not often he finds himself distracted like this. His family love giving him shit like he's hooking up with someone new every other night, but it's not like that at all.

Every time he tries to make himself focus on something else - anything else - his attention's drawn back to you. There's someone sitting next to you, but they're completely absorbed in conversation with the person on the other side of them. Your head's bowed slightly, as though you're looking at something he can't see from here, and a half-empty glass sits in front of you.

It looks like you're alone. Surely there'd be no harm in-

No. He needs to shut that thought down before it even has a chance to start. Odds are you're waiting for someone. Or they're here already. Maybe they're buying you another drink, or they're in the bathroom. There's no way someone as pretty as you could be here by yourself. He takes a bigger drink than he meant to, swallowing it with a grimace. This is stupid, the whole point of coming out was to get some time to himself. And now here he is, unable to concentrate on anything other than this stranger sitting across from him.

He finishes his drink, wincing as he sets the bottle down too hard. Even over the bustle of the room, the sharp sound draws your attention over to him.

Your eyes meet his. He needs to look away, stop staring, but he can't seem to make himself move at all. You give him a little smile, before ducking your head to take a sip of your drink.

He feels like an idiot. But you smiled at him. A real, genuine smile too- not one of those polite grimaces to save face. Lord knows he knows the difference by now. Or maybe he's just seeing what he wants to see.

He drums his fingers against the empty beer bottle, trying to make up his mind. What's the worst thing that'll happen if he does go over to you? Maybe you'll gently let him down and send him on his way with his tail between his legs. Maybe you'll chew him out for making assumptions, or your big bastard of a boyfriend will catch him and knock his ass into the dirt. All great options. He could really do without another busted nose.

But then he spys you looking over at him. And this time, when you smile, it's bigger. Warmer.

Fuck it.

Steeling his nerves, he makes his way across the room, taking his time as he does. Doesn't wanna come off as desperate - even though his heart's pounding harder than normal.

There's a look of surprise on your face when he manages to slip in beside you. But the smile's still there, and suddenly he doesn't feel just as worried.

He leans his elbows against the bar, hands firmly clasped in front of him. Gives the room another quick scan while he tries to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Rhett's no self-proclaimed Casanova by any means, but this isn't like him. He's not normally so nervous.

Must be something about you.

"I hope I'm not interruptin'," he says at last.

You shake your head, closing a small notebook that Rhett's only just noticed sitting in front of you. "Don't worry about it. It's not like I can even hear myself think with all this noise, anyway," you reply, slipping the book and a pen into your bag. "To be honest, I just needed out of the house for a while. Felt like I was about to go crazy."

Rhett laughs. "Preachin' to the choir here."

He turns towards you, holding out his hand.

"I'm Rhett, by the way."

You take his hand in yours, introducing yourself as well. He tries not to dwell on how soft it is compared to his own.

"I know who you are," you tell him, and there's something about the way you say it - he can't quite put his finger on it, but you sound almost shy.

"Well, now you've got me worried," he jokes with a lopsided smile. "Who you been talkin' to?"

When you pull your hand away, he sneaks a quick glance down. No ring. His gaze meets yours again, like nothing ever happened.

"I've been to some of your competitions," you explain. "You're good, by the way. Like really good."

Rhett's no stranger to a compliment - he works damn hard at what he does - but he's never been one to take praise well. Blame his Pops for passing down his stiff upper lip. But for some reason, it feels different coming from you. Almost like he wants to hear you say it again.

Would you get it together already?

"Thanks," he manages to force out, busying himself with trying to catch the bartender's attention.

He gestures towards your glass and holds up two fingers, before making another attempt at conversation. It's never been his strong suit, and he'd be the first to admit it.

"You new in town?" he asks. "Feel like I should've seen you around before now. Wabang's a pretty small place."

"I moved here just over a month ago," you reply. "It's been kinda slow-going, getting everything organised. Been living out of boxes longer than I'd like to admit."

You pull a face, as if you're embarrassed. Rhett has to stop himself from asking if you need any help with unpacking. You just met, it'd look weird. Luckily, the bartender sets two drinks in front of you both, providing a decent distraction.

"I'm trustin' you with this," he teases, tapping his finger against the side of the glass.

You smile as you reach for a straw. "Fair warning, it's a little strong."

You weren't kidding. Rhett's immediately sucking in a breath through his teeth after the first taste.

"Oh, that's dangerous," he says with a grimace. "How many of these have you had?"

You just laugh, which doesn't seem like a good sign. He's about to ask again when you're leaning over, concentrated on something across the room.

"Oh, look, an empty booth!" You slip out of your seat, nudging at Rhett gently with your elbow. "We should take it before someone else does."

Rhett quickly grabs his drink and heads after you. This is going far better than he was expecting. Maybe his luck's starting to change. It's about time.

He slides into the seat across from you. You look so proud of yourself, and Rhett's finding it harder and harder not to stare. Blame the alcohol.

"Y'know, I was about to ask if you were here by yourself, but I think you practically kidnappin' me's answer enough," he quips, feeling strangely bold.

The offended look you level him with would have him worried if you weren't trying so hard to hold back a laugh. "Please. As if you didn't follow me willingly."

You've got him there.

"What does it matter, anyway?" you ask, taking another drink.

Rhett follows suit. It's a bad idea and he knows it. Whatever's in this thing is lethal.

"Well, to be honest with you…I guess I just find it hard to believe someone as pretty as you would be sittin' in a bar all alone on a Friday night. Don't make sense to me."

It slips out of his mouth before he even realises what he's saying. Your eyes widen, as if that was the last thing you were expecting him to say. Your gaze flicks to one side for a second, and the sudden discomfort on your face is hard to ignore.

"Oh, no," you mutter anxiously.

Rhett's heart sinks. He's taken it too far, of course he has. It was only a matter of time before he fucked it up. He's about to try and backpedal, apologise - whatever will fix his mistake - when you're tugging at his arm and turning your head to face the wall.

"Pretend we're talking," you tell him softly.

Rhett frowns, confused. "Why? What's-"

"I'll explain later," you interrupt, tone nervous. "I just need you to do this for me. Please?"

The look on your face is worrying him, but he decides not to press you any further right now. He leans closer to you, saying any old thing that comes to mind to make it look like you're completely engrossed in conversation.

"There you are. I was starting to worry you'd run off home," comes a voice. "Lucky I found you."

Rhett doesn't even need to see who's talking to know that he already can't stand him.

"Who's your friend?"

It's hard to miss how his voice sours on the last word. You're staring hard at a spot on the wall, still acting like you didn't hear anything.

"Hey. Sweetheart. I'm talking to you."

Rhett thinks he's been polite long enough. He glares up at the unwelcome party. He's a big guy - taller than Rhett by a few inches, broader too. He knows him. Murphy Something. A last name's not coming to mind, but he knows his family, and they're all trouble. Worse than the Tillersons - Murphy especially. Guy's been kicked out of half the bars in Wabang, and he never seems to learn from it.

"We heard you," Rhett says, with what little calm he can muster.

He's not about to start trouble. Especially not in front of you.

"Last I checked, pal, I wasn't talking to you." Murphy jabs an accusing finger in your direction. "I was talking to her."

Rhett gives him a tight-lipped smile. "And I'm talkin' to you," he replies, tone more clipped than he'd like.

He's trying his damnedest to keep his cool, but he's never been good at it at the best of times. And this asshole's really starting to get under his skin.

"You're not seriously gonna sit with a loser like him, are you?" he asks, as if Rhett's not even there.

Rhett gets to his feet then, taking a slow breath in through his nose as he does. This doesn't have to end in a fight. His fingers twitch reflexively all the same.

"She's not interested. So why don't you get outta here before you embarrass yourself any more than you already have, huh?"

Murphy rolls his shoulders back, making himself look taller than he already is. Rhett stands his ground. He's dealt with enough bulls in his line of work. He can handle this one.

"Like I said. I wasn't talking to you."

Rhett sucks his teeth. He's fighting a losing battle against his own temper right now. He slips out of the booth, taking a step forward, then another. Height difference or not, he makes damn sure he's staring this guy down.

"I told you. She's not interested. Now back off."

His tone is still calm, but his jaw's clenched tight enough to hurt. Murphy's loud, obnoxious laugh right in his face tips him too close to the edge.

"Or what?" he sneers. The boozy smell on his breath makes Rhett grimace. "What are you gonna do?"

Another step closer. Rhett's playing with fire.

"Somethin' I'm not gonna regret in the slightest," he says through gritted teeth.

"Big talk from a man who can hardly last ten seconds on a bull," Murphy spits. "I hope you fight better than you ride, Abbott."

A tug at his arm pulls Rhett back down to Earth for a second.

"Rhett, please, just leave it alone," you plead quietly. "You don't have to do this."

"Stay outta this, sweetheart," Murphy tells you in a patronising tone.

His hand inches towards yours, as if to pry you away from Rhett, and Rhett's tired of pretending to be the bigger man. He grabs Murphy's wrist, wrenching it back. He may be smaller, but he's stronger. And less drunk, which is definitely working in his favour. Before Murphy can attempt to fight back, Rhett's already moving. He twists his wrist, hard, shoving his arm up his back and slamming him down against the table. Murphy lets out a pained wheeze as the table's edge hits his middle, knocking the wind from him.

The sudden hush that falls over the room is eerie. Music still crackles from the old jukebox speakers, but Rhett knows the whole bar's staring at him now, afraid to move. He can't really bring himself to care.

He leans in, making sure that Murphy can hear him loud and clear. His grip doesn't let up for a second.

"Talk to her like that again, and I'll break your fuckin' arm. Got it?"

He starts pushing Murphy's arm further up his back.

"Got it?" he hisses.

It doesn't take long before Murphy cracks. "Okay, okay! Just get off me already, fuck."

Rhett lets him go then, stepping back to straighten his now rumpled shirt. His gaze doesn't once leave Murphy until he's shamefacedly stumbling out the door.

He takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair, pushing back a few strands that have fallen loose. Slowly, the chatter begins to pick back up, as if nothing had happened. Rhett's not sure if the bartender's happy to finally see the back of Murphy, or if she knows Rhett well enough by now to know that he's not one for getting into a fight without just cause. He's just grateful that he's not being thrown out on his ass as well.

When Rhett turns to you, he's full of anxiety. "Look, I'm sorry about…all of that," he says quietly. "I know you tried to stop me, and I understand if you want me to leave you alone. God knows I've embarrassed you enough."

To his surprise, you shake your head. "How about you buy me another drink and we'll forget the whole thing?"

Rhett doesn't need to be told twice.

One round turns into two, then three, and all too soon, the bartender's calling time. Rhett squints at his watch. Shit. So much for a couple of quiet drinks.

He wants to ask how you're planning on getting home, but even in his current state, he thinks better of it. Normally, he wouldn't care so much, but he doesn't want you to get the wrong idea about him.

While he's distracted with his racing thoughts, you're busy too - scribbling something into your notebook before tearing the page out.

"Here," you say. "I don't normally make a habit of handing my number out like this, but…"

You slide it across the table.

"You seem different, Rhett," you tell him. The sincerity in your voice isn't lost on him. "If I'm reading all of this wrong, you can just throw it away. But-"

"You're not," Rhett interrupts. "I promise."

You stare at him for a moment, before your smile widens. You slip the book back into your bag and slide out of the booth.

"Thanks for tonight."

You lean down, pressing a quick kiss to Rhett's cheek before you leave. He just watches you go, lost for words. Part of him wants to go after you, but he knows he shouldn't. Maybe it's the drink talking, but it feels like there might be more to all of this. More to you. He shouldn't throw it away just because he wants to pull you back and kiss you.

Not quite trusting himself, he waits another minute or so before he heads out. The sudden rush of cool air leaves him feeling dizzy, and he can't seem to stop himself from smiling.

Rhett's not the most optimistic at the best of times, but this? Somehow, this feels different.

And who knows? Maybe it's the start of something good.

Taglist: @getaapologist @nomajdetective @pullmanstankeoghanbailey

Now, even more kids had their full, undivided attention on you, closely monitoring your little interaction while their food went cold. To them, getting to witness their teachers’ love lives unfurl was infinitely better than eating a stale peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

The most peculiar thing was Ryland’s reaction to your close proximity. His students watched in amazement as their favorite clumsy, shy, nerdy science teacher who often tripped over his own two feet seemed entirely unaffected by the fact that you were a few inches away from his face. In fact, he might have leaned in.

Olivia rubbed her eyes and squinted, not even trying to disguise her blatant staring at this point. Before she could check again, Ryland was already speed walking back to his classroom, no doubt hustling to prepare the science lab he had planned for today before the flood of kids came back from lunch.

She turned back to her classmates, many of which were still watching his retreating figure. Others had their eyes trained on your classroom door, lost in thought. 

She started the conversation everyone was itching to have. “So, we all saw that, right?”

A chorus of agreement echoed amongst the small crowd, quickly devolving into hushed gossip and frantic whispers.

“Is it just me, or did Mr. Grace have a little more pep in his step just now?”

“Oh totally— and he definitely didn’t want to leave her classroom.”

“What about her? Did you guys see the smile she gave him?”

“What about the smile he gave her?”

Before the debate could continue, the bell rang, forcing the chatty kids to trudge back to their classes in unanimous disappointment at their conversation getting interrupted. Unbeknownst to you or Ryland, this was only the first of many times this hot topic would be brought up amongst your prying students.

— - — - —

The second time was during a school assembly.

Students and faculty alike were gathered in the multi-purpose room, with the kids sitting to face the stage and the teachers lining the walls of the large room. The principal, an abysmally monotonous man, continued to drone on about rules, regulations, and upcoming events, much to everyone’s disappointment.

Your kids were supposed to be paying attention, but a large number of them had their heads twisted in awkward positions, trying to sneak a glimpse of you and Ryland.

The two of you were standing in the back with less than a foot of distance separating you. Periodically, Ryland would lean down to whisper in your ear, making you giggle at his words. In turn, you’d reach up on your tiptoes to whisper something in response, and he’d nod with a soft smile.

A few teachers nearby shot you looks of disapproval for being disruptive, and you mouthed a quick apology to your peers. Not thirty seconds later though, your head was inadvertently turning back to Ryland, and he did the exact same. 

Despite being told off not a minute earlier, the two of you continued to talk in hushed voices, trying to be even more discreet than before. Honestly, you guys might’ve been worse than the children.

James, a particularly rowdy student in Ryland’s class, turned to Sarah, who could easily match Olivia’s smarts in your English class. Both of their watchful eyes never left the two of you at the back of the room. He murmured to her, “I get it’s cramped, but they definitely don’t need to be standing that close.”

“Agreed,” she muttered back.

Olivia wasn’t far, and decided to join in on the conversation. “Mr. Grace is totally blushing every time she reaches up to whisper in his ear.” She had no qualms about exposing her science teacher, which made James and Sarah unexpectedly laugh.

Before they could get out another word, the meanest, crankiest teacher to ever curse Grover Cleveland Middle School with her presence snapped her head towards them, shushing them ten times louder than they were speaking.

“If you three don’t stop talking, it’ll be detention for a week,” she snarled, beady eyes watching them like a hawk.

Regretfully, they clamped their mouths shut, but the three of them, along with everyone else that had been watching you and Ryland, were all thinking the same: you two seemed awfully close, both physically and socially.

— - — - —

The third time took place after school, during the murky month of December.

The San Francisco weather decided to attack the school with an onslaught of rain, making it almost impossible to walk in the open without getting assaulted by vicious pellets of water. 

A cluster of students huddled inside the safety of the school building, waiting for their parents to roll up to the front of the campus so they wouldn’t get completely drenched on their way to the car. 

Olivia, while looking through the window at the dismal conditions outside, noticed you standing under an overhang alone. You had your coat drawn tight around you, trying to keep the frigid air out and your body heat in, and your eyes periodically wandered to the screen of your phone, like you were waiting for someone. Perhaps someone was coming to pick you up?

Before she could continue that thought, a familiar teacher’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Hey kiddos,” Ryland waved to the small group as he approached. “Waiting for parents?”

He was met with a series of nods, making him crack a smile. “Alright, make sure you all get home safe, yeah?”

“Yes, Mr. Grace,” some students said in unison.

Ryland chuckled and continued towards the door, raising his hand as a silent goodbye. With his other hand, he carried an umbrella, well prepared for the harsh rain.

Most of her peers looked away as Ryland pushed the door open, but Olivia kept her eyes trained on her teacher. As soon as he stepped outside, he made a beeline for you, already starting to open the umbrella.

He must have called out your name, because you turned to greet him, perking up with a warm smile. An easy conversation flowed between the two of you as he made his way over, but the next part made Olivia’s jaw drop.

Like clockwork, the two of you set off towards the parking lot, sharing the umbrella without missing a beat of your conversation. Ryland’s larger frame made you seem small in comparison, and he was mindful to keep the umbrella lower and slightly more on your side, ensuring you were fully protected from the rain. His left shoulder, on the other hand, started to get slightly wet, but he seemed to pay no mind as he listened to you talk with a genuine smile.

“Guys. Guys!! Look!” was all Olivia managed to say before a horde of students rushed to the window, trying to get a better view of their favorite teachers recreating this classic romance trope. 

“Move, I can’t see ‘em!”

“Hey you’re shoving me!”

Then, a collective hush fell over the group, and Olivia craned her head around her peers to get a glimpse at what they were staring at. A small gasp escaped her too.

It was difficult to see due to the far distance and the reduced visibility in the rain, but it was unmistakable. There was Ryland, covering you with the umbrella as you got into the passenger seat of a car. After closing the door behind you, the science teacher walked around the front of the car, got into the driver’s seat, and slowly reversed out of the parking spot. 

He wasn’t just walking you to your car. He was driving you home.

The silence lasted a moment longer before the group erupted into excited chatter, each kid trying to talk over the other.

“What the hell was that??”

“He offered her a ride home, obviously! It’s raining hard, so he’s being a gentleman!”

“They seemed so comfortable with each other though, what’s that about?”

“What if they’re dating?”

That last question caught everyone’s attention. Sure, it had definitely crossed everyone’s minds, but most brushed it off. It seemed unfathomable. Could their beloved, klutz of a science teacher really pull someone as gorgeous as you?

“No no,” someone finally cut in. “Mr. Grace wouldn’t have the guts to ask her out in the first place.”

“Yeah,” another chimed in. “Maybe he’s just crushing on her!”

A chorus of awww’s resounded throughout the room, and the debate of your relationship status was momentarily settled.

— - — - —

The fourth time shattered all of their conspiracy theories of Mr. Grace merely pining over their English teacher, because it was clearly something more.

It was finally that time of the year— prom. Most kids stood in clusters with their friends, while other, braver souls worked up the nerve to ask their crush to dance. The low lighting provided a moody atmosphere despite the upbeat party music, and compliments were constantly getting thrown around over dresses, shoes, and hair-dos. A typical middle school dance.

Of course, all school events required supervision, so you and Ryland volunteered to chaperone this year. You guys were standing in the back of the room, looking like you were engaged in normal conversation. You in a modest black dress, Ryland in a simple dress shirt and tie.

What you didn’t know though, were the dozen or so pairs of eyes locked onto your figures from the opposite wall, hidden in shadow and whispering furiously.

“Dude, look at the way he stares at her!”

“He’s so in love.”

“Quit staring so hard, they’ll notice you.”

Meanwhile, you and Ryland were casually chatting away, completely oblivious to your students’ antics. 

You sucked in a breath, a little hesitant to bring up something that’s been gnawing away at your mind for the past few months. Ryland, as always, immediately noticed. “What is it?” he asked. 

“Oh, I dunno,” you sighed.

He gave you an expectant look, silently questioning if you really thought he wouldn’t notice something’s been bothering you. It was true— no one could read you as easily as Ryland.

“Fine fine,” you smiled, “it’s just… have you noticed our kids acting a little, um,”

“Weird?” he finished with a knowing look.

“Exactly. Recently, if we’ve been talking, I’ll turn away from our conversation and find a handful of students staring at me from across campus. It’s unsettling.” You shuddered just thinking about it.

“I get it,” Ryland agreed while surveying the area. His eyes met the small group of kids that had been staring at you guys, all of whom were now looking at the ceiling, the ground, each other— anywhere other than in your direction. It was painfully obvious. You shared a look with Ryland, both of you shaking your heads before bursting into laughter.

Suddenly, a slow song came on, and you turned to Ryland with a soft smile. He was quick to offer his hand, which you accepted with a mock curtsy. In your little corner, the two of you swayed to the soft melody, lost in your own little world. All that mattered in the moment was the feeling of each other’s arms and the warmth of your shared love.

As you let the rhythm wash over you, you turned to Ryland, voice barely above a whisper. “You think they’re watching?”

“Oh I know they’re watching,” he huffed.

You let out a small giggle, amused by how involved your students were in your relationship. Brushing off the thought, you decided to just let teenagers be teenagers, instead focusing your attention on the way Ryland’s strong hands held your own.

And your students on the other side of the room? They were going ballistic while watching you. 

“So he really pulled her? They’re dating?!”

“This is insane.”

“Someone needs to document this.”

“Why are they so cute??”

— - — - —

The school year was finally coming to a close, and everyone agreed they simply couldn’t leave the case of you and Mr. Grace unsettled. After much deliberation amongst the class, they all came to the consensus that today was the day. They were going to get answers out of you guys, whether you liked it or not.

They went to great lengths to corner the two of you. Olivia planted a note in your class, trying her best to mimic Mr. Grace’s handwriting: Meet me in my class after school.

You didn’t think much of the forged note. Ryland often slipped you random things, so you folded it up and tucked the parchment away, packing up to head over to his class like you often did.

In Ryland’s classroom on the other hand, he was wrapping up a lecture on cell anatomy just as the final bell rang. He clapped once, starting to erase the whiteboard. “Alright kiddos, we’ll finish this up tomorro—”

As he turned around, he was more than a little stunned to see his entire class still seated, desks cleared and their full attention bouncing between him and the door. 

“Oookay, what’s going on,” he said slowly, trying to follow their gaze. “Did I imagine the bell ringing, or..?”

And then, when you walked in, it all clicked for Ryland. He turned to his students, gaze sweeping over their smug smiles and looks of anticipation. 

You gave a little knock to signal your entry, “Hey Ry, you wanted to see...” you trailed off, noticing about thirty kids staring at you when you entered. You slowly made your way to his side, watching the class with a glimmer of amusement in your eyes. “What’ve we got here?”

“This is a set up,” he sighed. Not a question, but an observation. He placed his hands on his hips and tilted his head, unsure of whether to smile or frown, so he opted for shaking his head in disbelief. 

As the designated question asker, Olivia raised her hand, and Ryland nodded in confirmation for her to speak. “When did you start dating?”

They expected flustered denial, a poor cover up story, or for you guys to dodge the question completely. But to everyone’s shock, you and Ryland turned to each other simultaneously… and started laughing. 

“Wh— What’s so funny?” James asked.

“Yeah, haven't you been trying to hide it this whole year?” another chimed in.

You waved your arms dismissively, shoulders still shaking with laughter. “Well, not exactly.”

Ryland just pinched the bridge of his nose, still in disbelief that his students thought you were dating.

“So, what’s your relationship then?” Olivia asked. Everyone leaned in, awaiting your response.

With a sly smile, you glanced at Ryland, then looked over the group of teens practically about to fall out of their seats in anticipation. “Well,” you started. “Let’s just say… I use my maiden name while teaching.”

Olivia let out a huge gasp, and the others whipped their heads toward her, clearly still confused.

“What?”

“Olivia, what’s that mean?”

Kids were clambering to get her attention, but Olivia just continued to stare at you in shock, and you just gave her a small nod of encouragement. Slowly, you reached to interlock hands with Ryland, and he squeezed your fingers with affection. He turned to give you a helpless smile, like he was silently apologizing for his students’ behavior. You just softly chuckled, choosing to lean your head on his shoulder instead.

 “You— she—” Olivia could barely get the words out.

Her peers groaned in frustration, “what is it?!”

Then, you dropped the equivalent of an atomic bomb in the middle of the room— you raised your left hand, flashing a modest diamond ring adorning your finger.

Everyone was stunned, and Olivia confirmed what they were all struggling to believe. 

“It means,” she said slowly, “Her last name is Grace.”

“Is it poison?” she questions Grand Maester Gerardys, her arms crossed on her chest.

He nods. “It seems as so. We believe it is from the wine she drank at supper.”

“Can’t you open a window?!” you yell with a cracking voice.

Silence fills the room after the outburst. Both Rhaenyra and Gerardys glance over. You do the same once you see a smile fall over her face, one she fails to bite back.

The windows are open.

“All of the windows are open, princess,” Gerardys mumbles.

“Yes, I can see that now, thank you.” Your head falls back onto the pillow, allowing your dampened hair to reconnect with your sweaty nape and back. “Will I die tonight, Gerardys?” you question, almost joking.

“No, no, princess,” he says. “Not tonight.”

Your head shoots back up from its resting position. Rhaenyra is already looking at him, any sign of her former coyness erased from her features.

“It seems the poison was mixed with the wine,” he begins. “Therefore, unless the culprit is found, it will be quite difficult to tell whatever was infused in the drink. And given your symptoms, unless somehow magically cured, there is not much I can do.”

“Not much you can do?” Rhaenyra exclaims, her arms now at her side.

Gerardys lowers his voice and steps closer to her. “Not unless you would like me to find a maegi.”

She takes one look over at you. You look full of fear, full of suffering, but most of all—full of regret. “That wont be necessary,” she mutters. “If you’ll let me speak to my sister alone?”

“Of course, your grace.” He leaves the room. Rhaenyra watches him go, not looking back until the door swings back shut.

She makes her way to your bedside so swiftly it was as if she was running. The screech of the chair she pulls to sit on hurts your ears more than any of the conversation you had just been put through. You wish your protector was here instead. He would be able to help you. He would have to help you.

“Tell me,” she commands, already leaning forward, her hands folded in her lap.

You lift your body off the sheets, but they stick to you as you rise. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t play the fool. You know what I’m referring to,”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t, Your Grace.”

She scoffs out a laugh after that. Two of her fingers settle on the bridge of her nose. “Your condition is of your own volition. If you tell me what you drank, it will be easier for me to find a solution.”

You look at her. She isn’t smiling. There’s no hidden agenda beneath her stoic expression, none of the small facial cues you spent your childhood learning to decipher. She truly wants to help you.

And your body feels like it could give out at any moment. No, you want it to give out at any moment. You’re starting to feel nauseous.

You’ll do about anything to stop whatever you did to yourself.

You exhale a heavy breath. “You mustn’t tell anyone what I did.”

Rhaenyra lets herself crack a smile. “Gods, sister, what did you do?”

“I am unwed. Undesired,” you mumble. “I thought it clever to…”

“To what?” Rhaenyra presses, leaning closer.

You sigh and cover your face with your hands. You mutter something so quiet you don’t even hear it in your own ears.

“What did you say?” she asks softly.

“I had a potion brewed.”

Rhaenyra lets out a sharp breath through her nose. “Oh, Gods, sister—“

“You don’t understand! The Realm’s Delight, the most beautiful maiden in all of the Seven Kingdoms—you could have anyone and anything you desire!” you argue. “It isn’t the same for me. Even if it were, I don’t get to choose—”

“I’ve heard enough.” You finally remove your hands from your face, both now sheen with a layer of sweat as is the rest of your body. Rhaenyra is now standing at the edge of your bed, pacing back and forth. “When you had the potion brewed, did the alchemist tell you of any cure?”

“No…” you mumble.

“Well.” Rhaenyra sighs. She gazes over at you, but avoids your own. “I can presume what it is.”

You know what remains unsaid. It is torturous enough for your own sister to know of the humiliation you’ve brought upon yourself. For her, the queen, to be made uncomfortable by the revelation? You get a sudden urge to throw yourself from the highest point of the Red Keep. It would cure all of the emotions swirling in your head.

The writhing starts all over again. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your own body. In your peripheral, you can see Rhaenyra stop moving. She faces forward to look at you as you thrash around the mattress.

“I know what must be done,” she says. And she leaves the room.

You are left alone in your torture. Now seems about the best time to consider your future. You could jump from the window. It would be quick. You’d be remembered as tragic. Never wed, without children, lonely, jumped from her bedroom window after being poisoned—Rhaenyra would spread the word of poison. She wouldn’t subject the public to the truth.

You suck in a breath as you rise from the bed, dragging your feet to the window. The air fanning on your face makes you hopeful for about fives seconds before the sun finally catches on your skin and shines over the moisture on your skin.

The ache in your body almost certifies that you wouldn’t be able to hoist yourself onto the windowsill without some help.

Maybe your protector would help you. You could say you need more air. He certainly wouldn’t help cure your self-inflicted debilitation—he is too honorable. No—he’s too insistent on protecting your honor to do anything to you.

The door swings open again.

Rhaenyra enters first. You watch her panic once she does not immediately spot you on the bed, then watch her settle once she finds you by the window. There is someone behind her.

The person unveils themself from the shadows.

It is your sworn shield and protector. Ser Gwayne Hightower.

He steps into the room, and it is like your legs turn to water. He notices this, and dashes across the room to wrap his arms around your waist, stabilizing you. Once you are brought back to your feet, you let out a moan. It is almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t care less now.

Gwayne is touching you. Sometimes, the Gods do work in your favor. You slowly look up at him. He is already staring down at you, concerned at your condition, of course—and probably confused as to why you just moaned when he touched you—and you place a hand on his shoulder. Your other arm wraps around his bicep.

“I shall leave you to it.” Rhaenyra is out of the room with a slam of the door before you can look over to acknowledge her. When you look back, Gwayne still has his gaze fixed on you.

The contact you share feels truly breathtaking, perhaps because it is. It does feel quite hard to take in any air. You find your body inching closer to his, desperate for closer proximity. You feel your nipples, hard under your smallclothes, brush against his gambeson. You let your head fall onto his sternum, and it is then that you realize what you are doing, and immediately push away.

You stumble back to the bed, sitting on its edge, and shame washes over you. Gwayne hasn’t moved from his spot by the window. He still stares at you, however.

“My princess.” He steps closer. You hold up a finger as if to tell him to stop, and he does. “I cannot bear to see you in this condition. I only wish to help.”

“Help with what?” you breathe.

He remains silent.

“What exactly did Rhaenyra tell you?” you question.

Silence.

“Tell me. I command it.”

His gaze shifts to the ground. “Her Grace informed me of your condition.”

“You already knew of my condition. What else did she tell you?”

He looks back up at you. “She revealed to me the nature of your condition. What exactly brought it on.”

“Gods,” you mutter under your breath and squeeze your eyes shut. This cannot be real.

“How it can be cured,” he adds.

Your brows tighten. You hope that when you open your eyes again, he will be gone, and this will all have been a figment of your imagination.

When you do so, you find that this is the realest he has ever been. Ser Gwayne of House Hightower, in all his glory. He glistens in the flare of the sun. His hair, usually a light brown, shimmers auburn in the light. It looks similar to his sister’s in a certain light.

You can see the resemblance, him and his father. You would rather not, but it is there. He is certainly more alluring.

“I want to help you.” He takes a single step closer. “I need to help you.”

Your head is cocked to the side, though only out of exhaustion. It feels to heavy to carry yourself.

“When you swore yourself as my protector, I vowed that I would ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. What do you reckon this is?” you scoff out a laugh, feeling the whole situation truly ironic.

“It would not bring me dishonor if nobody discovers it.” His voice is low. He closes the window, then moves to close the other. “In fact, I swore first to protect you from any and all harm. I believe that prevails over bringing me dishonor.” You watch him then as he travels to the door. The lock clicks shut, and the sound of it travels to your core.

Not only is he able, he is willing.

He turns back to you, and you lock eyes. His brows are turned upwards at the corners—it is true, desperate concern etched onto his face. You can only imagine how disheveled you look.

You sigh, but it comes out as more of a moan, and let your head hang low.

Gwayne is across the room in a moment, kneeling down in front of you. He removes the gloves from his hands, settling them on the ground beside him, and then places his hands on your clothed thighs. The contact draws the linens slightly upwards. How you wish he would just slide them all the way up and just kiss your cun—

You close your eyes and draw in a long breath.

“Tell me what you need,” he purrs. Your eyes shoot back open, and his hands move to hold your hips. “I am yours.”

You want to. Gods, who are you kidding? You need to tell him, because he will do it, but you can’t. The words freeze on your tongue. Where do you even start?

But he is knelt before you, almost pathetic in his attempt at a remedy, so eager on helping you.

Why must you tell him?

You grab the cloth at your thighs and curl your fingers enough times until it is bunched up near your crotch. All that prevents him from laying eyes on your bare cunt is closed legs. You let them spread, gruelingly slow, pushing Gwayne’s hands from your hips in the process.

He does not look away from your face. “Tell me. Please,” he whimpers, letting his fingers graze the sides of your thighs.

You stammer, and squirm once more. “I need you to touch me,” you declare.

Gwayne nods once. “As you wish.”

And he hoists your legs over his shoulders and his face inches closer and closer to your core until his lips latch onto your clit. And finally, for once since drinking the stupid wine, you feel bliss. You’ve never felt something like this before.

It surges through your body and your entire body twitches violently. Gwayne lifts his arms up and grips your hips back again, using the hold to tug your cunt farther into his mouth. He eats you like a man starved.

You did not realize of the noises you were making until you nearly screamed, letting your head fall back. Your hands snake into his hair, pulling his head closer to your core.

He releases your clit from his lips. “Tastes so good—my princess—” his words fan over your damp slit, and he leans down to lick a thick stripe from bottom to top, collecting your arousal into onto his tongue. He swallows it with a loud gulp.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Gwayne continues his assault on your clit, sucking down hard. Your hips roll toward the allure of his lips. You are panting and gasping, hand bunching up his hair into your fist.

Heat flows through your entire body. It is a mix of the feeling you felt upon drinking that curséd wine and something incredible. True, pure ecstasy. You feel the blood of the dragon in you now. You understand it.

An unfamiliar ache begins to tighten in your lower stomach as he persists in lapping at your cunt. Nothing in your life has ever felt so good. You wonder if this is the true effect of the wine, or if it is just because it is your first time—you cannot really think about anything else. His tongue flattens and rolls against your clit and you choke on a moan.

Your muscles tense, your toes curl, and your heels dig into his back. His tongue presses and prods against you and he can feel it coming, the way your thighs tighten around him and shake and spasm.

Shudders wrack your body as you cum. He does not stop even when you do, even when your moans crescendo, his tongue still relentlessly ravishes your cunt even after you fall back onto the bed.

Finally, he lets go of your core with a wet pop.

It is then that you realize the burn has subsided. Relief washes over you momentarily.

But it returns as quickly as it went away. It flows through your body and you feel desperate for him once again.

He crawls up your body, caging you in between his arms, searching for something beneath your fucked-out expression.

“It isn’t enough—” you declare, your breath labored.

“What do you require?” Gwayne rasps, using a hand to brush your hair off of your forehead. His touch wavers in concern when he realizes the scorch of your skin.

“I need—” you paw at his clothed cock. “Your—”

“My what?” he pants.

“I need you inside,” you mutter.

Without a word, he begins shedding his garments. You were simply too dazed to admire it. Perhaps if there is a next time—Gods you hope there is a next time—you’ll get to do exactly that.

He is crawling back over you in an instant, his body bare. You run your hands up his chest, dragging the ball of your hand over his sternum. His cock hits your pelvis.

Your smallclothes, practically wet at this point, Gwayne lifts slightly at your waist. “Would you like me to take this off?” he asks.

You nod lazily.

He shimmies the linen up your body. “Sit up for a moment, sweet girl,” he instructs, and you obey.

They are finally, finally off, discarded somewhere across the room, and it feels much better being exposed than you expected it to be. There is no insecurity when you are with him. He just wants to help.

He grabs a pillow from off the head of the bed, lifting your hips up with a swift sleight of hand and shoving it under. “For your comfort,” he clarifies.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his elbow resting beside your shoulder, as his other hand reaches down to grip his cock.

You look into his eyes, trying to search for anything past pure devotion and adoration for what he sees before him, and failing. Your lips falter as they reach up to lock with his. He meets you halfway.

Your hand tangles in his hair, pressing his head down harder onto your wet lips. The kiss is unpracticed and messy. Has he done this before? With anyone else, you mean. You should ask once you finish.

Gwayne enters you in a slow thrust, inhaling the noise you make into his mouth. His hand, the one that was cradling your cheek, finds itself on the nape of your neck.

His lips depart from your own, and he presses his forehead against yours, looking down to watch his cock sink into your cunt. He withdraws and sinks in once more, just to see it again. And again. And again. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the torturous drag of his length into you.

Your lips are parted, throat singing moans so frequent you’d think you were performing for him. You know you are being too loud. It feels impossible to be anything but.

Those gorgeous blue eyes of his find their way back to yours. "Oh—fuck, look at you," he praises, no longer needing the arm that guided his cock into you to guide his cock into you, so he raises it up to your mouth.

His thumb glides over your teeth, and then pushes past them. You wrap a hand around his wrist and suck on the digit. Up and down, up and down, as if it were his cock. He almost freezes inside of you.

Your hand slides up his, grabbing his pointer and middle-finger, swapping his thumb out for them. You do the same to them, bobbing your head up and down, moaning around them, and Gwayne fucking whimpers.

He resumes his movements. His cock throbs, your walls wrapping around him, sucking him in like you were made for him—or more so he was made for you, because he was. He is your man. He will be your man until the day he dies.

His fingers leave your mouth, and your saliva connects to the pads of them. He takes them into his own mouth momentarily.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling his body down to connect to yours. His hand snakes between you, gripping your hardened nipple, earning a gasp from you.

“I’m yours, my princess,” he murmurs, drunk-like. “I’m yours.” And he presses his lips all down your neck, the trail all wet and sloppy.

You’re clenching around him, body spasming from under his caging hold. You feel close to a similar sort of climax that you felt only once before, just then when his head was between your legs. With each slap of his skin against yours, you are screaming. He mutters things, most you can’t quite catch, but they’re all something like that’s it, sweet girl, and let it out, my princess.

He uses his forearm to rise from the skin-to-skin contact you had forced him into. His fingers, desperate yet nimble, work themselves to the small of your back. The contact releases your skin from the suction of the pillowcase, and he lifts your hips up more with his arm now wrapped around them.

His pace quickens. You glance down, and nearly sob at the sight of him disappearing inside you.

“Gwayne?” you look back up at him. Again, he is already staring back at you, ready and willing to fulfill your every need.

“Yes, my princess?” he heaves.

“Kiss me.”

As you wish, is he would have said, if it weren’t for him immediately giving in to your wish. He kisses like he is eating you. Messy. His spit somehow finds itself all around your mouth. You don't notice that you do the same to him.

Your orgasm slams into you. It is a violent punch that knocks the wind out of you—you think you see the Stranger reaching out to you—then you feel Gwayne slow his movements and a thick liquid coat your insides. You babble incomprehensible speech as you ride it out.

“Fuck—” you hear him mutter, and pull out quickly. He runs a finger up your slit, not considering the fact that you were still beyond sensitive—you jerk back at his touch, still trying to catch your breath.

It was like all air was running from you. It probably was. You violently pushed it back out with every small inhale of it.

You finally come to, and realize he has been repeating the words fuck, fuck, fuck, since he pulled out.

“What’s wrong?” you raise a hand to hold his cheek, bringing his attention back to you.

“You don’t—” he pauses. And he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I wasn’t supposed to cum inside.”

You’re still confused. “What’s the problem?”

“That is how you get pregnant.” He lets out one last heavy sigh and then falls onto his back beside you.

You turn onto your side, resting your head on one of the arms he lies beneath your shoulder, and bringing a hand up to place it on his chest. His is still rising and falling as rapidly as yours is.

Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. He is none-the-wiser, but you still smirk at the action. Your man.

“Will you ask the maesters to brew me moon tea?” you mumble.

He brings his other hand to hold yours. “As you wish.”

You chuckle breathily.

“Are you—are you cured?” he says, playing with your fingers.

“I suppose so.” You sigh. The need for him no longer thrums through you in the way that it did before.

Now you want him in a different way. A normal, human, potionless way. The way you wanted him before you drank that wine—you thought it would make you seductive enough for him. It certainly worked, you assume.

the journey north had felt like an execution.

every mile carried you further away from warm stone halls and luxurious flowering gardens, and closer to a kingdom of snow you’d spent your entire childhood mocking.

you’d been promised a great marriage someday by everyone around you. perhaps a prince. perhaps an heir to the Rock’s most strongest allies. someone wise and cultured. someone rich beyond reason.

instead, your father had smiled when he announced you were to wed Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell.

a wolf.

you ignored your imbecile of a father for days afterwards.

now, winterfell loomed before you, ancient and grey beneath a sky that seemed incapable of producing anything except snow.

you hated the place already.

the gates opened as your wheelhouse approached. a man outside announced your arrival, your face cringing at his obnoxiously loud northern voice.

you climbed down from the wheelhouse without accepting anyones hand, lips curled into a scowl. your eyes swept across the courtyard until they settled upon a man waiting near the steps.

he was taller than any of your cousins or uncles, or any of the men back home, with broad shoulders hidden beneath his thick fur coat and hair dusted with snow. his eyes were gray and calm, simply watching as you stepped closer. not judging, not admiring, just watching.

“my lady,” he breathed as soon as you were near. he calmly introduced himself to you, his voice thick with an accent that was beginning to hurt your ears already. “i hope winterfell will become home to you in time.”

“i should pray not,” you replied harshly, brushing past him before he could answer and ordering for the servants to take you to your chambers.

cregans steward grimaced at your actions, glancing at cregan with alarmed eyes.

“she’ll settle,” he murmured quietly.

you refused to settle.

the wedding came a few days after your arrival, your vows spoken with a clipped tone and furrowed brows. you criticized everything during the feast that came after — the food, the music and the talent of the musicians, the weather, your gown. cregan tried to offer some comfort but was met with an annoyed groan every time he opened his mouth.

after it was all over, you disappeared into your chambers and stayed there for an entire day.

then three days.

three became five.

five became eight.

servants entered with trays and left with the food barely touched. some of the ladies of the castle tried to enter to make conversation, and you sent each one away.

every morning cregan would softly knock on your door and asked if you required anything from him.

every morning you dismissed him.

every evening he sent another warm meal to you.

every evening you barely ate any of it.

on the ninth day, cregan himself came to try to talk to you.

his first two knocks were ignored by you. on the third knock he chose to simply walk in. cregan stepped inside with a tray in his hand. bread, cheese, warm stew.. and even your favorite honey cakes that he’d been told you loved.

“i didn’t ask for your presence,” you snapped as soon as he entered.

“i know.”

“well then leave!”

cregan quietly set down the tray, glancing at you with those grey eyes of his.

“you’ve barely eaten for a week. be angry with me if you wish. starving yourself serves neither of us.”

“i would sooner starve than-”

“call for me once you’ve finished,” he interrupted, your eyebrows furrowing at his rudeness. “there’s more honey cakes in the kitchens, if you’d like some more.”

with that, he turned and left before you could explode on him, a little hurt at how easily you dismissed him.

weeks passed and your temper remained.

you wandered wherever you pleased, not caring about who you disturbed. you ignored your schedules and skipped meals with the household. you ordered servants around as if you were in casterly rock.

one unfortunate maid burst into tears after you screamed at her for giving your gown a simple wrinkle, insulting her intelligence and declaring that every servant in the north was useless.

cregan happened to be passing by your chambers as the girl fled upon your command.

“what’s happened?” he asked as he paused in the doorway of the room.

“i corrected her incompetence, that’s what,” you answered rudely. “it seems that all of your servants are beef witted, nothing at all like the ones back home.”

cregan stared at you incredulously, awed at the hatred you held for everyone.

“no,” he said as he stepped closer, “no, what you’ve done is humiliate someone who’s served this house faithfully since she was a child-”

“oh, spare me the lecture,” you scoffed, giving him an eye roll.

“you will apologize to the woman,” cregan commanded, the wooden floor creaking beneath his boots as he stepped even further inside.

“no, i will not.”

“i was not asking-”

“and i was not agreeing,” you replied, exasperated. you turned to walk away when a firm hand caught your wrist. annoyed, you turned back with your mouth open, ready to spew insults at your husband, only to be met with his once grey and patient eyes now turned cold.

“you’ve mistaken patience for weakness, wife.”

his voice lowered as he spoke.

“so let us correct that misunderstanding now.”

your heart beat a little faster inside your ribs. not from fear, no, but from something stranger that you couldn’t name.

“i am not one of your northern servants to be bossed around,” you hissed, trying to pull your wrist free.

“no,” he agreed, his own fingers tightening around your squirming wrist. “you are lady stark now. which means your conduct reflects upon my house, my people, and me.”

“you may dislike me,” he continued, “you may curse this marriage until your voice grows coarse. you may scream at me every morning and tell me you regret crossing the Neck.”

his gaze held yours steadily.

“but you will not bully those beneath your station simply because you are unhappy. you are clever enough to know the difference, and i expect better of you.”

you parted your lips again to retort, yet no sound came out, your throat dry.

“you will apologize,” he repeated, his brow lifting as anger flashed across your face. “say it. say you’ll apologize.”

“f-fine.”

“i did not hear conviction.”

your cheeks flushed. “fuck- i said fine! i’ll apologize.”

he released your wrist with surprising gentleness. you glared so fiercely at him he thought you might kill him with your eyes alone. then, muttering insults beneath your breath, you stormed after the maid.

something in your behavior shifted after that day. not all at once — you still complained about nearly everything, yet you made an effort to keep your temper in check around the servants.

and not because cregan had managed to make you see the wrongness in your actions, but because you were embarrassed. embarrassed at how cregan handled your behavior. how he made you apologize to a servant. how he had so much power over you. and most of all, how he managed to make you all hot and bothered with your flushed cheeks and racing heart and your aching cunt that throbbed at the mere tone of his voice.

you hated cregan stark. you hated what the north had forced you to become.

no one back home would have humiliated you in such a way. no one would have forced you to apologize to a lowborn girl. no one would have made you change your behavior for servants.

damn you, cregan stark.

cregan had a much easier time correcting your behavior after that. he no longer held back and would no longer let you do as you pleased in his castle. he no longer let you torment the hard working servants because of your own unhappiness.

your first winter in the north was a particularly harsh one. snow fell thick outside, nearly up to your knees. each night you fell asleep with three thick fur blankets and even that was not enough to keep the chill out from your body. cregan had offered to let you move into his own chambers, as they were much warmer and he himself could warm you up during the night, but you refused.

on one cold day, the steward had informed you that winterfells stores would have to be rationed more carefully to get through such a hard season.

you took one glance at the simple supper placed before you and frowned.

“what is this? this is dreadful! we are one of the greatest houses in westeros, and you expect me to eat this? are you not ashamed?”

the steward swallowed nervously, fidgeting with his hands as he bowed to you.

“m-my lady, the stores are plentiful enough, though lord stark wishes everyone to eat alike until spring. the smallfolk have suffered a poor harvest, and-”

“i did not ask about the smallfolk,” you interrupted as you pushed the bowl away like a petulant child, “i asked why i should suffer because of them.”

the man lowered his head once again, reaching for the bowl. “as my lady commands.”

cregan reached the bowl before he could. he had entered without any of you noticing. he picked the bowl back up and placed it in front of you once again.

“you’ll eat, wife,” he said.

you looked up at him with deceiving eyes, eyelashes fluttering in an attempt to seem innocent. “i’ve lost my appetite.”

“i doubt that. now eat.”

his voice left no room for debate. with a loud scoff, you picked up your spoon and ate, refusing to look at cregan.

you found yourself in cregans chambers that night, loud whines and moans falling from your lips as you laid pinned beneath him. you’d come into his chambers to loudly complain about how cold your own were, which had set cregan off since he had quite literally offered to let you sleep in his own for warmth.

“you test me, little lioness,” cregan groaned into your ear, voice low and breathless as he rut into you again and again. “i’ve given you so many chances to behave as the lady winterfell should,” he mumbled, his thrusts growing rougher in frustration.

his hands dug into the flesh of the back of your thighs as he held your legs pinned against your chest, rendering you unable to squirm away from his touch. his cock stretched you past your limits, nearly too much for your cunt to handle. “too much?” he cooed at the sight of tears running down your flushed cheeks.

“n-no,” you cried out, every thrust stealing the air from your lungs. “please.. cregan, harder!”

he, surprisingly, obliged, his movements growing rougher and faster, your body rocking against the bed from the force of his thrusts. your nails dug into the pale skin of his shoulders and cregan knew you were close from the way your moans grew louder and louder.

“bad girls dont always get what they want,” cregan muttered as he slowed his pace, feeling your needy cunt clench around his cock.

“no, no.. cregan, please!” you sobbed, desperately trying to rock your hips against his own, though it was no use as he kept a firm grip on your thighs. “please.. please!”

releasing your legs, cregan leaned down to capture your drooling lips in a kiss before he resumed his movements. he allowed you to wrap your legs around his waist, pushing him closer, as he pounded into your pussy, relishing in how he was able to make you finally shut up for once.

you came with a loud cry, your sloppy cunt pulsing around him as waves of pleasure washed over you, yet cregan refused to relent. he continued to fuck into you, chasing his own release.

“no- too much, cregan!” you whined as you weakly slapped at his chest, hissing and panting in overstimulation.

“take it,” cregan huffed, “maybe this will teach you a lesson, hm?”

it didnt take too long for cregan to find release, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself inside of your womb. he, for all his strength, collapsed on top of you, his weight comforting and his natural body heat warming your very bones. your hands tangled in his hair soothingly, brushing through the strands with a tenderness he didn’t think you were capable of.

he rolled off of you after a few moments, pulling you into his arms and cradling you against his chest. the defiance that roared in you for so long seemed to burn out as you made yourself comfortable against him, replaced by a sense of peace and comfort you hadn’t felt in so long.

“tomorrow we begin anew, dont we, wife?” he murmured against your hair, patting your lower back as you agreed with a hum.

You’ve let Holland in more than anticipated, and he’s pleased with it. You can tell that much from the way Holland’s eyebrows jerk up and his mouth tugs into a grin. He doesn’t seem to question it at all, even if he clearly wants to know more. Instead, he settles for, “Maybe, I could slip you a twenty for your troubles.”

“That’s too much, and I’m not babysitting.” The trope is practically writing itself, you think. “It’s a neighborly favor,” you tell Holland, “And, if you want to know so badly, I would’ve just watched Wheel of Fortune over a TV dinner. Not so clubby on the weekends.” What are you, eighty?

But, Holland insists, “I’ll slip you fifteen and you can use it to buy takeout for the both of you. Would’ve spent the same amount if I wasn’t working tonight.” God, it’s terribly perfect the way he scrambles to find his wallet on his person. He pats his hands from the  front of his trousers to the back, before finally retrieving the folded brown-leather out of its usual spot in the inner-pocket of his suit. You watch as his fingers delve in to count his own cash.

“You don’t spend fifteen dollars on takeout. That’s absurd.” He takes out twenty—two ten-dollar bills—taking your hand up from your side, pressing the crisp bills into your palm, and closing your fingers over them.

“Would’ve been six bucks on the takeout, plus another two—I tip well. And the rest would get squandered on booze and cigarettes,” he reasons. The sheer size of his callused hand makes your own feel small in comparison, and the math, you’re sure, is still not adding up. So, you try to fork the bills back over to him by force, shoving both of your hands closer to his chest.

The insistence gets you nowhere except slightly closer to him. “It’s too much,” you tell Holland, “I can’t take it.”

He pressed your hand back. “Once the money comes out of the wallet, it can’t go back in. Personal rule,” he shakes his head. “You’re doing me a big favor with Holly, and I know you’ll spend it better than I will.” It comes out more earnest than even Holland himself could’ve expected, but he seems to mean it. Meek smile and a shrug. Oh, you despise him.

—

So, your evening has a bit of an unexpected detour, seeing as you’re in the March house doing the same thing that you would’ve at your own place. Chinese takeout and Wheel of Fortune, plus Holly. You’re shocked that she hasn’t asked you to change channels yet. You’re watching some snotty, East Coast elementary school teacher spin the Wheel with ardor, collared blouse high and tight on her neck. It lands on $200, she guesses “S” successfully, and then “B” unsuccessfully. You think, Bad luck and also wonder why Holly’s so damn quiet. It takes you a moment to brave it out and look over at her.

Holly’s large blue eyes distort with a clouded kind of look that you haven’t quite seen before—something between contemplation and amusement. Terrifying. You try to look back at the cable TV, maybe focus on the fried rice that you’ve got in the takeout box in your hand. But, Holly’s already noticed and ready to strike. “My dad has a crush on you, you know.”

Your chopsticks halt in the box. “No, he doesn’t,” you blurt. “Eat your lo mein.” Wheel of Fortune keeps playing on, with the tick-tack spin of the wheel, the letters, Susan Stafford turning the letters. Holly shuts up, taking her fork up to shovel a fried shrimp and a generous scoop of noodles into her mouth. Then, after scarfing that all down, she asks you, “Do you want to know how I know?”

“No.” Of course, that’s not true. You totally do want to know what Holland thinks of you, if he thinks of you, and if it’s with just as much perversion with which you think of him. You shouldn’t call it that. Perversion. But it’s true that you think of Holland too much and in too many ways.

Holly places her takeout box onto the coffee table with a soft thud. You have a feeling that she wants to teach you to death, and only somewhat regretfully, you decide to endure it. Holly squeaks out, uncrossing and recrossing her legs on the couch, “He stares too much. Totally checks you out when he thinks you’re not looking. It’s kind of gross. Like, he wants to X-ray your clothes.” Like Superman, you think sardonically. Skepticism aside, the thought of Holland being unable to keep his eyes off you has you thrilled. “He also has your number up on our fridge under his ad clipping, which he says is for emergencies for me, but I don’t really buy it.” 

“Compelling points, Holly.” Dismissively, you begin to close up the empty takeout boxes and throw them straight back into the crinkly plastic bag that they came out of.

She’s relentless. “Also, he’s always asking me about what you like. Flowers and colors and if you have a boyfriend. I told him you don’t have one and then he got all preach-y.”

You take the filled plastic bag and Holly’s empty coke bottle over to the trash. “What does that even mean? Preach-y,” you echo.

“He got on his knees and started putting his hands in the air. Like this.” Holly raises her hands up in the air and clasps them together they lift over her head. As she looks up—presumably, to God—she seems to configure her expression into a caricature of desperation. The thought of Holland in this exact positioning on the ground of this house makes you cackle insubordinately. Holly laughs, too. “I’m telling the truth, you know. I even heard Mr. Healy and Dad talking about you just last week.”

Up until this point, you had been taking her claims without an ounce of seriousness. “And what did Mr. Healy say?” Your chuckling reduces down to a sweaty smile, eyes narrowed as you await her response. Holly, the tormentor that she is, cups her palms on her knees, shrugs, and rolls her eyes. She knows she’s got you hooked.

“Mr. Healy said Dad needs to quit trying to date up and stay in his own league. ‘Cause every time Mr. Healy watches Dad talk to you, it’s like watching Sisyphus eat shit.” Well, it sure sounds like Healy. Holly beams, “Dad wouldn’t listen to him, though—said he just couldn’t help it.”

—

You’re sleeping on your side on the March’s couch, arms crossed and tight to your chest. By now, Holly’s tucked in bed behind her little curtained alcove, and you’re fulfilling your promise to keep her company well into the night. The couch isn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world; it’s just the March’s lack of central heating in this otherwise perfect rental that has you folding into your own body.

It’s a decent enough rest until about two in the morning. You wake up to the sound of keys jingling just outside the front door, the crack of the door open and close, and a stumbling upon the runner. A heavy body thuds onto the ground.  The streetlight pooling in through window slats gives you enough visibility to see him in there, keeled over right by the opposite end of the couch. You hiss, “Holland? Holland.” He rushes like a snail to his feet, shirt buttoned low, white undershirt exposed, yellow tie hanging undone over his chest. You can see his ring dancing on its silver chain helplessly as he gets back on his feet.

“Don’t look. M’stuck.” And it seems that Holland’s suit jacket is caught halfway off, locking his arms in a tight tangle behind his back. In your just-now-conscious state, it’s really very pleasing to see him straining to get out. You cup your hand over your mouth in a choked laugh. Holland murmurs to himself, still trying to thrash the suit jacket off himself. Finally, after a fair amount of struggle, he gets the sleeves tugged off his arms—you’re sure you’ve heard some kind of rip from the inner-fabric—and he throws it on the side chair across from you. “You’re still here. Thought you’d go home,” he rasps.

By now, you’ve sat up on the couch and let your socked feet touch the ground. You blink slowly at Holland, trying to rouse yourself awake. “Did you drink a whole bar? Jesus.”

“I didn’t drink a whole bar. I drank three-quarters of a bar. Healy had the rest.” Holland stumbles into the hall. Holly’s certainly still fast-asleep in her room, you remember, and you have to get up from your resting place on the couch to try and quiet him down. There’s a thud. Holland stumbles back, colliding with your front. Drudgingly, he turns to face you with his hands cupped over his face. Guilty.

“What are you doing?” you whisper pointedly at him. He doesn’t know how to be any less quiet right now. 

“I was trying to find you a blanket or something warm. There’s a spare comforter in the hallway closet, but closet’s missing. Just my luck.” You peer over his shoulder in the barely lit hall. The closet is another six feet down from the flat wall that Holland tried to “open.”

You shake your head. “Just come back to the living room. And be quieter, please. Holly’s still asleep and I wanna keep it that way.” Holland stumbles along as you drag him by the sleeve back towards the living room. His fingers seem to wander on their own accord, brushing at your wrist with an unsteady touch.

“Are you cold? You seem cold,” he notes, “Maybe I could warm you up. Don’t need a comforter for that.” Holland’s drunk, you remind yourself. He’s not thinking straight, and you’re too flustered to think up something witty to say back. So, you merely sit him on the couch with a mild bit of force. He seems to slump over in defeat as you drop him down, whining as you draw away from him, “Where are you going?”

You pad into the kitchen, grabbing a tall glass from the high cupboard—right past the rather strong brigade of tequila glasses. Then, straight to the faucet: you crank the cold water on and fill it halfway. It shouldn’t take you nearly as long as it does to grab the water for Holland, but you really need a second to think. What are you doing, taking care of him? Just this afternoon, you signed up to watch his kid, and you’re now babysitting the man himself. Then again, Holland is a handsome mess—and sweet on you, too. You shut the faucet off with your head hung.

When you return to him with the glass, he’s quick to take it out of your hands and chug it down with a grumbled “thank you.” You have to look away from the water that drips onto his stubble down his neck. It makes uneven splotches on his shirt. Once he lowers the glass down onto the coffee table with an unstable hand, he edges his body towards you. Determinedly, Holland says, words slurring into one another, “It’s not safe for you to walk back this late. You might as well stay here.”

You want to scold him, but you can only impart a firm and patient, “I was already staying here, March. You woke me up.”

But, Holland’s stuck on it now. The mere thought of you walking home, a measly block and a half away, tortures him.  “I don’t want you to walk home,” he insists in his plastered state, “You’re too pretty to walk home. You could get nabbed or something.”

“Too pretty?” you laugh, “Where’s this coming from?” Oh, it feels almost cruel to ask this to Holland when he’s so far gone—but selfishly, you’d like to see how he’ll respond, especially without the usual, lightly veiled filter.

“Oh, you already know I say it all the time behind your back. Everybody’s tired of it,” Holland admits, “Healy wants to sock me every time I talk about you. He’s almost done it once or twice.” You blink in rapid succession. So, Holly had been telling the truth all along.

Holland leans straight into the back cushion of the couch, exasperated, and his head thuds loudly against the back frame. Holland barely leaves enough room for you on the couch, his arms and legs sloppily spread out. Taking up the most surface area possible seems the most comfortable for his inebriated self; he’s practically melting into the seat. Meanwhile, you’re only minimally avoiding the fall of his hand close to your thigh. He’s not even looking at you now, just throwing his hand over his eyes. Holland mumbles, “Just sleep here in my room and, uh, don’t look under my bed. Playboys…” And, he’s out like a light. Holland’s chest rises and falls with the pattern of his snores. You let yourself watch over him for another moment, before lifting off the couch and walking tentatively towards his room.

—

The next time you see Holland, he’s shockingly upright—in the kitchen, changed into a similar dress-shirt to yesterday and slacks to go with them. It’s a little impossible how quickly he’s recovered from his state the night before. The whole house is concentrated with the scent of something sweet, and by the looks of it, he’s slinging something on the stove. Once you’re in his sight line, Holland’s eyes drift down, then up, then down again. He’s practically drooling at the sight of you with your sleep-mussed hair and your tight pajamas—bare legs and all, he doesn’t know what to do. He practically burns his hand accidentally touching the panhandle too close to the burner. “Shit—morning.”

“Good morning to you, too,” you say, neck cocking out to see what he has cooking up.

Holland is quick to serve a plate and urge it towards you—a short stack of pancakes. “March special. Sorry-Thank-You Breakfast.” You take it from him with an air of hesitance. You’ve heard about this kind of breakfast by word of mouth before, from Holly, of course. The recognition must read on your face and the way you turn your head over your shoulder to search for the blonde little girl; Holland is quick to tell you, “She’s down the street at the old place, reading that book you lent her.” He looks down to serve his own plate, shuts off the stove with a click.

You’re quick to turn your back to him, placing your serving on the dark-wood surface of the dining table. He’s still carrying on behind you; you can hear the spatula grating against the pan, then the glass plate, the click-off of the stove… Holland notes, only half-serious, “Seems like she likes you more than she does me, lately. Not a good sign—means I should maybe sit you down sometime and fish for a couple of tips.”

You can’t avoid the subject—as much as he clearely wants to. With a spin around, you rub your palms together. “About last night—”

“What I said—”

You interject, “You have a problem and a half, Holland,” and he seems to stop in his tracks. He’s seemingly shocked that your primary concern is him. But, you’re clearly more riled up than you’d expected yourself to be. “You can’t just stumble in at two in the morning drunk off your ass. You’re lucky you even get home. And God knows what happens when I’m not here.”

Holland places his plate down on the stove, diagonal to the pan. Then, he juts his palm across the scruff on his neck. “I don’t think I wanna say.” You can picture it clearly enough—him, ending up in all sorts of odd resting places, on the living room floor, in the tub, maybe even the bushes outside. All options are rather morose, and they worry you beyond your minid.

“You have to get your shit fixed,” you lecture.

Holland approaches you now, with earnestness. “I can do that.” It’s loaded. I can do that for you. His eyes beg for forgiveness, and his hands are almost close to coming up to your hips. It’s a surprise that he manages to lower them down to his sides as soon as they threaten to come up. Holland’s sorry, he wants to atone, he clearly wants your forgiveness. You wonder how quickly he scrambled this morning to get everything in the kitchen ready for you, and with how much intention he’d gotten dressed. Now that he’s this close to you, you can certainly tell that he shaved up, combed his hair rather meticulously. His clothed knees practically bump against your bare ones.

“I won’t let you date me if it’s an empty promise,” you murmur. It’s there in the open, now—the gap that Holland had been waiting for you to bridge. He remembered what he said last night, you remember what he said last night, and the two of you have merely been waiting for the inevitable to hit.

Now that he knows you’re on the same page, Holland seems to be renewed with a new kind of vigor. “…You’ll let me date you?” It’s almost taunting. He’s clearly feeling more self-assured, smirk and all, and you want to wipe it clean off.

With a shrug, you say, “I’m considering it.”

It’s as unconvincing as it can be, and Holland seems to huff out a soft sigh. He has you—and still, he plays along. “Oh, consider it. Seriously consider it.” He seems to lower his gaze down to your lips, slowly but surely urging you back against the wooden table. You can feel the edge of it hit the back of your thighs.

You tilt your head, a fit of heat filtering through your body. He’s terrible—too good at getting you like this. He reaches one arm up behind you to push your plate aside. It skids on the table slow. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you, and you have to push out a soft, “What’re you doing, March?”

“Trying to kiss you,” he mutters. “That okay?” As soon as you get the slightest movement of a nod, Holland acts. His hands come up to your hips with a strong squeeze, and he’s quick to smash his lips into yours. It’s almost risque, the way he kisses you with so much force. You can hear him grumbling, pleased to be feeling you all over with his large hands. It takes another minute of this before Holland scoops you up off the ground and onto the table—stronger than you’d expected. He drags his lips downward; you can feel his mustache drag roughly down your neck with each hard kiss.

Then, as soon as he reaches the neckline of your shirt—his shirt—he makes sure to pull back. Again, the scent of pine lingers on your senses. You hadn’t noticed, in the rush, how easily Holland had settled in between your legs. He’s too happy about this development, clearly, because he has a stupid grin on his face. You scoff, and it only grows wider. “First date. No drinks,” you decide, “And you’ve got to dial it back on the cologne. Like, half of whatever you’ve been putting on.”

Holland nods, sure to help you quick off the dining table—lest Holly comes back and flees at the sight of both of you. With a tug of your hips closer to him, he hums, “Whatever you want from me, baby.”