#Head Bedlam | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

trippinsorrows · 7 days ago

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looking through your eyes + twenty six

authors note: this chapter almost entirely covers grief. be prepared.

cw/tw: angst (discussion of grief and loss)

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

chapter suggested listening: "i hope you dance" by gladys knight, "lift me up" by rihanna, and "dancing in the sky" by dani and izzy.

masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 9k

Solana still vividly remembers the moment she was told her mother was dead. Not the moment where Nina died, where she took her last breath. No, that devastating memory is forever attached and molded to Solana’s recollection, something to never escape her, despite her best efforts to dump it into the sea of the forgotten.

No, the moment she was told is something different, somehow colder and heavier.

She can still recall the sound of beeping machines, blurry, amorphous figures melting into something less abstract and more corporeal. The smell of nothing, sterilization that was quickly permeated by the overwhelming scent of her father’s cologne.

For some reason, that was more prominent and noticeable than the tube down her throat, preventing her from clearly speaking. It didn’t stop her from trying though. Because even with her barely cognizant state, with the fact that she wasn’t still fully aware of where she was and what occurred, her focus was on one person.

Her mother.

That was the intended word, Solana’s muffled moans and groans, fighting against the tube. The pain that shot through her little body while trying to move it wasn’t enough to stop her from asking.

Mommy

It’s something that’s always sat with her. Influenced her in many ways.

It’s also something that helps her understand a fraction of what Roman is going through right now, the feelings he might be experiencing. Everyone is different. She knows this. But, she also knows the feeling of loss. Of feeling alone.

And she swore to him he would never be alone.

Fetu is gone, yes. But, he’ll always have her.

It's what she keeps in mind as she and Jimmy arrive at Fetu's place and move to enter.

Solana had a feeling she would be walking into a difficult scene, but she hadn’t the slightest clue the severity of said difficulty.

“Oh my God….”

It’s bedlam.

Chaos and destruction all around her from the minute she and Jimmy open the front door and walk in. Furniture turned upside down, shattered shards of glass littering the floor all over, dents and scuffs on the wall, indicating objects being thrown.

Solana even spots a few holes she can tell weren’t caused by objects.

They were caused by fists.

But while Jimmy stands beside her, face not hiding his shock and slight horror at what lies before them, Solana’s similar expression stems from a different space.

It stems from how devastated her husband must be right now to cause such destruction.

“I’ve gotta find him,” Solana says, swallowing and moving to maneuver past the glass when a cautious but firm hand grabs her arm.

“Solana, let me find him.”

She doesn’t need an explanation as to why this is being proposed. The answer is written in red lettered concern all over his face.

She shakes her head. “No.”

Jimmy sighs, dropping his hand to gesture to the wreckage around them. “Solana….look at what he did.” She has. Hard not to. “He’s clearly not in a good place right now.”

“Would you be?” She challenges. “Put yourself in his shoes, Jimmy. In my shoes.” Voice breaking, she discloses. “You don’t know what it’s like to unexpectedly lose the one person who meant the world to you….and to not be able to say goodbye.” Solana sniffles, forcing out a shaky breath. “I know what he’s feeling right now, which is how I know what he needs, and it’s not you.”

Jimmy is silent. A small part of her understands and appreciates his concern, but he has to understand her side of things too.

Roman may be his cousin, lifelong friend, borderline brother.

But, Roman is her husband. Her person. Her better half.

Her soulmate.

“I’ll be fine,” she reassures, reaching for his hand. “What I need you to do is find Ava.” She motions to the destroyed room. "We don’t know if she was part of this as well.” Because despite only one meeting, Solana can tell that Ava has a strong personality just like Roman. Loved Fetu just as much as Roman.

She has to be just as distraught.

Jimmy counters, “let me try to clean some of this up first.”

“No.” Solana shakes her head. “I can handle that.” Because cleaning up after men following outbursts is something, sadly, she has plenty of experience with. Countless times her father and brother would destroy rooms and force her to clean up their mess. So, certainly, she can do the same for a man whose actions are fueled not by rage.

But pain.

Loss.

Grief.

Especially when that man is her husband.

“Solana—”

“And I—I want you to leave after that.” His eyes double in size, prompting her to explain. “Roman…..he’s gonna need some time. I don’t….I don’t think he’s going to want to be around anyone, even you.” Maybe even me. “I want to give him what he needs.”

“Solana—”

“I’ll be fine, Jimmy.” There’s not an ounce of her that believes she won’t. “I just need you to find Ava. Help her. And get back home, because I need you to keep Dulce for us.” She swallows, adding in a small voice. “He’s gonna need a couple days.”

More than that. Much more. But for now, it’ll have to do.

Jimmy still looks unconvinced.

But, he eventually agrees, leaving to find Ava who had sent a vague text saying she needed air.

Nothing more.

It's how both Jimmy and herself suspect she's gone for a walk in the surrounding woods.

And as soon as he's gone, Solana is on the move, instantly going up the stairs.

Each step taken feels like there’s a ton of bricks attached, weighing her down, pulling her back and trying to keep her from exactly where she needs to be. It’s all mental and emotional, but it’s not enough to keep her from pressing forward.

She passes Fetu’s room without sparing a glance, both for her own mental sake and knowing that’s the last place he’d probably be. His room would seem the most logical place to start to look, but she also knows that when one is deep in the throes of grief, there is no place for logic.

So, she goes through each room, bypassing the bathrooms and Ava’s bedroom. Again, another place she just can’t picture him being.

It eventually leaves her with two options: the last guest room and his room. Given the cracked door for the latter, that’s the route she chooses.

Solana’s heart is slamming repeatedly against her chest, her eyes watering prematurely at what she knows will be a heavy ass sight. But still, she powers through those emotions, bypasses her own personal sentiments and focuses on him.

A gentle knock followed up with, “Roman?” Nothing. She’s not surprised, but she at least would like him to know it’s her about to enter and not someone else. Something tells her his reaction would be different—very different—if anyone else was trying to “disturb” him right now.

Solana gently turns the knob, partially unsurprised to also find the room in a slight state of disarray. Not nearly as bad as the living room and entrance but still indicative of turmoil.

A lamp lays shattered near the door to the bathroom, a picture knocked off the wall, the TV also down on the floor. Nothing major beyond that, but even if so, it wouldn’t capture much—or any—of her focus. No, that’s because it’s already spoken for.

“Roman….”

She sees him. Slumped on the floor, one long leg outstretched, other leg up, extend arm resting on his knee. Closing the door behind her, she rushes over to him, again unsurprised by how he doesn’t even bother looking in her direction.

Instantly, those watery eyes are upgraded to silent tears streaming down her face. “Ro…..” Carefully leaning down beside him, she finds herself reaching to push back some of his hair that’s not neatly tucked into his everyday bun but instead wild, hanging, unruly.

A perfect representation of what he must be feeling.

She shakes her head, “I’m so so—”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

There’s not a part of her that’s taken back by his words: hollow, empty, stoic. If anything, it’s expected.

She expected this kind of reaction to her presence.

Shaking her head, Solana keeps her voice leveled. “I’m exactly where I should be.” Her gaze travels to his hand, a small gasp leaving at the blusied, lacerated, bloody state of his knuckles. “Roman—”

“I want to be alone.”

Another emotionless statement, forcing her to look back at him. He looks shattered, but in a way that makes sense for him. No red, teary, puffy eyes. No. Just an empty look that hides an abundance of emotions.

Solana makes sure not to stutter, stammer, or anything of the sort as she calmly replies, “I’m not leaving you alone.”

He closes his eyes, his jaw ticking, a sign of growing anger. It doesn’t deter her. “Solana, I want to be alone.”

“Roman—”

“I said leave!”

Silence

There’s a burst of silence that washes over the room following his outburst: loud, frigid, pained.

It’s been some time since he’s raised his voice with her, and the last time, her reaction was typical for where she was at that point. Scared, frightened, terrified even.

None of that could even remotely describe what she’s feeling right now.

Solana has no reaction to his outburst. No flinching, no cowering, no wincing. Nothing.

“No, you don’t.” A closed, sullen smile as she moves a lock of his hair back out of his face. “You just don’t want to feel what you’re feeling. You’re angry and hurt and sad and confused and so many things you probably don’t even understand, because….because that’s what grief is.”

He says nothing, offers not outward reaction to her words.

“I’m gonna say this one time and one time only.” She’s never been more sure about something in her life. “You can yell at me, you can scream at me, you can throw shit in my presence, you can even flip over every piece of furniture in this house, but I am not leaving. You may want to be alone, but you don’t need to be alone.” Pushing back more of his hair, it’s not missed on her the way he clenches his jaw. Not from anger. Something else. Something vulnerable. “I’m gonna clean and wrap up your hand, then I’m going to clean up downstairs and cook. I won’t talk to you unless you initiate it, and I won’t force you to interact with me. You can ignore me all you want, but as long as you’re here, I’m here.” Her voice cracks as she stresses, “I’m not leaving you.”

Roman continues to remain silent following her heartfelt explanation, but it doesn’t bother her. None of what he’s done, what he’s said or not said bothers her, because right now, whatever he’s feeling is valid.

“I’ll be right back,” she murmurs. Solana walks over to the bathroom and pulls out the first aid kit from the cabinet, returning to her husband who hasn’t moved. Silently, she works to disinfect and tend to his injuries. It’s not horrifically bad, but it’s not good, either. She’s unsure if Roman flexes his fingers to show nothing is fractured, but regardless, it’s appreciated and checks off a box without her needing to ask any questions.

Once finished, she informs, “I’m gonna go start cleaning up. Afterwards, I’ll fix you something to eat. I’ll have your plate on the table and text you when it’s ready. I’ll eat elsewhere.”

Roman continues to offer no sign that he’s listening to a word she’s saying. Still, it does nothing to deter her. Kissing his forehead, she returns the first aid kit to where she found it and walks out the room, leaving the door slightly cracked.

Solana walks back downstairs and stops midway to survey the damage around her. A lot is ruined beyond repair, but her focus is less on what was broken and more on ridding the place of the hazards. Starting with the broken glass.

Remembering where the cleaning supplies are kept, Solana carefully maneuvers her way across the floor and grabs the broom and dust pan. Wordlessly, she moves to clear the floor, dumping the shards into the nearest trash can. For extra protection, she vacuums the floor twice to suck up any remaining pieces.

Following that, she goes to put back unbroken items where they belong. Pillows back on the sofa. A sofa that she had to tip over. Books back on the shelf. Pictures that once belonged in now broken picture frames on the coffee table. And the items of irreparable damage dumped in both the kitchen bin as well as the big bin out back.

It’s about half an hour of work, significantly less time than most people would need, but this isn’t Solana’s first rodeo.

She’s seen this movie before.

Is very familiar with how it plays out.

She’s about to start on the food when the sound of a door opening pulls her from searching the fridge to see what she can put together.

Turning and walking towards the front door, Solana is already moving towards a despondent Ava, pulling her into a comforting hug.

Ava sniffles into her shoulder, Solana’s eyes closing as she feels Jimmy’s sad gaze on them.

“I’m so sorry,” Solana whispers, holding her tighter. This is such a devastating loss on all fronts, and while he heart breaks for Roman not being able to see Fetu before she passed, Ava was the one who probably sat with her as she took her last breath.

Solana also knows how equally devastating that can be as well.

“Thank you for being here,” Ava murmurs, eventually pulling back and wiping her eyes. “And for….cleaning up.” She lazily gestures to the room that’s still not together but much better than it was.

Solana nods, taking Ava’s hand. “I was going to cook. Why don’t you—”

“Thank you, but—” Ava offers a small smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. “I can’t—I can’t stay here.” Her lips press together as she shrugs with one shoulder. “Too many memories.” Solana also understands that. Understands it well. “I have an apartment out in town. I’m gonna—I’m gonna go stay there for a couple days, at least until–until the funeral.”

Funeral……

Solana doesn’t want to think about that.

“Of course,” she nods. “But, if you need anything—”

“I know.” Another smile. One that more so meets the eyes. Comes from a place of gratitude. She then gestures up the stairs. “But, he’s going to need you more.”

————

It’s difficult.

For many different reasons. Solana trying to process her own grief while wanting to support and be there for Roman, while he works through his own. And while Solana logically knows that Roman icing her out, to some extent, should be expected, it doesn’t make it any easier.

Doesn’t hurt her any less to know he’s hurting but won’t let her help him.

But, she also knows she made that an option for him, and she doesn’t regret it. Nothing could stop her from being exactly where she is, even if Roman hasn’t said a word to her since her arrival almost three days prior.

Occasional glances and head nods, but nothing verbal. That also hurts, but she doesn’t take it personally. Knows that he’s just weighed down by everything that’s happened.

She just continues to do what she can, prepare his meals that he eats alone, handles cleaning and laundry as he seems to spend the bulk of his days in the home gym or outside on ruins. A lot of avoidance behavior. But, she’s starting to see that’s maybe just how Roman copes.

He doesn’t. He just avoids shit until it “goes away.”

But this….this isn’t something to avoid, something that will go away.

He’s going to have to confront his emotions sooner or later.

Solana shifts on the bed in the guest room. The room where she’s been sleeping, already knowing that if Roman can’t even bring himself to interact with her, the likelihood of him wanting them to sleep in the same bed is slim to none.

Another thing that’s hard.

She’s just gotten so used to sleeping in his arms, but that’s a thought that’s much too self-focused. Her needs matter, but so do his, and right now, he’s not able to provide her that.

And that’s okay, because he’s not okay.

She just wishes she could do something to help that.

Her phone lighting up with Dr. Stratus smiling face is a nice distraction. “Solana.”

“Hi, doc,” she greets, shifting on the bed. “Thank you for—for making time for this.”

“It sounded important,” her psychiatrist's grin shifts into more of a frown. “And judging by how sad you look right now, I bet it is.” She directly asks, “what’s going on?”

So much. Too much to even fully unpack. “Roman’s…..had a loss in his family recently, and it’s….it’s hit us all pretty hard.” Him, arguably, the most, but also, her meeting and connecting with someone as much as she did with Fetu only to lose her so quickly…..it’s rough.

To say the least.

Dr. Stratus frowns. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Solana already knows the question before it’s asked. “You know I have to ask. Are you experiencing any type of ideation?”

“No.” An easy answer. “Not at all. Just….heavy emotions.” Extremely. “Part of that though…..is probably because I’m pregnant.”

A gasp. “Solana.” Again, Dr. Stratus is smiling, still not as deep as her initial grin. But filled with excitement. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Solana sniffles, wiping at her eyes. “I’m sorry, I just—” She’s unable to catch the tear that spills down her cheek. “I still haven’t told Roman, and—and now that this has happened, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to tell him.”

Because that’s the other noxious thing about all of this. How wonderful, life-changing news has been tabled by horrible, also life-changing news.

In no universe can Solana understand and come to terms with how telling Roman about her pregnancy is appropriate. How is he to celebrate life when he’s just lost it?

It’s just all so terribly cruel.

Solana clears her throat. “I went to Roman’s doctor to do the test for me, and it came back positive, but he’s also certain that we’re having twins.”

“Oh, wow,” Dr. Stratus sighs, sympathy written all over her face. “Solana, I can’t imagine how difficult and confusing this must be for you right now.”

Solana whispers, “very.”

“Have you….have you spoken to Gail about this?”

She shakes her head. “No, because…..because it feels wrong—it is wrong—to keep telling people when my own husband doesn’t even know.”

Because it does. Because in a perfect world, she would have come up with a sweet and sentimental manner in which to break said news to him. Instead, she’s having to hide it from everyone around her—including him—sans the medical professionals she needs to know for various medical reasons.

“I understand.” Her voice is kind and calm, a constant. So very much appreciated. “But, you know, like myself, Gail is bound to confidentiality. As your therapist, she can help support you through this on the clinical side.”

“I know, but….but, I signed that paper allowing her to speak to Roman.” A full release of information. Solana knew what it was when she consented and still does now.

“That doesn’t matter,” she counters. “You can revoke it any time, or even if you want to discuss it and make it clear she’s not to share that with him, you can. You are her client. Not Roman. Her responsibility is to you.”

Solana sits on the helpful advice. She’d forgotten Gail had made that clear when explaining the ROI. That it wasn’t the end all, be all, allowing Roman to know anything and everything about her.

She might have to keep that in mind.

“So, I take it, you’ve only told me because of your medication, correct?” Solana nods. “Well, I wanna keep you with the Sertraline and Hydroxyzine. We could probably keep you on the Wellbutrin as well, but with a multiples pregnancy, I don’t want any take any risks.” She goes on to explain the plan, the way Solana is to taper off one medication to start another. Solana takes notes to avoid missing anything and makes sure to let the other woman know she probably won’t be home for a couple days. Thus, the switch won’t be immediate.

That’s another thing that alerts Solana to how low her husband must be feeling. He hasn’t realized or either maybe just feels too down to even be on top of her medication. She’s been giving it to herself, which is something she’d like to become a regular thing. But, Roman not being as strict about it is yet another telltale.

A strong indication of his continuing mental decline.

Another thing for her to worry about, and God is she worried.

————

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean

Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens

Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

Sniffling, Solana pauses the music, unable to listen to anymore.

Fetu’s smiling voice and cheery voice suddenly fill the room, returning to her along with a bittersweet memory.

“Such a beautiful song. One of my favorites,” she’d shared, guiding Solana through a traditional Samoan recipe. “You want to know my favorite line?”

Solana nodded, smiling as she continued to peel the potatoes. “Of course.”

She waited for Fetu to turn down the music before she recited the lines. “Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone. I hope you dance.” Solana watched the almost solemn look in her eyes before the older woman smiled warmly. “Life is such a precious thing. We all have such limited time here in the grand scheme of things. In the good and the bad, we must always dance and find something beautiful to look back at.”

Solana’s tears intensify, still remembering, feeling the exact emotion she felt in that moment. So profound and moving.

She’d give anything to have just one more type of interaction or conversation with Fetu again.

Even if…..

Even if just to tell her about the pregnancy.

That makes her cry harder.

It takes a good twenty minutes for Solana to gather herself, to feel ready enough to check on Roman, to see if he needs anything before she goes to bed.

Day five of his grieving has arrived, and he’s still not spoken to her. It still hurts, but it’s not a major concern.

What is a concern is everything else. His isolation. His helplessness. His sadness.

Solana knows better than anyone else what a depressive episode looks like, and the last thing she wants is to see him slip into one of those.

But, if he doesn’t stop shoving his feelings away, shutting down and dissociating…..that might be where he’s headed.

Solana bypasses knocking on his door as it’s partially ajar. She instead walks in only to find the balcony door also open, Roman, shirtless, sitting on the chair, staring at absolutely nothing.

She frowns.

It kills her to see him like this.

Walking over to him, she stands just close enough for him to hear. “Ro? I’m going to bed. Do—do you need anything?”

His response is as the rest have been. Nonverbal. He simply shakes his head no.

She’s grateful he can’t see the disappointment in her face. “Okay.” Dejected and deterred, Solana turns to leave and return to her room.

“I didn’t come see her enough.”

Solana stops dead in her tracks as his deep voice penetrates the silence. For a quick second, she doesn’t trust it. Doesn’t trust her own hearing, because Roman hasn’t said a word to her in days. And yet…..

She turns toward him, realizing that her hearing isn’t needing testing when it happens again. He speaks. “I should have—I should have listened to you.” Solana walks so that she’s standing in front of him, where she’s partially eclipsed his view of the dark forest and sky that’s littered with a blanket of stars. “I should have—” He closes his eyes, as Solana kneels down in front of him.

“Please don’t do that,” she begs, shaking her head, taking his hands in hers. His right hand has healed nicely following her tending to it at least once a day since he messed it up. “Please don’t blame yourself. She wouldn’t want that.”

Studying him, Solana is realizing this is the most expressive Roman has been in days. She could feel his grief before, but she can actually see it now. “She knew you loved her, Roman. And she loved you, too.”

“It wasn’t fucking enough though.” The anger is rising again, but it doesn’t deter or scare her, just makes her heart ache. Because she knows it’s just a cover-up for an abundance of sadness. “Never enough.” Her heart fractures even more as he says in a pained, tortured voice. “I wasn’t enough for her….to stay. Not—not her. Not my parents. My uncle. My siblings. None of them.”

And it’s really not until this moment Solana has truly known what it means to see the person you love the most break down before you.

This is a completely different side of her husband.

This is vulnerability.

“Ro…..” Fingers raking through some of his hair, she does her best to find any words that could provide him some type of comfort, all while knowing nothing can ever really take away his pain. “Baby, you are enough.” More than enough. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

He looks away, clearly distraught. “I couldn’t save her this time.” Her eyes shut. This is heartbreaking. “I didn’t…..I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Solana’s chest aches. Tears brimming in her eyes, she stands up. “Come here.” She doesn’t even have to try to embrace him. Roman already has his arms around her, tugging her closer as he lays his head against her stomach.

It takes a second for it to register, for her to recognize there’s a slight tremble of his body against hers. For her to understand why his grip on her seems to tighten by the second. He’s holding her so tightly.

And, it’s when she hears it that it registers.

It’s when she hears the quiet sniffles that it hits her like a ton of bricks.

He’s crying.

Another brief second of shock that’s quickly washed away by her natural instinct to nurture and protect.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, holding him, kissing the top of his head. “Baby, I am so so sorry.”

For one thing and one thing only. His loss. What Fetu’s death has done to him, how it has impacted him so deeply. What’s she’s not sorry for is this long awaited breakdown of sorts. Roman has needed this. Needed it for so long. To finally breakdown and feel his feelings, and while she knows better than anyone how uncomfortable and overwhelming that can be, it’s also inevitable.

This was bound to happen.

She’s just grateful she can be here to support him through this.

The way she always will.

————

Roman’s breakdown proved to be the catalyst. The thing that helped progress him from this almost stoic state of dissociation to a state of feeling and being. He’s actually talked to and with her. More interaction that doesn’t feel forced, almost natural. What she’s used to. To some degree, because he’s still sad. Of course, he’s sad. Still grieving. All normal.

But, he’s no longer icing her out, and that’s all that matters to her.

So much so that he’s continued to accept her nurturance and affection. Welcomes it. Craves it, almost. The way he’s welcomed her back into the bedroom, sleeps at night practically on top of her, head on her chest as she rakes her fingers through his hair. The way he pulls her onto his lap as they eat. It’s all so subtle but also loud. The kind of love and support he’s clearly needing, and she gives it all to him.

Whatever he needs, she’ll do.

Solana presses a kiss to his temple and runs her fingers along his broad shoulders as he lays back, almost relaxed against her, the bubbles surrounding them covering the majority of their bodies, warm water infused with lavender and chamomile contributing to the serene atmosphere she was aiming for.

A goal that seems to be working based upon how at ease he feels against her, the leaking of the tension from his big body.

“I’m gonna drive tomorrow,” Solana informs. Because Roman’s emergence from his dark hole has also meant reintegration into reality and society. Over the past two days, she’s overheard him taking phone calls, some in English, some in Samoan. And from what she could make of these calls is that they were pertaining to funeral arrangements for Fetu.

Clearly, as the funeral is set to be held this upcoming Sunday.

She has such mixed feelings on that. On how hard that’s going to be for her husband.

But, one thing at a time.

“I can drive,” he answers, eyes still closed.

Sighing quietly, she angles her head so that she has a better view of his face. “I said I’m gonna drive.” At that, Roman opens his eyes, clearly taken back by her calm but firm push back. Frowning, she strokes his beard. “I want you to rest.”

Because, she does. Because he’s going to need it. Because in this space for the past week, he’s been able to just be. Be angry. Be hurt. Be sad. Be anything he needs to just be a human freaking being.

But, once they’re back home, all of that has to be turned off. He won’t have the space to be anything but the Tribal Chief and not a man just grieving a very important person.

So, she wants him to have as much time dwelling in this safe space as possible, and that includes being able to relax while she gets them back home.

“Besides, I haven't done it in so long, I need to make sure I still remember.” Being chauffeured quite literally everywhere has entirely deprived Solana of the need to have a car of her own but also to actually, well, drive.

Roman scoffs quietly. “That’s reassuring.”

Rolling her eyes, she flicks his shoulder and murmurs with a small smile, “shut up.”

He does, but it’s only in preparation for what comes next. “Thank you.”

She has a feeling what he’s referring to, but assumptions have rarely done society any good. “For?”

His reply is instant. “All of it.”

Comfort. It’s something she’s clearly been providing him but something he’s always provided her.

Solana moves her hands down his chest and across his shoulders, mouth against his temple. “I’d do anything for you…..” Because she would. Anything at all. “Anything you need, just tell me, I’ll do it.”

He’s done so much for her. Supported her through some of her darkest, lowest moments. The least she can do is return the favor.

Solana watches him sit up, never takes her eyes off him as he adjusts himself so he’s facing her, gently pulling her so she’s almost straddling him. The movement creating a ripple of waves that brushes against their conjoined bodies. Her wet hands move to his face as his move up her damp back.

“I just need you.” It could mean a lot of things, could refer to many of the things she’s done with and for him over the past week. But, that look in his eyes, the way his still solemn gaze drops to her chest, how his hands are moving to her hips, she knows exactly just how he needs her right now.

Solana reaches past him to turn the knob to start draining the tub before ghosting her lips over his, murmuring, “so take me.”

————

Being back in their home is an experience. A bit of a tease, really. Because while it’s nice to be in her house, with Dulce who seems to stay by Roman’s side, clearly sensing his grief, it’s also bittersweet.

Because it doesn’t change what’s happened. Doesn’t make the feelings of sadness go away.

Doesn’t stop Solana from thinking about the letter Fetu gave her, from trying to figure out if it’s the right time to give it to him.

A dilemma that haunts her in the days leading up to the funeral as she works to support and be there for her husband while also managing her own pregnancy symptoms that seem to pop up at the most inconvenient times.

It’s only by the grace of God that Roman hasn’t walked in on her hunched over the toilet, emptying her stomach from any and all food consumed. An irritating occurrence that seems to happen when she’s trying to cook.

She's definitely noticed an increased sensitivity to certain smells. Spices and seasoning that have always been staples in her cooking shelved due to her literally unable to tolerate the nausea that they cause her to experience just from the aroma alone.

Irritating, to say the least.

But, it’s the morning of the actual funeral that has her anxiety spiked, her concern at a naturally high baseline level. All things considered, she just has to focus on being there for Roman. Whatever that looks like.

Still, it’s heavy and sad and just gut-wrenching.

Just about ready, only needing to slide her sandals on after letting Dulce outside to relieve herself, Solana decides to check on Roman.

She finds him sitting on the edge of their bed. Like herself, he’s already dressed. A white, short sleeved button up shirt accompanied by a skirt-like wrap with tribal designs. A lavalava, according to Ava with leather sandals.

She’s certain he heard her walk in, but he remains sitting, head down, ula fala on the bed beside him. Gently closing the door behind her, Solana walks over, partially surprised by how he reaches for her. Hands on her hips, her eyes never leave him as he lifts his head, clearly taking in her outfit. There’s a moment of anxiety under his intense gaze.

It’s easily squashed, however, when he says in a low voice, “you look beautiful.”

His compliment is so appreciated, especially when she thinks about his ability to still balance his grief while also making her feel so special. “Thank you.”

Solana moves her hands to the back of his head as he holds onto her, resting his head against her stomach. “I don’t want to do this.” Her eyes shut. She knows he doesn’t. “But, I have to.”

And that’s the part that kills her. That so much of handling this falls on his shoulders, is his responsibility because of his title. It kills her because it deprives him of just being able to grieve.

“I know, baby,” she comforts, gently stroking the back of his neck. “But, you don’t have to do it alone.”

She feels it. The heavy sigh against her. A sign of a semblance of relief. She’ll take that. She’ll offer that in any way that she can.

Roman sits back up, Solana watching him stand before her. Reaching to his side, she’s careful in how she picks up the ula fala and holds it before him. “Can I…..”

He nods and dips his head, allowing her to place it upon him. Solana is mindful of the placement, remembering the exact place it’s always sat when she’s seen it on him. And when he straightens to his full height, she moves her hands to his chest and says, “I know that you have to be the Tribal Chief today, but when it’s all said and done, and everyone has left and it’s just you and me, all I want and need you to be is Roman….that’s it.”

Because Roman is a man grieving. Who needs to be able to freely feel his feelings.

Whether he wants to or not.

Solana nods and leans up to kiss his cheek before taking his hand in hers, reminding, “I’ve got you.”

He says nothing, only nods, but he doesn’t have to. She can see the appreciation—and love—in his gaze.

—-----

Solana has never actually attended a funeral before. By the time she woke up from her coma, Xavier already had her mother buried, depriving her of that formal goodbye.

So this is a first for her. Different. She quickly learns that death is something that is not necessarily seen as a bad thing in Samoan culture. Sad, yes, but the focus is on the celebration of life, which she started to figure based upon the white color scheme.

Given the nature of the situation, Solana is unsurprised by the small attendance. Roman’s preference, no doubt. Jimmy, Jey, and Rikishi are all expected guests, along with the preacher who officiates. However, it’s Paul and Dwayne who take her by surprise.

There’s a sense of gratitude, however, when they both hug Roman and offer their condolences. And she’s especially moved by the extended time taken with the hug from Dwayne, the way she can feel the empathy emanating from his tall frame.

She appreciates it deeply, and she knows that Roman does, too.

There are also a couple of other attendees that surprise her but not entirely, as they uphold what she would guess are Samoan traditions for funerals. Song and dance. Prayers.

It’s a beautiful send-off, one fitting for Roman’s eccentric aunt.

And almost the entire time, Solana remains by his side. Holding his hand or his arm, and if not in physical proximity, she always finds him, watching him. He is her number one concern.

All things considered, he holds himself together well, but that’s highly due to the mask he’s wearing. The strong resilience he’s displaying in terms of not giving away the true extent of his hurt. But, Solana feels it. Feels it deeply when it’s just the two of them standing in front of Fetu’s casket, the others already departed and readying to leave. She’s about to do the same, leave him to have some semblance of privacy, only for him to tighten his hand that’s tightly clasped with hers.

“Stay.”

A single, simple word. But, enough.

Solana nods, moving to hold onto his arm, standing quietly but supportively beside him.

As she always will.

It’s after that, unfortunately, that things go downhill.

Solana partially expected the twins to come over following the funeral. Ava as well. All three, however, expressed their desire to give Roman his space. And, it’s appreciated, because Solana also believes that to be the best.

For right now.

However, that sentiment is not shared by Dwayne, Paul, and Rikishi. And truly, the first of the three is no issue. He doesn’t ride in the limo, opting to drive himself back to the house.

But, it’s during that ride, for the first time since learning of Fetu’s passing, Solana feels anger.

Not even as part of the grieving process. No, she feels anger towards the two men who sit across from herself and Roman. She feels anger toward them because they haven’t even driven off yet when they’re throwing a bunch of work questions and situations at her husband.

Her husband who may look present, but she knows him well enough to know he’s not.

And given how long these two men have known Roman, she would have thought they could see the same.

Maybe they don’t.

Or, maybe they do and just don’t care. Either one pisses her off. Makes it hard for her to hold her tongue.

Shipments. Orders. Contracts. All logical things someone in Roman’s state shouldn’t be dealing with.

But, it’s exactly what they’re throwing at him.

Even as they arrive at the house, Dwayne taking a call out back, Paul and Rikishi barely have Roman sat down at their dining room table when they’re back at it.

“Orton wants to speak with you regarding re-negotiating the RKO proposal.”

“Stocks are looking good, but we need to start thinking about next quarter.”

“The Cartel are still interested in meeting. You need to make that happen ASAP.”

A bunch of irrelevant shit. Solana partially wants to stay outside with Dulce to avoid having to overhear it, but it’s impossible to not want to be present. To not feel the need to be present.

Just what more do they plan to throw at Roman?

Her husband is responding, being responsive, but she can see it, hear it. The difficulty he’s having.

And it has her nearly bursting at the seams, trying to focus on moving around the kitchen, early preparation for dinner, but it’s hard.

She’s given a chance though when Roman clears his throat and says something about changing before he stands up from the chair and starts to walk away.

Just like that, Solana knows this is her opportunity, her chance, and she has to take it.

Because, she’s disgusted.

It’s only when she’s certain that Roman is upstairs, fully out of hearing distance that she finds herself asking, “what is wrong with you two?”

Both men look at her with partially startled, mostly confused, expressions. Rikishi is the first to speak. “What?”

Solana scoffs and points toward the steps. “He just buried his aunt. Her body isn’t even cold in the ground, and you’re asking him about work?” She continues, throwing out almost angrily, “does he look like he needs to be working right now?”

There’s a bit of a standstill. Paul looks flustered, his cheeks turning red like a child being scolded by a parent. Rikishi, however, wears an almost blank expression. “You are not Samoan, therefore you do not understand our ways. We do not mourn like you do. We celebrate life.”

“Yeah, well he’s not in place to celeb—”

“Roman is the Tribal Chief. What he needs is irrelevant when it comes to the Bloodline.” Rikishi’s interruption—and his words—have her taken back. “He understands what his duty is.”

“His duty…..” It’s potentially a build up of things, sadness and grief, manifesting as anger. Regardless, it’s growing with each word that leaves this man’s mouth. “Has he not given enough? He does everything he’s supposed to do for the Bloodline—”

“Except provide an heir,” Rikishi’s voice is as icy as the cold look in his eyes. “Or would that be you failing at the one job you have?”

Paul’s eyes widen as looks at the man beside him. “Rikishi—”

It takes so much, so much for Solana to not shut him up, to not tell him that she’s pregnant, hoping that he spreads it to any and all who’ve given Roman a hard time about not having a child.

Because fuck them.

The chubby man lifts up his hand as he stands from his seat, rounding the corner of the table. “You are not Bloodline, so I’m not surprised you don’t know your place—”

“My place–” There’s not a single ounce of her wanting or willing to back down in this moment. “–is beside my husband.”

“Do not forget, girl, who put you in that position.” There’s an almost hint of disgust in the way the word ‘girl’ leaves his mouth. “You were nothing before him. Nothing but a punching bag for that pathetic father and brother—”

Solana has never considered herself a violent person, especially not someone who responds with violence. But, it’s almost instinct. Because one minute her hand is at her side, the next it’s colliding with Rikishi’s cheek, with an intensity that sends his head to the side.

And she doesn’t regret it one bit.

Finally aware of what’s just happened, Solana can only process the anger in his fat face and the way he lifts his hand toward her. Except instead of cowering, she prepares to block it.

But, she doesn’t have to.

Because someone else does.

Solana gasps quietly at Dwayne who stands beside, almost in front of her, protectively, holding Rikishi’s arm in an iron grip.

“I don’t think you want to do that,” he says with the perfect balance of lightness and seriousness. “Unless you want me to lay your candy ass out for breaking Bloodlines rules for putting your hands on a woman.”

Rikishi hisses and snatches his arm away. “She put her hands on me. I am an Elder.”

“I don’t give a damn who you are. You will not disrespect me in my house,” Solana swears. Never again will she allow any man to harm her, physically or verbally.

And that’s a promise.

Dwayne shrugs. “Sounds fair to me.” He then smiles, but there’s no trace of humor. “And like you said, she’s not one of us, so she doesn’t know our ways.”

Solana is surprised at that. How long has he been listening?

Paul suddenly steps forward, looking like he’s about to have a damn panic attack. “Clearly, there’s been some—”

“Get out.”

Solana’s interruption earns a variety of expressions ranging from surprisement, amusement and indignation.

Paul stutters. “I’m s-s-”

“I want you both out of my house.” There’s no stuttering on her end. “Now.”

While Paul looks confused between his friend and Dwayne, the latter chuckles, expressing, “I believe the wife of the Tribal Chief has made herself clear.” And just like that the smirk drops into a straight line as he orders, “leave.”

Paul doesn’t need to be told twice, the obese man hurriedly grabbing his papers with trembling hands. It’s Rikishi, however, whose gaze is now focused on her with borderline amusement.

He holds her stare, and she doesn’t dare look away. He will not intimidate her.

Paul is mumbling and murmuring to the other man about needing to leave, something about coming back later, but again, he’s silenced by Rikishi.

“Well played, girl. Well played.”

Rikishi turns to walk away when Solana finds herself stepping past Dwayne. “My name is Solana. Solana Reigns. The wife of your Tribal Chief, Roman Reigns, and you will address me as such.”

Paul looks like he’s seen a ghost, like he’s seconds away from pissing himself. Rikishi just stares with a cold smile, one that doesn’t prevent or scare her from continuing.

“And if you ever raise your hand to me again.” she steps forward, invading his personal space the same way he invaded hers. “Just know that I don’t need my husband to kick your ass.” There’s an almost snarl to her lip as she vows, “I can do it myself.”

Because she can. Because if she can put her brother, someone who terrorized and literally tortured her for years in the ICU, she can certainly do it to the rotund man before her.

He doesn’t say anything else, just turns on his heel and leaves out with Paul, but Solana knows better. Recognizes that look. Has seen it before. Knows what it means.

This isn’t over.

And yet, there’s not a part of her that’s nervous, that feels scared or even upset with herself at how she responded.

Because she’s spent years being hurt and disrespected by men. No more.

Not for herself but also for the children growing in her stomach. Children that she strongly believes to be girls. Solana would soon rather die than have anyone treat her daughters the way she’s been treated.

And she knows Roman would and will feel the same.

So, it starts now. The demanding of respect that she’s always deserved.

Regardless of who her husband is.

Dwayne steps forward, gentle hand on her shoulder. “You alright?” Before she can answer, he informs, “I’ll make sure Roman knows about—”

“No,” she interrupts and shakes her head. “I mean, I’m okay, but I don’t want you telling him. He…..he has enough on his plate.” And the last thing she wants is anything else being added to it.

Dwayne frowns. “I don’t disagree with you, but as the faletua—”

Now she’s the one frowning. “The what?”

“Faletua,” he says it slower, offering and explanation. “It means the wife of the Tribal Chief.”

Solana is temporarily taken back by that. She never knew there was a direct word for who she is to Roman. For what she is to the Bloodline.

It’s…..surprising, to say the least.

“Speaking to you the way he did was unacceptable, but going to hit you?” He shakes his head. “Thought he would have learned that shit don’t fly with us by now.”

Curious, Solana crosses her arms and finds herself asking, “what do you mean?”

Dwayne seems a bit reluctant at first, eventually lowering his voice and offering an explanation. “Look, I’m 13 years older than Roman and Rikishi’s twins, so they were too young or not even born to have been around Rikishi when he was a piece of fucking work. Hothead. Impulsive. Used to beat on his wife. Always felt like he should have been the Tribal Chief. Nakoa, Roman’s dad, eventually had to give him an ultimatum: he get some help and straighten the fuck out or he and his entire family would be ex-communicated from the Bloodline.”

Solana hears the word coming out of this man’s mouth, but it’s difficult for her to process said words. Everything seems so…..unbelievable, like it can’t be true. Like the biological father of Jimmy and Jey, who have become like brothers to her, could be the sons of someone so…..vile.

Someone abusive.

Dwayne continues, “he’d calmed down a lot by the time Roman and the twins were born, so they don’t really know much about it. How bad it was, at least.” He then adds over a dark chuckle, “that’s where Jey gets his temper from. His old man.”

Solana has a lot to think on, but she also has many questions, too. Obviously, Rikishi’s behavior hasn’t been a problem for some time. Yes, there was today’s incident, but Solana thinks she knows her husband well enough to know he wouldn’t put up with any bullshit.

So perhaps today was just a one-off? Fetu was his relative as well, so there’s a good chance his grief is presenting as irritation similar to how Roman’s presented as anger.

And yet…..

There’s this small, nagging part of her that doesn’t believe that. Believes that there’s more at play than what meets the eye.

Is starting to wonder if she now knows who Fetu was talking about when she said she told her brother, Nakoa, not to trust him.

Shaking her head, Solana redirects her focus to the conversation at hand. “Thank you.” Because she’s grateful for this man that she doesn’t know very well but believes to be a good person. Someone who’s good for her husband. “I—I’ll talk to Roman about what happened.” And she will……just sans some details.

He doesn’t need to know everything.

It’ll only put more stress on him, and he doesn’t need that.

Dwayne seems unconvinced, but he doesn’t argue. “If that’s what you prefer.”

“It is,” she answers. Switching gears a bit, Solana lowers her voice, sharing, “and thank you for being here…..for him.”

It’s not missed upon her the sad countenance that appears on his handsome face. “Gotta be honest with you, when I got the call, I was shocked. If I had known she was still……” Dwayne sighs and runs his hand over his face. “I understand why he kept it a secret. She….she meant a lot to him.”

More than you could ever know. “I know,” Solana whispers. The realization that Roman should have been back by now causes her to clear her throat. “I should probably go check on him.”

Dwayne nods. “I should probably get going anyway.”

Solana goes to protest, not wanting him to feel uninvited. “Oh no, you don’t—”

“You were right to tell them to leave,” he interrupts, gesturing to the steps. “He does need time.”

Solana says nothing, though feels immensely grateful to have someone who also recognizes that Roman is just a human being who just needs to feel and grieve instead of this machine that can just keep moving like clockwork.

Solana again thanks him for attending and his overall support before seeing him out the door and moving up the steps to check on her husband.

“Ro?” Opening the door to their bedroom, she's partially surprised to find Roman still sitting on the edge of the bed, clothes unchanged outside of the ula fala that lays on the dresser.

He turns to her as she closes the door behind her and walks over to him. “I just….I need a minute.”

Moving in between his legs, she informs, “it’s okay. They’re gone now.”

At that, he looks at her with a confused expression. “What do you mean?”

“Dwayne left on his own, but I made Paul and Rikishi leave.” And before he can say anything, she’s explaining, “I understand there’s things you need to get done, get caught up on, but the Bloodline can survive another day without you taking charge.” She sighs and cups his face, reminding him, “today was a lot for you. The least you can do is take the rest of it to just….be.”

She’s partially expecting him to push back, maybe even some irritation for her “speaking” on his behalf only for him to ask, “how did they take it?”

Shit. She wants to lie, feels like it would be an easy short term thing and maybe it would. But, the fact that she’s already keeping this pregnancy from him is more than enough secrecy for her.

“Paul seemed more scared than anything. Rikishi….he didn’t like it, but Dwayne backed me, so it was fine.”

A flash of anger appears in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if he likes it or not. If you say something, he needs to fucking do it.” And this is what she wanted to avoid. Him getting upset when he doesn’t need to. “I’ll handle it.”

Solana shakes her head. “That’s not important right now.” Because it really isn’t. Especially since she’s already handled it. “Why don’t you change? Lay down. I’ll fix you something to eat. If I start now, I can have it ready by—”

She’s stopped by Roman reaching her for her, his hands on her waist as he says so quietly, “stay with me.”

It’s such a quiet, little thing, but it’s something he’s wanting.

Something he’s needing. Thus, the answer is obvious.

Solana nods and reaches for the middle of her skirt, hiking it up enough so that she can climb on top of his lap. Roman moves them back on the bed as she lays on top of him, snuggling herself into his chest as he wraps his arms around her, holding her.

“Thank you,” he says after kissing the top of her head. The vulnerability in his voice is aligned what she’s seen and heard in him off and on all week. “I don’t…..I don’t know if I could have handled with this without you.”

His words cause chills to sprout up her spine. Another thing she can relate to. The loss of her mother was something she once thought she would never recover from, largely because she had to deal with it alone.

But, Roman isn’t alone.

And, he never will be again.

Holding him a bit tighter, she promises, voice clear and firm, “you’re gonna be okay, Roman."

And, he is.

She’s going to make sure of it.

#roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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targaryen-dynasty · 10 months ago

Text

TO STOKE A FLAME.

Aemond Targaryen x servant!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; p in v, oral (m receiving), power imbalance (prince and maid), mutual pining, female Reader

WORDS: 4K

NOTES: this is written for the writing challenge hosted by @targaryenvampireslayer I got the prompt "Just relax for me, I'll make it feel good" and the trope mutual pining. This was my first time writing mutual pining, and I hope it's at least slightly fitting lol.

When you’re first assigned to cleaning the chambers of the King’s second son, your heart leaps for it means you are able to escape the tortures of being a scullery maid for a position that is at least a bit higher ranked, and not as ungrateful and strainful.

Prince Aemond is an early riser, already up long before first light, and whenever he sets off to train with the sword in the morning, it’s time for you to take care of his quarters.

There’s another maid that has been offered the same opportunity, only that she is in charge of making the chambers Prince Aegon presentable, and from what you have gathered, you wouldn’t want to trade places with her.

Aemond’s chambers are always immaculate when you step into them. Everything is in its place, and the air is always filled with the cool morning breeze from the windows he’s kept open. Quite different to the quarters of his older brother.

But what they do have in common are their questionable reputations.

While Aegon is promiscuous, known to pinch and fondle at any serving girl who strays within his reach, Aemond is somewhat feared, at least among the staff. Most servant girls keep well away from the prince, and a part of you is certain it is solely because of the black eyepatch he dons after losing his eye, and the grim expression he usually holds on his face.

The other maid that tends to his chambers with you is overly cautious when dusting or putting fresh linens on his bed, something that even makes you swallow thickly. However, you can’t seem to bring yourself to share their sentiment.

How could you?

Despite only meeting the prince very briefly, you feel like every day that you sweep through his chambers, you get to know him more and more. If there’s bedlam following in Aemond’s wake when he leaves in the morning, it merely consists of several books scattered all over his desk, his armchairs and sometimes even his bed.

Most of them deal with dragon lore, history, and a variety of other subjects which you wouldn’t expect to be read by any other lord, making clear that the prince is very well educated, and always strives to learn more.

And though he keeps his chambers mostly spotless, there’s very much of his personality in them – if you read between the lines.

More oft than not, the armchairs close to the fireplace don’t stand in their usual positions, turned to the side to face each other with one of them being piled by books or scrolls. And you know from the servants that he’s often found sitting beside the fireplace either in deep thought or engrossed in a book with the flames of the fire dancing in the corner of his eye.

You’re cleaning his quarters all by yourself today for Darla, the other maid assigned, has been called to take care of something else, which means you’re granted slightly more time for Aemond’s chambers.

Kneeling in front of the fireplace, you’re knocking off as much ash and debris as possible back into it, before some of it is swept up and emptied into the pail standing next to you.

You’ve been a bit too engrossed in your task when the doors behind you burst open, catching you by surprise and startling you. There’s only one person that could and would enter the prince’s quarters at this hour of the day – the prince himself.

As you hurry to get back on your feet, already straightening and dusting off the skirt of your maid attire, you’re a bit too quick and hit your head on the ledge of the fireplace, your mob cap falling to the ground in the process.

It’s a stinging pain that shoots right through your whole body, and a throbbing that settles at the crown of your head. You bring a hand up to soothe the pain at least a bit, before you’re reminded of the reason why you got up in the first place.

Gritting your teeth, you take in a sharp breath and lower your hand, bobbing a small curtsy with a strained ‘Prince Aemond’ leaving your lips to the man that stands still in the room, clearly regarding you.

“My apologies, I–” you say, trying to make excuses and wanting to state that you’re just about to leave, but he cuts you off.

“Are you well?” he asks, though there is a lilt of amusement in his voice. “I apologize for startling you, that was not my intent.”

What’s even more unusual than him apologizing to you, a servant, for barging into his own chambers is that he's inquiring about your well-being. You’ve never before been acknowledged by any of the Targaryen’s, not that you expected it, and feeling his gaze on you kind of makes you nervous.

He raises his brow when there doesn’t come an answer from you, and you take it as your cue to speak. “I–Yes, Prince Aemond,” you stutter, bowing your head. Raising it again, your hand brushes the crown of it briefly, the spot still throbbing despite it happening a few moments ago. “I am well. It’s–It’s nothing, my prince.”

Gathering your things, you’re caught off guard for a second time since he’s entered his chambers as he slowly approaches you. He has a sympathetic smile on his lips now, and you’re not sure if it’s the embarrassment or him coming close enough to tower above you, but your body feels like it’s been put on fire.

“Are you certain you’re well?” he asks, eye flitting from your head to meet your eyes. “You’ve struck your head rather hard.”

He reaches to inspect the spot on your head, yet he hesitates and pulls back right before his fingers could brush your hair. You’re slightly disappointed, but your pounding heart is grateful. Just the mere proximity brings a blush to your cheeks and has you shifting your weight from one leg to the other, and you’re certain you wouldn’t have been able to handle him touching you.

There’s a moment of silence between you, and your hands clutch the handle of the pail tight enough for your knuckles to blanch from the force. It’s unnerving, and you’re torn between wanting to stay and wanting to leave. You’re afraid he’s not the man you’ve made up in your mind, that there’s just a hint of truth in the rumors that make their way around staff and court.

His voice cuts through the silence like a sharp blade, smooth and somewhat calming. “What’s your name?”

Taking in a deep breath, you tell him your name, but not without your eyes darting to the ground. His gaze is heavy, too heavy for you to meet it, and you feel as though there’s something else than curiosity woven within it.

“You’re quite flustered over nothing,” he hums, and the way your name slips past his lips with so much ease almost makes you melt right then and there; at least it’s enough to make you forget that he’s clearly noticed the effect he has on you.

Aemond takes note of you being nervous around him, his attention causing your blood to rush through your veins. It seems as though it’s a rather strong reaction that you have to him, something not many women feel when he comes near them. It’s endearing.

Your eyes flicker upwards to meet his good one again, and you straighten your back for another curtsy.

“M-my apologies, Prince Aemond.”

You can spot the exact moment the corners of his lips curl into a teasing smirk, your timid demeanor and your nervousness the trigger for it. And being as cocky as he is, he thinks he could have a bit of fun with you.

“It seems you’re rather out of sorts for something so trivial,” he notes, his tone teasing and playful, matching the flicker of mischief in his eye. “Perhaps I should inspect you myself to see if you have in fact sustained any injuries.”

His words make you feel as if the world around you is slowing down, making everything feel almost unbearable. You’re finding it incredibly hard to look him in the eye without blushing or your breath becoming heavy, and therefore fix them on the ground again. Noticing his large feet in comparison to your much smaller ones, your thoughts briefly stray to what else of him might be large.

But before you can answer him, or your thoughts can dive deeper, Aemond places a hand beneath your chin and gently tilts your face back up for you to meet his gaze. You’ve only seen one other in passing, and even then you’re certain he’s paid no mind to you at all, so his touch comes unexpected. But you don’t tense, and you certainly don’t pull away. However, you’re unsure if you should give in and lean into it.

His finger brushes along your jawline, trailing down the curve of your neck, and coming close to your collarbone, a heat following in its wake. He stops for a second, as if he’s debating whether or not he should move his touch any further.

Aemond’s surprised by your reaction, yet he also realizes that you’re much more interesting than any of the other maids for they were all alike – all not daring to look at him or stay in his presence for longer than a few minutes. But you’re different.

He could already tell by the way you so neatly clean and store his books when he’s spent his night reading by the fire, or how you seem to pay extra attention when you’re putting fresh linens on his bed, fluffing his pillows without the hurry the previous chambermaid has had.

And seeing his touch having such a significant impact on you, the little maid he’s spent so much time dreaming and fantasizing about, feeds a desire he didn’t have before – the desire to bed you, to claim you.

“Get on your knees,” he orders, hooded eye looking down at you.

Swallowing thickly, your mind struggles to comprehend what he asked of you. “I-what?” you stammer in disbelief.

“You heard me. On your knees.” He’s a bit firmer now, and uses the slight grip he has on your shoulder to give you a little help sinking down. You follow his lead, the pail rattling onto the ground.

Your hands are folded in your lap when you gaze up at him, eyes wide and curiously studying his next move. With your thumbs brushing over each other, you try to keep your fluttering nerves at bay, grazing your skin to distract yourself from the throbbing that blossoms between your legs.

Aemond looms over you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one hand. There’s something in the position you’re in, and the combination of his gentle touch and stern orders that gets to your head, and lures you in to lean into his hand. It also makes you a bit bolder as you place a hand on his thigh in return.

It piques his interest, obvious in the way he raises a brow, and his eye flickers to where your hand rests on his body. But he doesn’t shy away from the touch.

“Do you know what I require of you?” Aemond asks, sterner than before.

You bow your head, batting your eyelashes at him in an innocent manner. “I do, my Prince.”

That’s all he has to hear before he swiftly unlaces the front of his breeches and tugs them down barely enough to free his cock and stones, the sight alone making your breath hitch in your throat. He’s well endowed, and far bigger than the cock of the one man you’ve slept with before.

You release a shaky breath, replaying all the knowledge you’ve gathered about pleasuring a man with your mouth, and catch a whiff of musk mixed with the salty smell of sweat – he’s definitely trained with the sword this morning.

Squeezing his thigh, your eyes flicker between his and his hard cock as the slight nod of his head encourages you to curl your hand around it, your thumb and index finger barely touching.

He throbs in your palm already, and the tip is covered in a red that makes it clear he’s desperate to be buried inside of something; probably not caring whether it’s your mouth or your cunt.

Even though you cower beneath his dominating presence, a jolt of boldness strikes you that makes you lean in and lick a flat stripe from the base of his cock up to the bulbous tip. A salty taste lingers on your tongue as you drag it over the slit, making you hum appreciatively, seemingly pleased to witness the effect your touch and presence have on the prince’s body.

Aemond buries his hands in your hair, loosening the bun you’ve put it into this morning, and grabs a fistful of it. It’s a sharp tug of him that catches your attention, and your wide eyes flit up to meet his demanding gaze.

Spurred on by the heavy breaths moving his chest, you swallow, and eventually part your lips to slowly ease him inside, and even though he holds you by your hair, he’s generous enough to not force himself inside, allowing you to move as you please.

“Fuck,” he growls as he gets accustomed to the warmth and tightness of your mouth, head tipping back to release a bawdy groan.

You hollow your cheeks around him, and, after a few moments that allow you to adjust to him, start to bob your head back and forth his thick length, flattening your tongue against him for added stimulation.

Growing bolder and bolder with each passing moment, you squeeze your thighs together every time the tip of his cock brushes the back of your throat, robbing you of the ability to breathe until you pull off of him again.

With his hand in your hair, Aemond senses you getting more comfortable, and starts to guide your head along his member, encouraging you to set up a quicker pace to which you eagerly comply.

“That’s it,” he groans, not able to tear his eye from the sight of your lips wrapped around him as his cock repeatedly disappears inside of your mouth.

Droplets of your saliva dribble from the corners of your lips down your chin with how fast you sink down on him, and the lewd sounds of his soaked cock sliding back and forth past your lips fill the prince’s chambers, hardly drowned out by his grunts and groans.

At this point, you’re drenched in your arousal, the linen of your small clothes clinging to your swollen mound in a way that’s almost uncomfortable.

While you bring one hand up to clasp around the rest of his cock that doesn’t fit into your mouth, the other grips his thigh a bit harder than before, holding onto him for dear life as he uses your face however he pleases.

You feel the muscles of his thigh tense and contract under your palm and his cock throb inside of you, indicating that he’s close to reaching his peak. It’s the first time you pleasure a man with your mouth, and you’re not quite sure what to expect. But before you can brace yourself for whatever might come, Aemond pulls you off of him by your hair, prompting you to topple back to sit on your haunches.

You lock your teary eyes with his good one, lips smacking as his musky and salty taste spreads on them and your tongue. “My Prince, I–”

“Remove your clothes,” he interrupts you, his voice less friendly and more a command.

There are so many thoughts rattling your mind right now, and you don’t know where to start and what to process.

“I wasn’t asking,” he growls, his impatience showing as you don’t comply quickly enough.

With a bow of your head, you rise to your feet and peel the beige-ish apron off of your body, the red dress and smallclothes following suit. You waste no thought on your modesty, on the fact that you’re standing bare in front of a prince of the mighty House Targaryen. The longing for him that has built with all the days you’ve cleaned his pristine chambers, and the undeniable aching between your legs don’t allow you to.

You’re undressed when he stalks around you, regarding you like he’s the hunter and you’re his prey. You see that your obedience arouses him, his hard cock throbbing and bouncing with each step he takes around you. It’s thrilling in the best way possible, and the feeling of being desired by him feeds your confidence.

“Are you just watching, or will the prince undress as well?”

His eye narrows and flickers up to yours at your question, and there’s the hint of a smile adorning his features. “Would you like that?”

Biting your bottom lip, a blush creeps on your cheeks. “Very much.”

As you size him up, you notice a flush blossoming from his cheeks down his neck, the same warmth you feel obviously spreading through his body, too.

“Then I suppose that I’ll oblige.”

You watch with half-lidded eyes as he removes his clothing, slipping out of layer after layer, starting with the black leather robe, and ending with his smallclothes.

You all but drag your eyes over his lithe frame, taking in every muscle that ripples beneath his pale skin, and every silver, coarse hair that trails from below his navel to his cock and the sac of his stones.

It seems like he basks in your attention, in the way you stare at him in awe as you lick your lips, and he’s certainly not afraid of showing himself in his full glory.

“Get on the bed,” he says, smugly. “On your hands and knees.”

This time you know better than to take a few seconds to comply, bowing your head before climbing his bed right away, getting in the desired position. You suddenly feel vulnerable and exposed, completely at his mercy in a way you’ve never experienced before. However, your curiosity and desire overshadow any reservations you could have.

“Pray tell, have you lain with a man before?” You feel the mattress dip beneath his weight as he slowly settles behind you. His hands find your hips, and you shiver with anticipation.

Looking at him from over your shoulder, you nod. “Just once, my prince.”

A soft hm rubles in his chest at your words, and he raises an eyebrow, intrigued by your words. You certainly seem to take him very seriously, which isn’t unusual given his station, but it’s your honesty that’s a whole different matter to him. “You enjoyed it, I presume?”

Still meeting his gaze, you swallow thickly. You’re hesitant to answer, not sure why it’s of importance, but he doesn’t seem willing to let you off the hook just yet. “Yes, I did.”

Aemond gives your flesh an appreciative squeeze at that, and shuffles close enough for you to feel his cock press against your arse. “Would you be willing to again?”

You press your lips into a thin line to stop them from pulling into a grin, but fail miserably. The prince behind you takes that as his cue to continue, and you’re most grateful when you feel him drag the tip of his cock through your soaked folds.

“Just relax for me,” he purrs, his eye fixed on the motions of his hand, watching as his cock disappears inside of you. “I’ll make it feel good.”

The moment you stretch around him, you take in a sharp breath, his cock breaching your cunt at a teasingly slow pace that makes sure you feel every vein and ridge of him drag along your walls.

With his hands coming back to rest on your hips, he pulls you onto his cock until his hips press against your arse, taking his time to adjust to your tightness. The ‘shit’ he mumbles doesn’t go unnoticed by you, a renewed wave of your arousal drenching his cock and the sac of his stones.

If his impatience hasn’t been running thin before, it certainly does now, because the first gentle, sensual thrusts are quickly replaced by merciless pounding. You don’t mind it for you’ve been thoroughly soaked, and enjoy the feeling of his cock repeatedly brushing the spot inside of you that makes your vision go blurry.

Aemond brings a hand between your shoulders, applying a good bit of pressure to press your chest down and your face into the pillows. Your head turns to the side, but you’re not able to look at him.

His breathing is heavy, strained pants leaving him, and his hand trails back to grope your arse.

“Fuck, what an obedient girl they’ve ordered to take care of my chambers–of me,” Aemond rambles behind you, bowing forwards to put a bit more of his weight on your small frame. “Taking me so well. Giving me exactly what I want.”

The praise goes straight to your head, and you want to answer, but the words die on your tongue, replaced by quiet whimpers and whines that grow wanton as he splits you open with a hard, percussive thrust. Then another follows, and another, keening at the sweet sounds you make only for him.

Not able to focus on anything else than the pressure building inside of your belly, you push your hips back against him, and he counters by pulling you back with each of his thrusts, meeting him halfways which results in the lewd sounds of skin slapping on skin to echo off the walls.

He’s making you feel so good, so wanted, that you’re certain you would keep going even if someone is to barge into his chambers, interrupting you.

As his hand snakes beneath your body to make contact with your pearl, you’re overcome with the true knowledge of how experienced Aemond actually is. He strums your body like the most talented lutenist, bringing you closer towards your sweet release.

“Gods, I–” you whine into the pillows.

The taut string inside of you snaps, and the pleasure within you soares through your veins. White, hot pleasure clouds your vision, his arm around you the only thing keeping you up right now.

“That’s it,” Aemond grunts, and the snaps of his hips increase to the point your whines become hiccuped, catching in your throat with little to no time to fill your lungs with air.

And then, his hips stutter, his throbbing cock spending itself deep inside of your quivering walls. He twitches and trembles so much that he’s forced to still his hips, and you take it as your cue to roll yours against him, helping him through his peak.

The throbbing only stills once you’ve milked him for every drop of his seed and the last bit of the euphoric high subsides, making him come back to his senses.

But there’s not much basking in the proximity for you, not when Aemond pulls out almost immediately after, climbing off the bed to get dressed again. The red dress is crudely thrown into your direction, silently making clear that it’s time for you to leave.

It seems as though he’s embarrassed, because he has a hard time meeting your eyes, and doesn’t look at you when you get back in your clothes. But perhaps you’re just not catching the subtle glances he throws into your direction as your maid attire comes back to hug your curves.

Tying the apron and fixing your hair, you reach for the pail. It’s then, with you bowing forwards, that you finally feel his seed trickling out of your cunt, and the sensation alone makes you shiver in an uncomfortable way. You certainly have to look for a quiet spot in the keep where you can clean yourself, since you’re not done working.

You head for the door, but before you open it, his smooth voice catches your attention again.

“You may leave now, but I expect you to come back and finish your task at the Hour of the Ghosts, for you have not cleaned the fireplace thoroughly enough.”

Taglist: @heimtathurs @croatianprincess @nina2697 @malfoytargaryen @thetaygaryen @wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @kyuupidwrites @boofy1998 @thekinslayersswordhand @sagelovesreading @jiminie-08 @doublesparrows @at-a-rax-ia @fan-goddess @recorddust @tsujifreya @melsunshine @drwstarkeyy @kazuyatokue @moonlightfoxx @bbgmonsay @thatmysteriousblog @ashovertheriver @black-dread @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1 @lovelykhaleesiii @hypocritic-trash-baby @darylandbethfanforever9 @snowystark @connorsui @valeskafics

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masonmtxo · 5 months ago

Text

Feels like Summer

Words: 3k

Summary: what started out as a holiday fic turned into girlie getting broody

Notes: please leave feedback, it really means the world and is such a motivator 🩷

•••

You'd never felt more relaxed in your life, the sun beating down on your skin as you laid on the lounger beside the pool, the heat making you sleepy, despite the chaos taking place only a few feet away from you.

A stark contrast from your pure state of bliss, Mason could only describe the fun being had in the pool as absolute bedlam. There were excitable screams from children in all directions, a niece (though he wasn't sure which one) was clinging to his back as she squealed, before her grip loosened and a little pink swimming costume clad body dove onto the unicorn float beside him. Poppy's little face spun to meet him, a huge grin on her face as he playfully grabbed hold of the float she was now sat upon, dragging it through the water behind him as his heart soared at her gleeful screams.

Don't get him wrong, he loved playing football, but the extended period of time he got to spend with his family under the sun during his summer break was his definition of perfection. Nothing could beat the feeling of spending his days being the fun uncle, acting like a big kid with his nieces and nephew, competing with his brother to be their favourite. He was in his element, splashing around the pool and playing games until they were all exhausted, heading inside for a snack and a nap. And in Mason's case, a cuddle and some loving with you. Sometimes you'd get involved in the chaos, his nieces adored you and would beg and beg until you'd jump in with them, sometimes telling Mason it was "girls time" and he wasn't allowed to join in. But for the most part you stayed in the dry, letting Mason and Lewis act as kids entertainers and tire themselves out trying to compete with each other.

You watched from your place beside the pool, eyes covered by sunglasses, exchanging words with Debbie every now and then as she sat on the sun lounger beside you.

You're not sure why you chose to blurt it out so abruptly, but you couldn't help yourself, heart soaring as you watched him interacting with his niece, "he's going to be the best dad."

Debbie took a sharp intake of breath, whipping her head round to look at you and peering over the top of her sunglasses, "are you...?"

Her words drifted off as you quickly stopped her,

"oh no, no, no," you hurried out, not missing the disappointment that washed over her face, "I just can't help but get broody when I see him with kids."

You and Debbie had always been close, she had treated you like her own from the minute you had met and over the years you had formed a close bond. There was something about the way her kind eyes bored into you that always had you opening up to her, something that her son had inherited too.

"He's in his element when he's with them, isn't he?" She smiled softly, her heart clenching as she watched you watching him, overcome with gratitude that her baby had found someone who loved him as much as you did. "He's always been good with kids, even when he was young all the littlens seemed to be drawn to him."

You nodded, taking a sip of your drink before turning to face her, breaking your eyes away from Mason as he began tossing Summer up in the air, "He keeps dropping hints about having a baby. I caught him looking at baby United kits on his phone the other day so I know he's ready."

"So what's stopping you?"

"I dunno, I guess with the move up North and having to re-jig my whole life, I felt quite unsettled for a while and there was no way a baby in the equation would have been practical," you shrugged, unable to avert your gaze from him, not wanting to a miss a second of the sweet display.

Debbie hummed in agreement, sensing you still had more to say.

Sighing, you carried on, "part of me is selfishly happy he didn't play much this season, as bad as it sounds," you were embarrassed to admit it, feeling guilty about the way you felt, but it was the truth, "It meant I had him around a bit more when I was feeling down. Don't get me wrong I'd move anywhere with him if he needed me to, but I don't think I fully comprehended how big of a change it would be for me. I've only just started making friends that aren't other partners of the players, wnd even with them it took me an age before I didnt feel like the new girl."

"Oh sweetheart," she reached across the beds to take hold of your hand, squeezing it in hers, "you know you could have always called, I would have been there in a heartbeat to come and keep you company."

"Mase did keep saying in the beginning that you would be happy to come up and stay for a bit, but I just didn't want to be an inconvenience you know" you paused, taking comfort from her warm hand in yours as you finally opened up about a years worth of turmoil, "he was the one who was getting hammered publically, he was the one who had to start off again at a whole new club. I just wanted him to worry about himself for once, not me."

"He always worries about you, he called me a lot in the first few months as he had a feeling you weren't settled but you were refusing to admit it," Debbie's voice was soft, motherly in a way that made you feel comfortable enough to divulge all your inner thoughts and fears.

"Bless him," you smiled as you turned back to look at him, now teaching the girls how to do star floats on their backs, "I remember one time l'd had a really bad day, a group of the girls who l'd been getting friendly with had met up without me and I was so sensitive, cried about it when I saw them all together on instagram," you laughed, "and he was so sweet, kept asking if I wanted to move back home and he would see if he could commute from London because he could tell I was unhappy."

Debbie laughed, shaking her head with a smile as it was something he had also mentioned to her in one of his panics. She had shut him down instantly, telling him to not be so dramatic and it was just a big adjustment.

"I think he was worried I would break up with him," you spoke softly, admitting something that you hadn't actually vocalised before.

Remembering the way he was on egg shells with you for weeks, doing everything he could to try and make you feel like Manchester was home.

Debbie didn't respond, just gave your hand another squeeze in acknowledgment. She knew it was something he had agonised over, sometimes breaking down into tears as he poured his heart out to his mum over the phone, worried he was making you unhappy by forcing you to leave your life behind for him. Debbie had reassured him repeatedly it wouldn't happen, and she had been right. It was just a bump in the road, and with his recurring injuries and subsequent time off the tearful calls had become less frequent, the extra time you had been allowed to spend together helping you settle into a new normal.

By the time he had gone back to training full time, you'd found your rhythm, making friends through Anouska who had kindly taken you under her wing and introduced you to all the best coffee places and parks to walk Ace in, the puppy Mason had bought to make you feel safer and less lonely when he was away. It had taken time, but you finally saw Manchester as home, loving the city more than you thought you would.

You settled into a comfortable silence for a while before Debbie spoke up again, still holding your hand in hers, "You know when you two were house hunting after moving up there he asked Lewis to find options that were listed as family homes," she smirked, eyebrows raised suggestively as you turned to look at her.

"I knew you'd want to go back to the grandkids topic," you giggled, shaking your head at her lack of subtlety, another trait Mason had taken from her.

"Can you blame me? I'll never say no to more babies in the family," her smile was infectious, making you return her grin.

"We did discuss a bit when we were house hunting. I didn't want to buy something so big to be honest, purely because the amount of cleaning it would need," you groaned, being reminded that you worry had come to fruition, "but he made a good point and said it's going to be the house we have kids in, so may as well buy one that's ready for that step."

"And are you ready for that step?"

"Yeah," you nodded, feeling sure of yourself, "he's been ready for the past few years, it's been me that's always had my foot on the break. But for the last few months the feeling just hasn't gone away, I keep going over to Anouska's just to get my baby fix with Lumie," you laughed, "and every time Stacey hands Honey over for a cuddle I struggle to give her back."

"You better hurry up and tell Mason then," she teased.

"Tell me what?" You both turned to see the man of the hour pulling himself up out of the pool having caught onto the last few words of your conversation.

Releasing her grip on your hand, Debbie shuffled up from her seat, "I'll leave you two to talk."

Watching her go, you would help but roll your eyes affectionately at the little spring in her step as she rushed over to the other side of the pool where Tony was sitting with a beer, clearly excited to fill him in on the prospect that they may soon be getting another grandchild.

Mason was watching you, taking the opportunity to drink in your bikini clad body while you were focused elsewhere, admiring the curves of your body and the glow from the sun on your skin.

"Go on then," he broke the silence, "what have you got to tell me?" His head cocked in question.

"Come here?" You asked, opening your arms to invite him to lay with you, figuring there was no time like the present and if you didn't tell him he would spend the day pestering you until you inevitability broke down to pressure.

"I've just got out of the pool," he warned, glancing down to his wet torso when he noticed you were transfixed on his body, a slight pink dusting over your already flushed cheeks.

"Don't care, want a cuddle," you murmured, smiling as he carefully plopped on top of you, head resting on your chest as his left hand trailed up and down the side of your body. His wet body cooled you instantly from the layer of heat the sun had given you, goosebumps covering your skin from the combined sensations of the cold and his gentle touch.

You sat in silence for a while, gathering your thoughts while enjoying the feeling of having each other close, the last time you had an opportunity to spend time with him had been in bed that morning. You had awoken to day light flooding into the room having forgotten to close them the night before in your desperation to get each other into bed. Your neediness hadn't passed, knowing you had to make the most of your time together before spending the day surrounded by his family. He had fucked into you slowly from behind, whispering how much he loved you into your ear until you were both spent, followed by another quick fumble in the shower before getting ready to meet the others for breakfast.

The kids had stolen him after that, so you made sure to enjoy the moments you had with him during the day, even if they were few and far between sometimes.

“So, you gonna tell me what mum was talking about?” He broke the silence after a while, fingers tracing over your stomach and you couldn't help but smile at the irony.

"I want a baby.”

His head shot up from your chest instantly, wild eyes searching your expression, "Are you serious!?"

"Yeah,” you nodded slowly, “I've been thinking about it for a while, every time I see you with kids I feel like I’m going to explode. But that's only if you're ready too.”

He laughed, the grin on his face probably the biggest you'd ever seen, happiness radiating through his brown eyes, “You know I've always been ready to have kids with you.”

“I know,” you face was apologetic, reaching out to cup his cheek and trace a gentle path across his flushed cheek, “and i'm sorry for making you wait so long, I just felt like bringing a baby into the world when I was feeling a bit all over the place wasn't the best idea.”

“No I get that, it wasn't the right time last year,” he agreed solomley, though a smile was threatening to burst through, “I know we spoke about kids and how we wanted them soon when we moved into the house but I was always happy to wait until you were ready too.”

“I felt ready all along in terms of our relationship, like if it happened accidentally last year I never would've had doubts or felt rushed. I just didn't feel ready to start actively trying you know? Felt like we had a lot going on and the pressure would've got to me I think."

"We don't have to put any pressure on it, even if it takes time," he reassured, "the baby making is the fun bit anyway." His cheeky grin made you giggle, loving the way he always knew exactly what to say to relax you and make you laugh. "And if you have second thoughts and want to wait for a bit before we remove contraception that's fine. We can do everything at your pace.”

You shook your head softly, he was so unbelievably caring you felt your stomach clench with love, "no I don't need anymore time to think," eyes flitting away from him to admire a bird circling the sky above you,

"It's something i've been thinking about for months now. I thought I’d wait and see, to see if the feeling went away once summer started and you were home all the time and I wasn't so lonely. But if anything it has got worse, I've never been so broody in my life.”

"Yeah?" His voice was soft, his eyes a little bit watery as he struggled to contain the love he felt for you in that moment.

"Yeah," you confirmed, mirroring his expression.

He rested his head back on your chest, trying to steady his breathing as his heart hammered in his chest. You were finally saying everything he had been waiting to hear for the past year, excitement pulsing through his entire body at the prospect of getting to become a parent with you.

"I want two, maybe 3 kids I think,” you murmured.

"Oh at least 3 for sure, the more you let me have the better," he grinned teasingly, his chin resting on the valley between your chest so he could look up at you adoringly.

"You're gonna be the best daddy in the world," you hummed, stroking the back of his head through his wet locks.

"And you’ll be the best mum,” he whispered, pressing a series of kisses to your chest, trailing his lips up until he reached your neck, “wanna go practice making a baby?"

"Mason, I just spoke to your mum about wanting a child, I'm not disappearing off with you, she will know exactly what we're doing," you groaned, gently grasping his face and pushing him out from the crook of your neck in an attempt to stop him getting carried away.

Mason barked out a laugh, "Babe, mum knows if she wants another grandchild we're gonna have to be having lots of sex, probably even more than usual," he wiggled his eyebrows at you suggestively, trying to charm you into letting him have his way with you but you were holding firm.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean hiding away to have a shag while on a family holiday, when all your nieces and nephews are here as well."

"You let me fuck you last night," he grumbled, "and this morning."

"Yes, while everyone was in bed Mason," you chastised.

"Baby they aren't stupid, they know we don't go in our room at night and play scrabble til we fall asleep," his voice was teasing, letting you know he was only playing around with you.

"That's beside the point, Mase. If we disappear now you may as well stand up and make an announcement across the villa we're going for a quick fuck."

"I mean I wouldn't be opposed to doing that," he shrugged, playfully biting at the palm of your hand that was still cupped around his face, "at least we wouldn't be disturbed."

"You're an idiot," you couldn't help but laugh at him, flicking him on the shoulder in jest.

"But you love me and you wanna make loads of babies with me," his smirk was full of teasing, dipping his head to bite gently down on the swell of your breast knowing it would wind you up further.

"Mason, do you remember you said I could decide otherwise at any point?" You asked pointedly.

He nodded, his smile not dropping.

"Don't test me," you countered.

With another sharp laugh, he pulled you in for a kiss, cupping your face in his large hand, his lips sweet and soft against yours before pulling away, "fine, I'll wait until tonight then."

🩷✨☁️

Thank you for reading! Please leave some feedback if you can, it means a lot and motivates me to keep posting!

#mason mount #mason mount fic #mason mount fluff

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wreckedandpolemic · 5 months ago

Text

dancing is a dangerous game - matty healy

(mdni) in which a last-ditch attempt to garner respectability may just hold the key to your lovelorn heart after all... 10910 words.

warnings: fingering, oral (f receiving), period-typical misogyny, excessively purple prose

You snap the Society Papers shut with a huff, glowering at your mama over the top of the paper. As if it weren’t bad enough to be married off to some stranger, must the entire ton know about it? You already know what they’ll say; false compassion murmured behind fans, just loud enough for you to hear. Poor thing. Three seasons out, the family must be getting desperate. That marriage is sure to be a loveless one. Perhaps there’s something… not all there about the girl. Your fists clench, blinding anger rising in you the longer you stew over your predicament. Sold off like cattle to a man you don’t even know, your entire marriage a spectacle in which you’re an unwilling performer.

Well. You know Lord Healy, in much the same way a chamber-maid knows her mistress. You remember him well, his last season your first, every girl in your set tripping over herself to catch his eye. You remember him as handsome, certainly, but little else; not worldly or clever, not remotely interested in propriety or the role he long should have stepped into by now. Content to just lounge about, rakish, his utter lack of interest in taking a wife had only served in making the mamas more ambitious and their daughters more desperate. Then, as the season came to a close, he had announced his distaste for polite society and disappeared, ostensibly to travel the world.

His return had already been sure to cause a stir, not in the least after his mother had sent yours a letter you can only imagine to be pleading for you to take him off their hands. The news had spread fast, gossip travelling faster than wildfire among the gentry, and you can’t imagine the bedlam he’d been greeted with when he docked has made him any more amenable to the idea than you are. And yet, you can hear gravel crunching under wheels and hooves, your skirts splayed out and arranging you into a perfect, demure little picture as the shackles you’ll wear for the rest of your life stroll up the steps to your door.

“You’ve a caller, my lady,” says the maid, curtsying hastily as you wave a hand to have her beckon him in.

Getting to your feet as he enters, your breath catches slightly in your throat. He’s more handsome than you remember, once-cropped curls now loose in a halo around his head, the silver in one ear standing out starkly against the dark backdrop. His sleeves are rolled up, and… good Lord, does he have a tattoo? As if you weren’t enough of a laughing stock to the ton, the only man willing to have you is a pierced, inked rake whose defining characteristic is flagrant disregard for the aristocracy. He holds his hand out to your mama, bowing politely. “Lady Marlowe. A pleasure to see you again.” His voice is smooth and rich, yet tinged bitter, expensive coffee poured over your senses.

You curtsy to him as he turns to face you, taking your hand in his own, calloused from hard work and smudged with ink. “My lord,” you murmur, eyes to the floor as he lifts your hand to his lips, warm where they meet your skin. Something sparks between you, flaring to life as you meet his eyes.

“Miss Marlowe. So lovely to finally make your acquaintance. I was rather… shocked, to return to England and find myself betrothed, but I suppose I ought not see a woman so beautiful as you as anything less than a blessing.” You flush, swallowing hard. Of all the reactions you might have expected from your first meeting, this certainly isn’t a turn of events you could have predicted.

You give a high, tinkling laugh, polite and artificial. “You flatter me so, my lord. I am not deserving of such–”

“You certainly are,” he interrupts, his smile disarming. Your traitorous heart longs to trust in his honeyed words, your rational brain desperately beating out the smoke before anything can catch alight. “Would you care for a turn about the garden? I find it so stifling to be cooped inside on days like this.”

With your mama following at a distance, you loop your arm through his and allow him to lead you through the garden. The last lingering raindrops clinging to the grass wick into your skirts, cold and grounding as they brush against your stockings. “My lord,” you begin, low enough that your mama won’t overhear.

“Matthew, please. I have spent three years travelling the world simply as Matthew, and I’ve taken quite a liking to it. Lord Healy sounds to me like someone rather tiresome.” The nails of your free hand bite into your palm. It’s all very well and good for him to flout every maxim of polite society, scoff and bite his thumb at whomever he likes; you don’t have that luxury.

You’d been perfectly happy to live as a spinster, well-learned in the thin line you’d have to tread for the few remaining years before the season closed its doors on you, and you resent that he has the luxury of walking out of his own volition, that open arms were waiting for his return. “That isn’t proper, my lord,” you reply, clipped and irritable.

Lord Healy’s answering smirk is exactly what you’d expect, louche and irreverent. He leans close, and you shiver. “Fuck proper.” You give a shocked little gasp. “Listen, darling. I can tell there isn’t anywhere in the world you’d like to be less than here, but I’m afraid this is our lot. The way I see it, proper’s what’s trapped us like this. Won’t you break the rules with me? It can be our little secret.”

He smiles earnestly, and you feel a sick sense of guilt even as you swoon. So charming and handsome that he could have had any woman he liked, now saddled with a girl best known for being a lost cause. And yet there’s something undeniable and sincere in his eyes, and you find yourself meeting them boldly. “Very well, Matthew. I suppose a little secrecy never hurt anyone.”

“Well, I’m glad that we settled that. I suppose if we’re to spend our lives bound together in matrimony, we ought get to know each other. Tell me about yourself, love, please.”

You smooth your skirts, the practised spiel springing easily to your lips; the laundry list of qualities that might make you a suitable wife, a successful mother. “I am accomplished on the pianoforte. I am fluent in French. I am talented at needlework.” You don’t even attempt to sound as if you care for any of it.

Matthew makes a short, disparaging noise. “That all sounds… incredibly dull. I feel as though you agree, love. I want to know what you enjoy, not what you think might please me to hear.”

A flush creeps up your chest, a traitorous stain high on your cheeks. You aren’t certain whether that question has been asked of you once in the last ten years. “I am… an amateur novelist, I suppose. I was, in youth, a skilled fencer, although I am out of practice, to say the least.” The admission feels tight as it escapes you, a confession that belongs buried in the drawers of your writing-desk under piles of correspondence and spilled ink.

Matthew smiles, boyish and almost fond. “A fencer. You must remind me to cower behind you, should we ever encounter bandits.”

Scowling, you slip your arm out of his and fold it across your chest. “If you were going to tease, I don’t know why you would ask.” That butterfly of hope you had foolishly allowed to flicker in your chest is snuffed out, and you curse yourself for even letting it take root in the first place.

A warm, concerned hand rests against your arm. “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to be hurtful.” He draws a deep breath, tipping his head back and exhaling slowly before he speaks. “I know this isn’t remotely how either of us pictured spending this time. But, truly, I am trying to make the best of a bad situation. I’d like to make this as painless as possible for the two of us, so I implore you to humour me, just for a little while. And I promise, if the thought of being my wife still reviles you by the time we’re wed, you’ll live out your days wanting for nothing with as much freedom the constraints of society allow you.”

His words are sweet, flowery, surely born from the ink staining his hands. On the surface, it sounds a charmed life, an ideal outcome; to you it’s nothing more than empty words, the bitter taste of arsenic disguised in sweet almond marzipan. You’ve long accepted living without love, made your peace with the pitying looks of the ton, and yet he presents you with further ways you might be humiliated, arranges them on a silver platter like you wouldn’t notice the rotting centre.

You aren’t an imbecile. You understand what such a marriage would mean for your already-tattered reputation. You can practically hear the murmurs, read the gossip rags, feel the prying stares. Can you believe it? The new Lady Healy couldn’t keep her husband’s interest for even a month. I can’t say I’m surprised. Always an odd one, wasn’t she, like a repellent of the opposite sex. Certainly, you’d be free, with your husband in any bed but your own, but free only to wither and rot in the darkness of his country home with only a swaddled heir for company.

It’s been too long since you’ve spoken, Matthew expectant at your elbow. “I don’t believe I have much of a choice, my lord,” you murmur faintly, and his face falls.

Your conversation is stilted, polite but stiff as you make your way back to the house. At the door, Matthew bows to you, lips warm against your hand. “Please, think on what I have said. I eagerly await seeing you again.”

No sooner has he climbed into his carriage than your mama practically accosts you trying to climb the staircase. “Well?” she demands. “What on earth did he say to you?”

You sigh, fighting the urge to bury your face in your hands and scream. “Not an awful lot, mama. That is what happens when you attempt to force a rake and a spinster into matrimony.” Folding your arms across your chest, your mama presses her lips into a thin line, displeasure etched into her features.

“You are not a spinster, dear.”

You scoff. “No thanks to you. I hope that whatever agreement you reached with the Healys is worth the cost of my happiness,” you say bitterly, not staying long enough for your mama to formulate a response and sweeping up the stairs. For the best part of an hour, you sit at your writing-desk, quill poised above parchment, writing and scratching out the same handful of words over and over in a Sisyphean rhythm. By the time you decide to give up and go to bed, ink-stains blotch your hands and bloom across your skirt with nothing at all to show for it.

Your sleep is restless, dreaming of engagement rings looming into shackles, binding at your wrists and ankles. Matthew’s smirk and his honeyed words drift through your dreamscape, a cruel torment disguised as remedy. Relief fills you as sunlight slants across your bed, your eyelids cracking open and letting you shake off the dream. You sluice cold water across your face, scrubbing the sleep from your eyes gratefully. Naturally, though, your relief is short-lived, your mama bustling into your room with three housemaids in tow, far too chipper for the hour.

“Good, you’re awake. Come, we are to the modiste this morning,” she says firmly. Resistance is futile, so you stand, letting yourself be primped and squeezed and poked at until you at least resemble a respectable lady. You rattle through the streets of London, the bustle of the city only serving to feed your longing for the worn paths and quiet streets surrounding your country house.

You hesitate deliberately at the door to the modiste, long enough that your mama scowls in frustration and seizes your arm harshly to drag you inside. The seamstress bustles over, your mama immediately lighting up and engaging her in conversation about the quality of her fabrics. Quickly, you tune it out, wandering idly across the shop floor. A hushed conversation drifts into your ear, and you pretend to be admiring the bolts of fabric stacked to the ceiling as you inch closer to its source.

“...Cannot imagine he’ll stay that way,” says a first voice, high and haughty. “Lord Healy was always the rake of his set, and has since travelled the world, surely… sampling many worldly women on his travels.” She pauses to allow her companion to titter snidely, giving you time to place her voice; it belongs to Evelyn Mountfitchet, a girl your age who had married in her first season, her tongue sharp and cruel, weaponised with her seemingly endless stores of gossip. Her companion, then, must be her sister Elizabeth, surely thrilled to be out in society and now privy to scandal. “I tell you, he’ll take what he wants from that girl, then leave her ruined and without a ring. It wouldn’t even be the first time,” she adds smugly, and you feel a pit open up in your stomach.

You hadn’t even considered the possibility of such a scheme, and now you feel even worse the fool for not seeing it. Everything dichotomous about him clicks into focus as if Evelyn has lifted opera glasses to your eyes. It couldn’t be plainer — his sweetened words, promising what he surely knew he couldn’t provide; his disinterest fading into persuasion as he determined you a desirable, susceptible target. You’re trapped, utterly and completely, worse than you’d thought. Until moments ago, the worst-case scenario had been living with a husband who carried on behind your back, with at least the respect tied to being a lady to cushion the blow. This is worse than you could have imagined. Lord Healy is going to leave you utterly ruined, whether you give yourself up or not: if that is precedent, that will be what the scandal sheets announce, that will become gospel to the ton, leaving you cast out, dishonourable, utterly unmarriageable. You won’t even be able to retire peacefully as a spinster with the stain that will stick to you.

“My goodness!” gasps Elizabeth, shocking you back to the present. “Who is the poor girl?” She sounds eagerly scandalised, a voracious little gossip-monger in the making.

Evelyn makes a non-committal sound. “I know not. The family are being ever so tight-lipped. Although, I suppose I should be, too, knowing my fate was either to have my daughter married off to or ruined by a man like him. Do you know he has tattoos? As if he were a shipyard worker or some other such lowlife,” she scoffs bitingly.

“He is ever so handsome, though. Perhaps the girl is so vile of face that his progeny will save the family from ruin. Or overwhelmingly poor, and they–” Elizabeth’s excited diatribe is cut off by exaggerated hushing, and you slowly sink into a chair as you attempt to process all that you’ve heard.

“You shouldn’t speculate so. Not where anyone could hear, at least.” Evelyn’s smirk is audible. “It is most likely that the family are simply desperate, that the girl failed to capture any man’s attention in her seasons, and must be married before she winds up in spinsterhood.” She pauses to giggle. “Perhaps it is the Marlowe girl.” Your blood runs cold. “Pretty enough, I suppose, but ever so odd. Fits the bill exactly, I’d wager.”

Nausea roils in your stomach. Having the news broken at a debutante ball would have been scarring enough, even with dozens of other girls for the vultures to circle. But having it found out early, allowing the scandal sheets days to pick over you and your history before you even set foot in a ballroom? It’s the stuff of nightmares. Delicate footsteps pick their way toward you and you scramble to stand, ducking around a corner to escape from view. No such luck, though. “Darling, where did you go?” your mama calls, obnoxiously loud. “I must see how this fabric will look against your complexion.” Face flaming, you pick your way back to your mama and the seamstress, letting them drape a delicate lilac silk across your shoulders.

“Oh, how wonderful you shall look, miss,” the seamstress declares. “Your engagement shall be the talk of London, I will make sure of it.” Your heart sinks, so fast and far that you’re sure it lays in two pieces in your slippers, Evelyn and Elizabeth exchanging a proud, shocked glance, and you know for certain you’ll be plastered across every gossip sheet in London the instant they come off the press.

You grit your teeth. “Yes, I am certain it will.” Your voice comes out scraped over gravel, your venomous glare in the sisters’ direction most definitely not helping matters. The dresses you paid for will be beautiful, to be sure, but hardly worth the stinging slap of humiliation you endured to get them.

When Lord Healy calls on you the next evening, you don’t even attempt to hide your scowl, listless as he attempts to ply you with flattery while leading you into the gardens. “News of our engagement will reach the gossip rags by morning,” you warn, tone flat and eyes directly forward, lest he disarm you with that deceptively sweet smile of his.

“Bollocks,” he swears. “Nobody in this godforsaken city can mind their fucking business.” His jaw clenches, furious, and you hate yourself a little for how undeniably attractive you find the emotion on him.

“Must you be so vulgar?” you snap. “Are you not putting me through shame enough for your selfish goals that you think it fair to humiliate me even before this farcical engagement meets its end?” The words come out bitter, corrosive and acrid on your tongue, genuine hurt written across Lord Healy’s face. “My lord,” you add poisonously.

His nails dig into your arm, halting you in your stride and forcing you to face him. “Are we really back to my lord? Damn. I had thought you might be warming up to me.” He throws you a grin that you’re sure makes the women he’s used to weak in the knees. When it doesn’t work, he switches tack. “Look, love. I don’t know what you’ve heard to make you think so lowly of me. I would have thought you of all people would know not to believe the scandal sheets, but–”

“Do not patronise me,” you hiss, wrenching your arm from his grip. “I know that you were engaged before, that you ruined some other poor girl. I know that you plan to do the same to me. I plead that you at least allow me some final months of dignity before you leave me with nothing.” Something sour has rooted in your chest, decaying from the inside out; your insides withering to match your reputation.

To your surprise and disgust, Lord Healy tips his head back and laughs. Revolted, you start to turn away, and he reaches his arm out. “That’s what this is about? Love, you couldn’t be more wrong. I was never engaged, I was courting the girl.”

“Oh, well, I’m ever so glad that was clarified. I suppose it shouldn’t matter, then.” Anger is boiling in your veins, his flippant tone only serving to further enrage you.

Lord Healy takes your hands, his skin soft and warm against yours. “If you’d let me finish,” he scoffs, but there’s fondness colouring his tone. His wide, brown eyes shine earnestly, and something convinces you not to pull away. “That girl was a friend, and I was doing her a favour, I swear it. She needed a way out of the ton, all its rules and restrictions, in order to live and love freely. And she is. Much happier these days, lives a more honest life than this.” He waves his hand, collecting your house and gardens in one insouciant motion. “I’ll take you to meet her someday, if you like. If you won’t be too scandalised by the kind of unsavoury company I keep,” he adds with a smirk, and some of the ice in your veins thaws.

Really, you have no reason to trust Evelyn Mountfitchet over him, spiteful woman that she is. Mollified, you slide your arm back through his, and his relief is palpable. “I’m not such a delicate flower, you know.” You pause, weighing your words carefully. “That was a kind thing to do for her, knowing what the scandal sheets would say.” You’re certain you know what sort of love the girl wanted, to necessitate such a sure and dramatic departure from polite society, and it’s a comfort to know where he stands in regard to such relationships. “I think that, perhaps, if it is til death that we may part, we ought to be friends,” you say cautiously. Matthew’s answering smile is brilliant, so dazzling that your heart melts just a little, like fondant on a hot day.

“I’d like that very much,” he says softly, something like affection in his gaze. “And, it was only the decent thing to do. I hate to see a friend struggling, especially not when I could help. Besides, it was rather mutually beneficial — the ambitious mamas kept away as if I were diseased,” he laughs.

“And now you are saddled with me,” you say. It’s intended as a joke, but it comes out self-deprecating and a little pathetic.

“There are far worse women I could be saddled with,” he says, playful enough that you aren’t offended. He pauses, still and pensive. “Truly. You are a most unique manner of woman, and I mean that in the most earnestly complimentary way possible. If I were the marrying type, I would surely have devoted myself to capturing your affections.” You flush, pressing an embarrassed palm to your heated cheek. “I must commend your skills in deception, to convince so many that you are undesirable. Kind of you to allow the other girls in your set a chance.”

At that, you laugh outright, clapping a hand to your mouth in embarrassment. “It isn’t an act. I simply have no time for such things. Or, had, I suppose. I should have liked to be a spinster and utterly invisible to society, but I see that fate had other plans.” You wander your gaze over him, the soft curve of his mouth, the gentle slope of his cheek, the alluring lines of his body. You wonder, briefly, if maybe your life isn’t over. Maybe, just maybe, Matthew is a gift.

Something must change in your expression, because Matthew mirrors it exactly, a fond smile crossing his face and his hand moving from your arm to low on your waist. The contact is thrilling, scandalous and precious, a thing to be held onto and treasured. “We do make quite the pair, don’t we?” he chuckles. “An aspiring spinster and a rake with the heart of a romantic.” It’s eerily similar to what you said to your mother, yet woven through with the thread of gold that links you; a flimsy, frail thing, but shining nonetheless, and you allow the hope you had killed to flutter back to life, a butterfly beating its wings against your ribcage.

“A romantic, hm?” you begin, circumspect. “I don’t know if I believe that. If you are only playing the rake, you play him very well.” You hope your tone is coming across light and teasing, that you’re only curious at his motivation behind the falsehood, if one exists. “I have seen your behaviour firsthand, you know. Three years past, my first season out. You were quite the catch, and I don’t recall seeing you ever dance with the same girl twice.”

“Do you want the truth?” You nod eagerly. “My first season, I truly looked forward to the prospect of finding love. But there was never any thrill, any excitement, any romance. Every girl just a two-dimensional caricature of what is considered desirable, and most just sold off to the highest bidder. It’s all so proper, and it disgusted me. Earnestly, it reviles me that you haven’t a choice in this arrangement. If I could grant you one, I promise I would in a heartbeat.”

Your chest warms, heart softening with every word, passion spilling over every syllable. “I know,” you say softly, and mean it.

“The reputation as a rake came that year, I suppose. Polly and I came to the arrangement that we would pretend to court, and I would leave her ‘ruined’ and free. The scandal sheets simply ran with the idea, and I didn’t stop them. It kept the expectations off of me, but the more I came to know how the rest of England lives, the more I was overwhelmed by the sheer unfairness of it all. A friend of mine, my best friend, is deeply and irrevocably in love with a woman, a beautiful, kind, intelligent woman. The kind of love that should be shouted about from the parapets and paraded in the streets. And yet, he is forced to love her in secrecy and solitude, because she is not the ‘right kind of woman’ for a man like him.”

You frown, filled with sympathy for these lovers. “It sounds like a love story in a novel I would be forbidden from reading.” He laughs, liquid and mellifluous, the sound worming its way into your chest and cradling your thumping heart. “Well, that explains the rake. When does this supposed romantic heart come into play?”

Snorting, Matthew digs you in the ribs. “I’m getting to that. So impatient, aren’t you?” Something about those words runs cool water down your spine, a feeling you can’t place buzzing to life under your skin. “When I left England, I fell a little bit in love with everyone I met. So many people, so many places, so many lives, all unique and blessed in their own way. The wide world is true poetry, and I suppose that I long for a romanticised place in it.”

Your tongue feels thick and clumsy in your mouth, words you might struggle for hours to pen falling easily and thoughtlessly from his plush lips. For the first time, you notice that your mama has retreated inside, affording you the tiniest moment of snatched privacy. Emboldened, a wave of brazen desire overtakes you, so strong that you go lightheaded. Your mouth opens without permission, words spilling free before you can stop them. “I think I’d like to kiss you.”

Matthew smiles, eyes crinkling as one of his hands comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. The simple touch makes you weak in the knees, your gaze curious as he leans down, so close that his lips are a hairsbreadth from yours. He murmurs one simple word. “Please.”

Your lips connect, head spinning as his mouth moves against yours. You’re floundering a little, at a loss in unfamiliar territory. Time slows around you; Matthew’s lips on yours the only feeling you know, your head going hazy like you’ve drunk far too much wine. It feels like you’ve been struck by lightning, like you’ve lived all your life in a sketch and suddenly been ripped into three dimensions.

The world blurs around you, grounded by his hand at your waist, his lips on yours. It’s all top lip, shockingly chaste despite the passion spinning between you, all your desire poured into the kiss. He’s breathing heavily when you pull apart, lips slick and face flushed. “Was that… I… I’ve never…” you trail off, suddenly riveted by the grass beneath your feet.

“Then you are a natural,” he praises, and you flush impossibly redder. “So adept on your first try, darling. I’ll surely die a happy man if you continue to kiss like that.”

“So presumptuous,” you tease, audacious bravado fuelling you. “Who says I’ll continue? Perhaps the desire has been flushed from my system,” you say with a smirk, laughing when he clutches his heart in mock-horror.

“You wound me so,” he laughs, taking your hand. That butterfly seems to have multiplied in your chest, a kaleidoscope of them fighting to burst free from your chest the longer his palm warms yours.

You find yourself forlorn when he leaves, the mere hour you spent in his company having shifted your worldview on its axis. As you had expected, your engagement is plastered across every gossip rag you come across, but you don’t find yourself debilitated by it; you have a confidant in Matthew, at the very least, and a chance for companionship to bloom into something more. You don’t dare tease yourself with the word, refuse to prop open the window for him until you’re certain of what you want.

That night, your pen flies across paper, inspiration flowing free. You even pen a letter to Matthew that will never again see the light of day, a messy, raw untangling of your sudden feelings that bares your soul uncomfortably. Instead of dreaming of shackles and snide words, your head is filled with sparkling jewels and soft lips, hands in your hair and… You wake flushed and sweating, the mirage of his touch still on your skin, certain that you wear your shame plain on your face.

To make matters worse, your mama has invited a dozen respectable, recently-married ladies to pass the morning in your home, insisting that you must become acquainted with your peers in ladyship. Among them, of course, will be Evelyn Mountfitchet, sharp tongue poised to entertain the other ladies with a colourful recounting of your every misstep disguised as concern. Really, it’ll be an open forum to discuss your shortcomings while you’re forced to smile like you’re being lavished with compliments, and you’ll hate every minute of it.

Nonetheless, you are dutiful first and foremost, and knowing now that your married life shan’t be an utter torment buoys your spirits a little as your maid laces you into a sage-green daydress. Sipping at your tea, you peruse the morning’s scandal sheets, grateful that the vultures seem already to have moved on. The day’s transgression appears to be a lord having taken a fancy to a merchant’s daughter, leaving the family horrified when he presented her at dinner. You really ought to stop purchasing the gossip rags, but your curiosity wins out each time your fingers hover over the paper. In all fairness, the gossip is already printed — is there such harm in you being one of the hundreds of readers?

You curtsy idly to the women as they cross into the parlour, mentally reciting their names over and over to save yourself from any faux pas. Tight, awkward smiles and knowing glances thrown at your expense across the table in lieu of conversation, until the silence is miraculously broken. “My compliments to your cook, Miss Marlowe. I don’t know that I have ever been so delighted by tea and cake in my life,” says Mrs Vincent, a woman you remember as having a good, sensible head on her shoulders. You had been rather disappointed when her attentions were captured, hoping that you might have found a friend whose ideals lay in a similar bent to your own, but she and her husband seem a true love match, which is rare enough that you cannot begrudge her for choosing happiness.

“You are most kind,” you say, grateful for a conversation topic that allows you to hold your own. “Our cook comes from France, brings with her the most wonderful French cuisine.”

Evelyn titters snidely behind her hand, and you swivel to face her, annoyed. “Don’t you find it rather fanciful? Personally, I prefer a good, honest English meal. But, I suppose you ought ensure your palate is discerning to the tastes of your betrothed. He has rather a taste for the European, no?” The implication is clear, the other ladies watching with bated breath for your response.

Careful, practised calm holding you still, you take a pointed sip of your lemonade before you reply. “My betrothed is well-travelled, certainly. I could not be satisfied with a man who has no regard or curiosity for the wonders of the Earth beyond our borders.” It’s a simple, dignified response — that doesn’t acknowledge or address her insult. Exactly what the women at the table expect. You can see pity in their faces; they think you haven’t perceived it at all. “Although…” you add, a dozen heads suddenly perked up with interest. “If I recall correctly, your husband took a similar trip just months after you were married. Perhaps you concern yourself with the wrong man’s European… proclivities.” You try not to grin too smugly, eyebrows raised across the room and Evelyn turning an unattractive shade of puce. None of the other women thought you had it in you, and you know it.

Having spent years curbing your tongue, sitting in shadowed alcoves at balls, you’ve enough repressed wit and stockpiled gossip to start your own scandal sheet, should you so choose. Keeping your lips sealed and your cards close had seemed the best option when you were aiming to avoid notice, but with your position changed, you suddenly harbour a most esurient need to make the ton take notice of you. “Would anybody else like to offer their unsolicited opinion of my intended, or should the discussion perhaps turn to something more productive and befitting women of our station, hm?”

Newfound respect is written across their faces, carefully reframing their social games in order to take you seriously as a player. You even enjoy the conversation a little, filing away each new piece of gossip with a grin and accepting invitations to social events you’d never have even glimpsed before today. Proud, satisfied and even a little excited as you wave your guests off politely, your mama stands smugly at your shoulder. “It is lovely to see you engaging willingly in your role, dear. Perhaps you might allow me to gloat a moment, for I recall telling you numerous times that if you would just–”

You square your shoulders. “I shan’t,” you say brusquely. Ordinarily, you’d never speak so bluntly to your mama, but the knowledge that you’ve mere weeks until you’re a lady in your own right emboldens you. “There is a difference between going somewhere willingly, and going there without complaint due to the executioner’s axe at your back. It is fortunate that Lord Healy is a good man, and one I could come to love, yes, but that could easily not have been so. He could have been any manner of man, a gambler, a drunkard, a sinner.” You aren’t yet entirely sure he isn’t the lattermost, if the heat you feel under his gaze is any indication, coiling under your skin and knotting in your chest, working its way down, down, down… Heavens, this is hardly the time! “And nonetheless I would be his wife. So, I implore you, do not mistake my acquiescence for forgiveness. I had made a choice, and you took it from me.” Your mama gapes at you as you leave, stalking into the library to lose yourself and forget all your troubles.

The passage of time escapes you, and you don’t realise how long you’ve been in the library, resting in a patch of sunlight like a house cat with your nose buried in a book until a maid finds you and informs you that you must dress for dinner. In all your distaste of the morning, your evening engagements had entirely escaped your awareness, and you dimly remember dinner with the Healys scheduled for the night.

Your ride is spent in stony, cold silence, your parents looking anywhere but your eyes. It’s not a long journey, thankfully, but it feels like an eternity before your carriage pulls to a stop and a footman helps you to the ground. You dip into a polite curtsy to Matthew’s parents, softening into a smile when you lock eyes with your betrothed. “You look wonderful. Doesn’t she, Matthew?” his mother says, nudging him unsubtly.

Matthew clears his throat, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I— Yes. I don’t quite… have the words for how lovely you look,” he says, his gaze intense as you meet it boldly.

“Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.” It’s a stiff response, measured and polite, born from uncertainty over your company.

His smile is winsome, your mama pinching your back as if to say I told you so, and you bite back a scowl. “I am afraid dinner is not quite ready yet,” he says with a polite nod to your parents. “Perhaps you might like a brief tour of the house, Miss Marlowe. It is soon to be your home, after all.”

Your mama makes a soft noise of protest. “That would be rather improper, no?” she says, casting glances at Matthew’s parents for support she evidently doesn’t find. You conceal a smirk; perhaps if she’d had a care to learn anything about the man she was marrying you off to, she wouldn’t need to be so concerned of what was proper.

“Oh, I do find the rules of propriety so stifling at times, don’t you? They are a young, engaged couple, we ought allow them a few moments of privacy. Come, we will take tea, and the men can have their whiskey and cigars. Dinner shan’t be long,” she says, and though your mama desperately wants to argue, a retort hanging from her lips, her own imposed rules of politeness prevent her — they are the hosts, after all.

Matthew takes you by the hand, the contact sending a pulse of warmth spreading from where his skin touches yours, and leads you deeper into the house. The moment you’re alone, he pulls you against a wall, his hands falling to your hips and grasping tightly. The closeness thrills you, heat prickling under your skin as he watches you with heavy, lidded eyes. “I have thought of nothing but your kiss since your lips left mine. May I kiss you?” he asks, hushed and reverent, and you nod slowly, eyes closing and head tilting up in anticipation. His lips meet yours, sweet and soft and gentle, but interlaced with a foreign, breathtaking hunger.

You melt against him, letting him take control of the kiss, determined but tender. You part your lips eagerly for his tongue, the taste of him suddenly overwhelming your senses. Breathing hard as you pull apart, you look up at him with wide eyes, feeling foolish and lovesick, some unfamiliar feeling of want pulling under your skin. “Is there really going to be a tour, or was that simply a facade to get me alone?” you tease, and Matthew smirks, interlacing his fingers with yours.

“I have often found that mixing an honest goal with an impure one can be… pleasurable… for all involved,” he answers, almost a purr. Something unknown thrills in your belly, licking down to settle in your core, forbidden. Then, his intense gaze breaks into a smile, and the tension breaks. “No, there really was somewhere I wanted to show you.”

Your footsteps echo through the cavernous halls, interspersed with breathless giggles when he pulls you a little too fast and you stumble into his arms, meeting in a sweet kiss before you start off again. You almost can’t believe your luck, that you’ll get to spend your days traipsing through these halls and kissing him whenever you like; you feel as though you’re waiting with bated breath, like pride must come before a fall.

With a dramatic flourish, Matthew comes to a stop before a grand set of double doors, flinging them open to reveal an even grander library. Your jaw drops as you marvel; stacks of shelves that must stretch the entire height of the house press against both walls, light filtering through a pane-glass window and puddling on the floor. He seems to sense your awe, his body warm at your back as he takes hold of your waist. “You seem like the kind of woman to appreciate a good book and some peaceful, private space.” He leans heavily on the word private and mouths at the shell of your ear, a shudder running through your body at his ministrations.

“I do,” you say shakily, though you can’t think of a time you’ve cared less about books than standing here with Matthew’s lips hovering against your neck.

“May I ask you something rather…” he says, slowly spinning you around so you’re face-to-face. “Improper?”

The look in his eyes is familiar, now, but impossible to define, eyes wide and crow-black. “It’s a little late to be seeking my permission for your indecorousness, no?”

Matthew smiles, the expression slow and salacious as it creeps across his face. “Perhaps,” he says, taking your hands and walking you deeper into the library. “But this is a question of a more… intimate… nature.” You’re acutely aware with every step that, should anyone else enter the library, the two of you would stay obscured from view. “I want to know…” he begins, voice low as he pulls you down onto a chaise, tucked neatly away in a shadowed corner. “What do you feel when I kiss you?”

Your heart speeds, stomach swooping as clumsy words stumble to your lips. “I— I don’t… I can’t describe it.” You lower your eyes, looking up at him through your lashes, that same, indecipherable look in his face.

“Would you like to know what I feel?” You nod minutely, breath caught in your chest. The air around you feels charged, like the minutes before a thunderstorm when your hair starts to stand on end. “I feel desire. Have you ever known desire, sweet thing? A quickening in your pulse, heat under your skin, smouldering in your chest.” Matthew inches closer with every word, pressing you back against the cushions until you’re almost prone, rucking up your skirts with one knee.

His every breath against your lips is incendiary, the feeling rushing under your skin finally given a name as you breathe out the word that might be your unmaking. “Yes.” Matthew crashes your lips together, slides a hand into your hair, all pretence at being a gentleman cast aside in favour of a frantic, consuming hunger. His tongue is greedy, his teeth sharp, pulses of pure want skittering down your spine and settling between your legs. The sensation thrills you, illicit and sharp and new, the heat of his body against yours soaking through your clothes.

“I was not entirely honest, before,” he says, and your blood runs cold. Your fear must be evident in his face, because he cups your cheek gently before he speaks. “When I said I had thought of nothing but your kiss. I thought of you constantly, certainly, but in a rather… filthier way.” His low tone washes over you, stomach clenching in some sort of sick anticipation as his lips meet your neck.

“What…” The words catch in your throat, desire clamping your neck like a vice. “What did you think about?”

A gasp slips from your lips as Matthew catches your earlobe between his teeth, kissing softly at your pulse point and pressing a soft hand against your leg. “I thought about you while I pleasured myself,” he murmurs, and you go hot all over, your skin feeling far too small to contain all you’re becoming, your chest tight and pulse racing. “I spilled in my hand with your name on my lips. I thought of how you might look, undressed beneath me, caught in rapture. Have you ever felt pleasure like that, darling?”

His voice is low, raked over gravel. You can sense his restraint, that he longs to teach you. “We cannot. Not now, not here, not before we are married.” You taste regret as you speak, so consumed in desire that you want to discard every carefully-learned edict of society, but the warning bells that chime for this act are too much to ignore.

Matthew huffs a quiet laugh. “So, you haven’t. If you trust me, sweet thing, there are ways I can show you pleasure without fucking you.” He leans heavily on the curse, an answering thrill clenching in your stomach as his fingers find the hem of your chemise. “Would you like that, darling?”

“Please,” you gasp, a breathless invocation from wanton lips. Matthew’s hand creeps up your thigh, higher and higher until… Your eyes fly open, your entire body jolting as a spark of pure sensation catches you alight. “Oh, my God,” you cry, back arching up as he slowly circles with the tip of his finger.

“I also answer to Matty,” he smirks, and though you groan, you’re grateful for the diffused tension. Your hips move of their own accord, chasing the pleasure that spills from his fingertips. “My God, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he groans, his gaze fixed on your face as you slip into bliss. “Have you ever touched yourself like this?” You shake your head, whining quietly when he pulls his hand away and takes hold of your wrist. The tips of his fingers are wet where they meet your skin, and you flush crimson. “I’m going to show you how to pleasure yourself, and, tonight, when you’re laying in bed with your lights turned out, I want you to bring yourself to that peak as many times as you want; get to know your body in the most intimate way. And then,” he leans close, whispering into the shell of your ear, his filthy words coiling under your skin and licking deliciously down your thighs. “I want you to tell me all about it. As your husband, I must know exactly what brings my wife to ruin.” In the same moment, he slides two of your fingers into you, the sudden stretch between your thighs unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Matty’s thumb comes up to circle your bundle of sensitive nerves, puppeteering your fingers in and out of you torturously slow. “Can you do that for me, sweet thing?”

It takes a moment for your hazy mind to register what he’s asking, whining as your hips rock up into his touch. “Only if you go faster,” you gasp, choking on a whimper as he speeds his motions, pleasure washing over you and wiping your mind clean.

“Anything you want,” Matty murmurs, tugging on your wrist so your fingers speed up, pressing deep as your eyes roll back in your head. “Curl your fingers for me, love,” he instructs, and you obey unthinkingly, gasping as a shock of pleasure ripples through your body, drool pooling in your mouth as Matty watches you adoringly. “Does that feel good?”

You moan out an affirmative, writhing under his touch and slowly picking up a rhythm of your own, too caught in a haze of pleasure to find words for what he’s making you feel. Tension coils in your belly, your body limp and loose on your bones. “Oh, God, please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for. He knows, though, somehow able to show you exactly what you need as he slides two of his own fingers alongside yours.

“Oh, love, you’re soaked,” Matty croons, following along with your rhythm and steering you to move faster, every movement sending a ripple of desire pulsing through your veins. “I think you needed this, didn’t you, sweetheart? Needed someone to show you how to feel so fucking good?” His palm is warm against the back of your hand, calluses pressing rough against your skin as your body stretches out around him. Your eyes fall closed, head swimming in slick, gleaming ecstasy. “Come on, love. Watch,” he instructs.

Obediently, your gaze falls to where your hands are joined, your wetness dripping over your fingers and a slick sound embarrassingly audible; sounding in time with the thumps of pleasure rolling over you. You moan helplessly, letting Matty take control as you fall into bliss, his breath coming in hard gasps against your lips. There’s a pulling low in your stomach, a twisting tendril of carnality tugging at every muscle of your body. A final swipe at your bud of nerves sends you pitching over an edge you hadn’t even known you were approaching, biting down hard on your lower lip to keep yourself from crying out wantonly. You flutter around your fingers, gasping and rocking your hips, chasing the high as it fades from your grasp.

“That was… incredible,” you murmur, Matty’s expression at once smug and awed. “I’ve never felt anything like it. I just… fuck,” you breathe, almost a laugh as the curse slips from your lips, the only word that feels fitting for the feeling rolling through your body.

“I promise you, darling, that was barely the beginning. Just you wait until we share a bed.” He smirks down at you, the eye contact deliberate as he slides his wet fingers between his lips, swirling his tongue purposefully, desire spiking in your core all over again. “And you taste so sweet,” he praises. “Go on, have a taste for yourself, love,” Matty urges. Cautiously, you bring your hand up to your lips, softly licking at the pads of your fingers. The taste of you is unfamiliar, but you strangely don’t hate it, pressing an eager kiss against Matty’s lips and licking carelessly into his mouth.

You trade lazy kisses for a few long, sweet moments, breaking away only to giggle against his mouth and gaze deeply into his warm, honey-brown eyes. Eventually, regretfully, you pull apart and climb to your feet, legs shaking a little until Matty loops an arm around your waist to support you. The dinner is lovely, to be sure, and his parents are perfectly pleasant, but you can think of nothing but Matty’s eyes on you, his tongue in your mouth, his fingers stretching you out and pulling you into oblivion. The barest brush of his lips against your hand, a polite goodbye, is almost enough to set you off again, a shudder running through you as a knowing smirk pulls at his lips.

Matty’s gaze meets yours, sharp and challenging, and he mouths think of me just as you leave. A flush creeps up your cheeks, and you look away, the intensity of his eyes too much to bear. And yet, you obey, moonlight slanting across your bed as you push your nightdress up around your waist. Matty’s voice circles your brain, his name sweet on your lips as you drag yourself to that peak countless times. Your body is exhausted but insatiate, an endless well of greed tapped and free-flowing. You can barely stand to clean yourself when you finally give in to lassitude, legs trembling and a voracious cramp in your wrist.

Your mama gasps in horror at the circles under your eyes the next morning, shameful imprints of your long, desire-soaked night. “Goodness gracious,” she gasps. “What on Earth kept you awake all night? Good Lord, you aren’t a child anymore. You simply cannot spend your nights with a candle and your nose in a book any longer. You have responsibilities.” You nod idly, stifling both a yawn and a smirk. “Go back upstairs. Get some rest — you might at least attempt something resembling respectability for the ball this evening.”

Oh. In your daze, you’d utterly forgotten. Ordinarily, you’d refuse out of spite, and your mama gives a long-suffering sigh, expecting a fight. But something thrills you about showing off your engagement so publicly, staking a claim on the man so many debutantes failed to ensnare. The chance that you might slip away with him into a shadowed alcove or a private garden certainly doesn’t hurt either. So, with nothing more than a slight scoff, you go back to bed, snatching a few hours of much-needed sleep. Visions of Matty dressed in full finery fill your head, a surprising, sudden excitement growing in your chest.

You can’t hold back a gasp when your mama produces your gown; you’d never bothered examining the new season’s dresses, already resigned to misery. Your fingers trail gently over the sparkling fabric, running like water under your touch. “You shall be the most spectacular thing in the room, dear,” says your mama smugly.

The word thing hits you like a splash of ice-cold water. Of course. “Yes,” you say faintly, your voice sounding muffled to your own ears. “I must pen a letter of thanks to the modiste,” you add pointedly, your mama’s face falling. She sweeps out of the room without a word as if to say, see how well you’ll look without me.

It turns out, unsurprisingly, that your ladies are even more proficient at their craft without your mama’s hawkish gaze picking and prodding at whatever she pleases. You gaze at yourself in the looking glass, awestruck. Your cheeks hold a healthy glow, dusted with rouge that matches the stain on your lips, and as you smile softly, you realise that, for the first time, you find your reflection pretty.

Even the now-familiar cold silence of your journey fails to dampen your spirits, the glittering warmth of the ballroom enveloping you as you cross the threshold. You search the room for Matty, a little crestfallen when his wild curls aren’t immediately apparent. Of course, you shake off your parents as quickly as possible, surprised by your sudden enjoyment of the atmosphere without the crippling burden of a dance card looped around your wrist.

Lost in the wealth of colour and light surrounding you, you jolt at a gentle touch to your elbow. Expecting to meet Matty’s warm, adoring gaze, you turn eagerly, only to come face-to-face with a lord who’s practically withering into dust where he stands. “Good evening,” he says, a sinister smile revealing half-rotted, missing teeth. “May I have this dance? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

You don’t think so either, but you’d be surprised if the man could remember how to button his own waistcoat. His fingers are like sandpaper against your bare arm, the sensation positively emetic. “I am spoken for, my lord,” you say, without even attempting at politeness. He’ll hardly remember it tomorrow, age-addled as he is. As if on cue, a murmur ripples through the young ladies, eagerness turning to disparagement as it reaches their mamas, and you look up to see three young men burst into the room.

On the left, the most serious-faced one holds up a pocketwatch, evidently admonishing the other two for their more-than-fashionable lateness, while the tallest one laughs him off. In the middle, you watch Matty slyly ribbing the former until he relents, smiling exasperatedly. “Ah!” you say brightly, grateful for the out. “There is my betrothed now. Good evening, sir.” You curtsy politely and blow out a relieved breath as soon as his back is turned, beelining for Matty and his companions.

“Hello, love,” he says warmly, something in your body instinctively relaxing in his presence. He takes your hand, warm in his calloused palm, and brings it to his lips. You smile a little self-consciously, hyperaware of the other two sets of eyes on you. Nodding politely to the other two men, you bite your lip and jerk your head at Matty; it isn’t polite for a lady to introduce herself to a gentleman, and you’ve too much company to publicly flout the rules of conversation.

When he doesn’t pick up the hint, the more solemn one shakes his head with an annoyed yet fond laugh, bowing politely. “Mr. Hann,” he says. “Adam, really.”

It seems to spur the other into action. “George,” he says simply, and you raise an eyebrow. “Lord Daniel, if you must be an utter bore about it.”

You curtsy, but flicker your gaze to the ceiling in the universal gesture of Lord, give me strength. “Great heavens, there’s two of them.”

Adam snickers. “Four, actually. I’m certain it shan’t be long until you discover that for yourself,” he adds with an enigmatic grin that makes you like him all the more.

“Fuck’s sake, Hann,” Matty scoffs, and you still jump a little at the vulgarity and how easily it falls from his lips. “I told you how hard I had to work to get her to like me, don’t go turning her against me now. I’m not all that likeable, you know.” He turns to you, and the full effect of his disarming, fathomless-deep gaze settles on you. You run hot all over. “Would you care for a dance, my lady? Before I allow you to be poisoned any further against me,” he chuckles, and you accept with a gentle smile.

Matty sweeps you into a waltz, leading commanding and effortless, and you can’t keep a smile off your face as you lose yourself in him. “You look radiant, love. Truly, a beauty like yours is mythical.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you look away, demure and slightly disbelieving. “You’re quite the dancer, my lord,” you say, in an obvious and unconcealed attempt to divert the subject.

Thankfully, he allows it. “You sound surprised,” he says, mock-affronted. “I’m a musician at heart, darling, I could lead a waltz in my sleep.” You smile, but your attentions are drifting; snatches of conversation pass you by, murmured but not so low you can’t hear them. An odd pair… Surely ruin her… Heavens, look at him… Isn’t nearly pretty enough…

Matty is utterly oblivious to the noise, watching your face fall with obvious confusion. “What are we doing here, Matty?” you murmur, suddenly helpless. “Even if we could be happy together, how can that possibly be enough? Endless whispers, following us anytime we set foot in society; this stain stuck to us forever.” Pain is written clearly across his face — he wants to argue, but he’s at least allowing you the courtesy of coming to the point before he does. “You could still leave me,” you say quietly. “Find safety with the devil you know. Play the rake until the perfect girl comes along, one without all the collateral I carry.”

Fittingly, the song draws to an end, Matty pulling you to the edge of the room with eyes full of frustrated consternation. “I’m not going to fucking leave you,” he hisses, crowding breathlessly close. “You want me to go searching for the perfect girl, yes? I have travelled from nation to nation, spent days upon weeks in the open seas, visited wonders on every continent, and yet… if you were to ask me the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen? That smile, that first real smile you gave me. Without a question or a second thought. Please, darling, let me love you. See yourself the way I see you.”

Your resolve shatters, that greedy, hungry part of you that’s gone starved for love all your life snapping to the forefront in your chest. “How do you see me?” you breathe, low and pleading, hunting for an answer in his eyes.

“I know this house well,” he says, and your brow furrows at the sudden change of subject. “The thought of an audience for the maudlin display I am about to put on is almost too much to bear.” You huff a quiet, disbelieving laugh and let him lead you through a maze of winding, labyrinthine corridors until you come to an empty parlour. The air is still, quiescent, like stepping into a still-life portrait as you sit delicately at the edge of a divan. Matty sinks to his knees in front of you, resting his palms against your skirts over your thighs. “You want to know how I see you? I see a fierce, clever woman, one who has, perhaps, never been truly seen before. I see the woman I want to make a life with, who I want to share my thoughts, fears, dreams with. Who I hope will respond in kind.” Pure, earnest kindness shines in Matty’s gaze, a frail hope you recognise as a twin to the butterfly that perches on your ribs.

You can’t do anything but smile down at him, at a loss for words. “I simply… I just… I cannot…” you stammer, stopping and starting as if you’re hunched over your writing-desk.

“Do you trust me, love?” You nod mutely. “Then trust this, trust what you feel, trust yourself,” Matty urges.

Damn him. Damn him to hell. “Come here and kiss me.”

His wide, adoring smile turns to a slow smirk. “I’m perfectly happy where I am, love.” His hands fall to the hem of your skirt, slowly inching up your legs, familiar heat coiling to life between your thighs. “Now, tell me. Did you do as I asked last night, darling?”

“Yes.” The answer comes rushed, breathy, shameless. Matty gazes up at you, encouraging. “I thought of you, only you. I wished it were your hands bringing me to ruin over and over again, wished I could do the same to you.” His eyes are black with desire and your mouth goes dry. “I know that you have… experiences, and I do not wish to–”

“All that means, darling, is that I have the privilege of being the one to teach you,” Matty insists, pressing a kiss to the side of your knee. Your skirts brush against your heated skin, pushed up until he’s gazing at your exposed, glistening core. Your eyes follow him, questioning, as he leans ever closer. “You’ve felt pleasure by hand, yes, but what I really want is to get my mouth on you. Would you like that, sweet girl?”

You shudder. “Please.” No sooner has the word left your lips than his mouth connects with your core, lapping up your arousal with an ebullient hunger. A moan escapes you, blinding heat flashing across your skin. Your breathing is instantly ragged, pleasure burning in your chest as he buries his tongue deep inside you.

Your hands slide into his hair, anchoring yourself to reality. His answering moan against your skin ripples through you, muscles tensing and loosening in keeping with your hammering heartbeat. “Just like that, darling.” Matty murmurs against your skin. “Good girl.”

The praise draws a long, pleading whine from your lips, a cavalcade of desire marching through your bloodstream. “Matty, oh, fuck,” you gasp. The profanity still feels foreign on your lips, but there truly isn’t another word in your lexicon that can describe the pure ecstasy coursing through you.

Matty presses soft kisses to your inner thighs, smearing your arousal against your skin and licking you clean. A flash of teeth scrape against your tender flesh, pulling a gasp from you as you drag his mouth back to where you need it most. Euphoria winds under your skin, an insistent hum at the base of your skull growing louder with every passing second. His tongue works over you in sure, fast strokes, dragging you higher and higher.

He sucks on your nerves, your legs flailing out helplessly in response. One of his hands creeps up, teasing your nerves as he fills you with his tongue over and over. A filthy sound fills the room, slick and wet and lustful, and you clench your hands into fists in his hair. You clench your thighs around Matty’s head, his tongue driving deep into you as you clench your thighs around his head, whimpered obscenities dripping from your mouth. His pace speeds, slows, never allowing you to get complacent in a rhythm, flames stoked in your core.

You’re half-delirious with it, implorations for something you couldn’t name falling slurred from your lips. Pleasure balls into a fist in your belly, hot and demanding, knocking the wind out of you as it slams into your gut. You gasp out his name in an endless litany, writhing with need as pure bliss rolls over you, loose and free on your bones. “Oh, my God,” you breathe, still pulsing with aftershocks as Matty pulls away, lips and chin soaked when he smiles up at you.

“No God, darling. Just me,” he says smugly, and you scoff. He quirks an eyebrow, licking his lips exaggeratedly. “What? Look around, love. Do you see God in this room? Or do you see a man, bringing you pleasure?” You bite your lip, chest still heaving with the tangible, real evidence of what you felt. “In any case, I am kneeling for you. Not for any God,” he finishes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, your slick obscenely visible against his alabaster skin.

Matty stands, pulling you with him, and tugs you in for a slow, deep kiss, the taste of you blooming in your mouth. “That’s blasphemy,” you say, appalled and intrigued in equal measure. “You could be prosecuted for that.”

He grins against your mouth. “Are you going to turn me in?”

Your heart thuds where your chest is pressed against his, heartbeats aligning in a perfect, rhythmic duet. “Never.”

#this was soo fucking fun to write Omg #lowkey this is like top 5 most Sweet romantic things ive ever written probably #matty healy x reader #matty healy smut #matty healy imagine #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 smut #writing #smut #dancing is a dangerous game

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