#and coming back after a week and realising it wants you to come back every day and do the same task every few hours or it will take action

[gothicgaycowboy]

𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒌

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: 3.1k

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: you make Aemond’s longtime librarian fantasy come to life.

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 18+ no minors, fem dom, sub aemond, a cock ring, oral sex (m receiving), deep throating, role play (kinda), unprotected sex, creampie, no use of y/n, edging (m receiving), both reader and aemond are little losers, established relationship, pet names, embarrassing family dinner conversations, a cameo from aemond’s lesbian moms and aegon.

𝙖/𝙣: this was originally going to be the beginning of my kinktober but I didn’t even get a chance to write out any of my other ideas in time. also big thank you to this anon who inspired this fic. hope you enjoy 💋

Up until now you thought you and your boyfriend had no secrets between you, but as it turns out you were wrong.

It started a week ago, you and Aemond drove up the countryside for a weekend to visit his family for Alicent’s birthday. Everyone tried their best to make it up there for big celebrations.

After three years together you feel like a member of the family yourself, Alicent and Rhaenyra even refer to you as their second daughter. You feel more at home with them than you do with your own family — and more importantly you felt like they couldn’t shock you anymore. That lasted until dinner.

Aegon and Aemond had gotten into a tiff about something juvenile that you can’t even remember anymore. Words tossed back and forth at one another from across the table like a tennis match. Rhaenyra was about to interject when Aegon blurted out: “Did you ever tell your sweetheart about what you did with my rag mag?”

Now that caught your attention.

Aemond’s face became beet red. His eyes practically bulged out of his skull in fear. Aegon smiled cockily at his brother’s expression, poking a forkful of their mothers dinner into his mouth.

Alicent and Rhaenyra tried to object to this conversation as soon as the word ‘rag mag’ was tossed out, but were cut short by your boyfriend.

“You wouldn’t.” It was clear Aemond was attempting to sound intimidating when it was obvious to everyone else he was fearing for his life.

“Oh, but I really would.” You vaguely remember overhearing Rhaenyra warn Alicent to cover her ears. Aegon turned his full attention to you, his eyes locked with yours. “When your precious boyfriend was still shorter than me he snuck into my room, snooped through my collection, and ripped out the naughty librarian spread all for himself.”

For the first time since you had met him Aemond became shy. You didn’t quite understand why exactly. Your boyfriend was no saint when it came to sex. He was the one who suggested most of your perverted ventures thus far, so why had he never told you this story himself?

After the table was cleared and conversation changed Aemond popped outside to take a quick smoke break — the perfect opportunity for you to interrogate Aegon a little more. You slid beside him as he washed that night's dishes like the good little son he can be occasionally.

“What was all that about?”

He glanced up at you briefly from the task in front of him. “What was all what about?”

“You know…” you suddenly realised how humiliating it was to talk about sex related topics with your boyfriend's brother. “The magazine drama?”

A knowing smirk crossed the​ Targaryen’s lips. “Ah, you want to know why Aemond threw such a fit about his little secret being outed.” He placed a white salad bowl onto the drying rack before facing you. “Well there are a few theories I have about it — first and most simple of all: maybe he was just embarrassed to have his middle school perversions exposed to our parents. I’m not too convinced by that one though given the simple fact that you two have been fucking at practically every family event you have been invited to thus far.”

It was then your turn for your cheeks to heat up with embarrassment, the memory of being caught half naked by Rhaenyra in the shoe closet still haunts you.

“So that leads me to my second theory: he’s ashamed of you knowing about his librarian fetish.”

Your brows pinched together quizzically. “But that doesn’t make any sense, we’ve done way crazier things together than a little kinky roleplay.”

Aegon closed his eyes and let out a long exhale like he was about to be sick. “I can’t express to you how much I didn’t want to know that.” You smiled at him apologetically letting out a timid ‘sorry’.

The purple eyed boy rubbed at his temples before opening his eyes again. “Okay, I’m probably gonna throw up later and really regret asking you this but: have you ever been in charge? Ya know, taken on the reins while you two are…” He held his hand over his stomach dramatically. “Having sex?”

your gaze remained on the clean kitchen floor as you answered his question. “No…”

“Well there you go, now if you’ll excuse me I need to go drink this conversation from my memory.”

Since that night you have been on a mission: make Aemond’s fantasy come to life.

It started like all good missions did — with a bit of thorough research of course. Aemond is a stickler for details and you needed all of them if you were going to pull this off successfully. The magazine from all the detail you managed to pull out of poor Aegon was a Hustler and based on the years Aemond would have been in middle school you managed to comb through every edition of Hustler during that time until you found it: the librarian spread.

This took you to the next step in your plan: the outfit. There wasn’t really much to it, obviously most of it was pulled off the models body in favour of showing off what was underneath, but you focused on what remained. Petite framed glasses, a white button up (tossed aside on the desk she sat on but you figured she was probably wearing it at some point in time), black pencil skirt, stockings, garter belt, and most importantly no panties.

All of this planning and waiting had finally led up to today. You have a day off to get your shit in order and Aemond’s shift ends early. You are quite proud of yourself honestly. Who knew being a research nerd could come in handy in the bedroom?

Now it was just time to see if Aemond appreciates it as much as you do.

From your spot in the kitchen you hear your boyfriend's keys enter the lock to your apartment – your cue to bolt into the bedroom. Inside the bedroom your heart races, nerves suddenly getting the best of you. What if he didn’t like it? What if he thinks you’re trying to belittle him? What if he thinks you look stupid?

“Baby?” Aemond calls from inside the main hallway.

“In the bedroom!” Well there was no going back now. Fuck it. You press play on the playlist you curated and pose yourself sitting on top of Aemond’s desk, just like the picture.

The door creaks open, revealing the white haired man to you. For a second he doesn’t look up, good eye still locked onto his phone. “What’s with the mu–” His eye meets with yours and stops him in his tracks. The bag he is carrying falls off his shoulder. The way he blushed at the birthday dinner has nothing on the state of his face now.

A few long moments pass by and the two of you remain perfectly still. It makes the knot in your stomach worse. “Please say something.” You beg as Aemond remains gobsmacked.

“You– how did – wh – you look–” He babbles like a small child.

“Please make it intelligible.” you try to lighten the mood as your hands play with each other anxiously.

It seems to shake Aemond out of his idiotict trance. “You look like the librarian from my magazine.”

“I do.” You change your tone to sound calm and collected while feeling like you’re about to explode inside.

“Why?”

“I thought you might appreciate it if I initiated something for once.”

Aemond soaks in the vision before him giving you a swift up and down glance. The pit continues growing in you but you refuse to let it show. “Do you?” You ask, impersonating all those sexually confident people you’ve seen in movies.

“I do.” Thank fuck.

Aemond rips the jacket from off his shoulders, practically running across the bedroom to reach you. He pulls you up off the desk but before he has the chance to kiss you you put a stop to him. Both hands push his face away but remain holding it so he’s forced to look at you. “Not so fast there mister.”

His face is priceless, a perfect mixture of confusion and desperation. “From now on I’m in charge, alright? You are going to lay there like the good boy I know you can be, while the sweet little librarian takes good care of you, understand?”

“Yes, I understand.” His pupil dilates so wide you can hardly see the usual violet colour of his iris.

“Yes you understand who?”

A surprise smirk graces your boyfriend's beautiful face. “Yes, I understand…ma’am.”

“Good, now take off your clothes and get on the bed.” In a flash Aemond’s clothes came flying off you like you have never seen before. You knew this would get him worked up but you did not expect him to be this into it.

As the Targaryen’s boxers hit the floor and he hits the plush mattress you pull open a bag holding your secret weapon for the night. With the ‘weapon’ hiding behind your back you move up the bed straddling his muscular thigh, sitting your bare cunt directly on his skin. His already hard cock twitches with excitement. “Fuck me, are you not wearing any–?”

“No.” you say plainly, like you did this everyday. “Now I’ve got a little something special for you before I completely blow your mind.”

“I really don’t see this getting better than it is but if you say so,” He shrugs his shoulders. “I trust you.”

From behind you you reveal it: a black rubber cock ring. “I wanna see you squirm.”

Aemond’s silver-blonde locks splay out onto the pillows as he plops his head back onto the pillows. “You are trying to kill me, woman.” He groans.

“Oh you love it.” With that you wrap your manicured hand around his cock, stretching the black rubber around the base.Your boyfriend jumps slightly at the contact. “How’s it feel?”

“Wonderful, now can we get on with the main event, please?”

“Don’t forget baby, you’re not the one calling the shots tonight. Be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you.”

“Always.” He smiles. You can’t help yourself against his charms, flopping onto him to plant a sweet kiss to his lips. He wastes no time reciprocating it, taking the kiss from zero to a hundred faster than you can snap your fingers. His tongue slithering its way into your mouth. Your moans vibrated against his lips. Aemond was definitely the best kisser out of all the guys you had been with.

You reach your right hand up pushing it between the two of you, separating your lips. Aemond is clearly about to protest as you cut him off. “Spit.” No bullshit, just straight to the point. Based on the focused expression on his face the dots are taking their sweet time to connect in his pretty little head. Then it clicks and Aemond looks like a kid in a candy shop. He leans over your palm, saliva dripping down into your hand.

As the spit sinks across your palm you reach down to rub the wetness around his throbbing cock, stroking him up and down painfully slowly. Your other hand makes its way to his heavy balls, massaging them delicately in between your fingers.

You always loved playing with Aemond’s cock, but you were never allowed to take your time with it. It’s the one thing you despise about your boyfriend constantly being the one in charge. This was your time to truly tease him like he had been teasing you since you got together.

“Are you gonna be a good boy for me?” You eye him over the glasses perched on your nose.

“Fuck yes!” Aemond yelps with pure euphoria.

“You kiss your mothers with that mouth?” You continue your teasing, the sound of the shucking filling the bedroom.

“No but I really wanna kiss you again — ma’am.” You appreciate that even though he was struggling through it he still uses your proper title.

“Come here baby.” Like a man starved Aemond pushes himself up to meet your lips once more. Now was your chance. With Aemond distracted by the kiss you slowly pull away your hand from his sack to grab the remote for the cock ring off the dresser. Time to hope he enjoys this little extra surprise.

Bzzz…

Aemonds hips slam up into your fist in shock. “Jesus- fuck!”

“Now you know how I feel, huh?” You say recalling all the times that the blonde had used your vibrators on you.

The vibrations make his rod jump, shaking so fast your eyes can’t even comprehend its moving at all. God it’s hot. It had become far too normal for Aemond to watch you shake and your eyes roll back into your head with ecstasy but never you with him. It makes you feel powerful.

“F-feels so fucking good—” Aemond struggles to be coherent through the throws of pleasure.

Your hands pick up the pace, tightening your grip around him. His eyes are becoming more and more glassy as the moments pass by. Settling down till your stomach touches your knees, skirt (barely) coved ass poking out to the air. You kiss your way down his chest, leaving lipstick marks as you go until you reach the base of his vibrating cock.

Your mind swarms with ideas of how you can possibly torture him, but you decide against anymore prolonged suffering because of how desperately you need him in your mouth. You lick your way up to his leaking tip, keeping eye contact the entire time.

You run your hands over the sides of his hips as you suck the tip into your mouth. Preparing yourself with a deep breath through your nose, you dive down, deepthroating the rest of him into your throat. The tip of your nose touched the smooth base of his pubic bone. He always filled your holes so perfectly.

The sounds of your throat bobbing over him mixed with muted vibrations and Aemond’s moans make your cunt pulsate. You and Aemond are not new to dirty but something about this type of dirty got you going in a way you have never felt before.

“I’m gonna come—fuck! I’m gonna come down your perfect throat—” That is all you need to hear to pull yourself away from him (as much as you hate to).

Wiping the saliva from the corners of your mouth you press the button on the remote of the cock ring, turning the vibrations off. Aemond whines like a scorned child. A sound you're not familiar with from him, but you could picture yourself getting used to.

“Did you really think that I was going to let you come that fast? I need to make you earn it first, baby.”

He looks up at you, begging. “How? Please just tell me how I’ll do anything, I just need to be inside you. I wanna be your good boy.” His voice cracks like he’s on the brink of tears.

“You have to address me properly.”

“Anything for you ma’am.”

“Now, beg.” You tug the base of his cock into your hands, jerking him off like you were in no rush.

“Please…?” His brows knit together like a kicked puppy.

You halt your movements and grip your boyfriend’s length, not enough to actually hurt him, just enough to make Aemond whine once more. “God do you even want me to fuck you? I said beg.” You say while pulling the almost sheer white top from your body, leaving the skirt and stockings in their place though.

“Please fuck ma’am? I promise I’ll be good for you, I need to be inside of you so bad. I love your cunt so much, I need it around me. I need to feel you come on me, please?”

“Aw, look at that, you are my good boy after all.” With that you are fully on top of him. Hands planted onto his firm chest while you lean forward to tug your skirt up, revealing the lack of underwear beneath them. With his eyes thoroughly distracted by your bare cunt you pull his aching tip inside of your soaking wet entrance.

You had sex not two days before now but somehow the stretch of Aemond inside was still a shock to your system. Maybe it’s because you had never had him like this, crying below you like just being inside you was already the greatest pleasure he could experience.

“Jesus—Christ!”

You take your time adjusting to him, gradually sinking lower towards his abdomen. Your clit grazes the black silicone, alerting you that you’ve reached the bottom. Pushing yourself all the way back up to his tip you slam down as you speak. “Did all that begging make your cock harder, Aem? Do you like begging for me?”

“So much…” The words are almost inaudible through his moans.

“You don’t come until I let you, understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

It only eggs you on more. The sound of wet skin smacking and whimpering fill your ears. No thoughts pass through either of your heads.

The rocking of your hips became more frantic, desperate. Your soft wet walls hugging your boyfriend like a vice. Aemond’s reach up into the pillows, gripping so hard they change from pink to white instantly.

Your mask begins to fall at the pleasure building in your core. Legs shaking at either side of Aemond’s hips. Just like that you pull the blonde up from his horizontal position, his grip falling from the pillows. Lips crashing together in a blur as sweat pools down both your backs. “I’m so fucking close, can I come, please?” His begging is muffled against your mouth.

“Soon, I promise. Rub my clit for me baby?” He obeyed immediately. His pointer and index finger caressing against your pulsing clit. “Fuck yes! so good Aem.” Your hands wander to his hair, like you are the master and he’s your little puppet.

You can’t hold back anymore, the sensation of his lips against yours mixed with Aemond’s precise movements against your bud send you hurdling towards your orgasm. “M’coming, come for me aem, do it for me baby—” Aemond follows fast behind you, crying out your name as he reaches his peak. His cock painting your insides with his cum.

You come back down to earth together, a jumble of words spilling from both of your lips: I love you, thank you, so good, kiss me.

You collapse into a puddle on your boyfriend’s sweat soaked chest. His fingers travel through your hair as you both catch your breath. As he tucks the lock behind your ears he finally speaks coherently. “So, are you gonna tell me how you managed to replicate the exact outfit from the original photo I used to wank off to or…?”

You smile, lifting your head to face him and his pink flushed cheeks. “A great magician never reveals their secrets.”

[strayheartless]

A headcanon I have about Sephiroth is that he’s pretty agoraphobic outside of going to work on missions. He doesn’t really like being outside if he’s not contracted to be there because people perceive him. Even if he manages, by the grace of the gods, to go under the radar, he is still activly hating every second of being outside.

If Genesis or Angeal are with him he’s a bit better. He trusts that they will take care of him and not let anyone come up to him or crowd him. But the minute he has to go on his own? Absolutely not.

He needs food for the week? It’s fine he’ll just starve.

He has run out of Conditioner? He’ll steal Gens.

There’s a really cool thing going on across town that only he is interested in? Crippling disappointment but you still could not fork lift him out of the building.

It’s Bad. With a capital B.

Even when he’s out with his friends he holds Genesis’ sleeve in crowds and keeps close to Angeal’s back. Both of them have little tug marks on all of their civilian clothing that is affectionately-yet also concernedly- referred to as Sephi-tug’s. He needs to be able to reach his hand out to them otherwise they are too far away.

He doesn’t do Bars; he just about manages Theatres because Genesis always pays for box seats; he accepts grocery stores as long as Angeal is with him and he is in charge of the cart. And it’s something that brings him no small amount of shame.

I have this headcanon not because I read Seph as autistic (although I do like that reading.). No, I have this headcanon because Sephiroth grew up in a lab, and I don’t think proper socialising was ever on Hojo’s list of priorities.

We see a little bit of his engagement with the outside world in Ever Crisis and it’s kind of a similar vibe. However as someone who struggles to leave the house independently themselves, Sephiroth gives off the same vibe that I feel when trying to convince myself to walk to the supermarket.

He needs a plan off attack and a buddy. If a task needs done but requires him to go out and buy the stuff to get it done, without a companion? It’s not getting done. End of story. This has knock on effects for him such as, not being able to clean effectively, or shower effectively or handle social interaction outside of his chosen people.

He never had to go outside for anything mundane as a child, so he has no idea how to even breath in the space. It’s scary and apart from being abandoned or never finding his mother, it is one of Sephiroth’s greatest fears.

After Genesis and Angeal leave he doesn’t go out, period. Lazard starts having things delivered to him and once Zack realises how bad it gets, he starts picking up stuff when he goes out with Cloud or Kunsel or to see Aerith. There has been many times he has paused their date so that he can Ring Sephiroth and find out if he has food in or what brand of Shampoo he wants. Aerith thinks it’s sweet. Zack doesn’t want to explain that it’s not just cause he knows he needs it, it’s because if he doesn’t buy it Sephiroth will literally starve himself.

[prazardous]

why does every game app have 10 pop ups trying to get you to buy smth every time you open the app and 10 different non-transferrable forms of currency and a ui overlay that is designed to overwhelm with 5 buttons in each corner all going to different important tabs but impossible to move between gracefully. just let me play one goddamn game

[evansbby]

bestie what did he do????? do i need to pull my glock out or what

he fr lost the baddest bitch 🙏🏾

the usual thing that men do. he ghosted me 😭😭 after we’d went on a few dates and also for weeks we’d text ALL day and half the night like till 3am 😭 and i don’t mean sexting i mean actual conversation with cute flirting 😭😭😭 but then he all of a sudden just stopped replying and i should’ve just NOT SAID ANYTHING but then i texted him a few days after he ghosted me and then he was like “sorry i was busy :)” WHICH IS BASICALLY CODE FOR FUCK YOU I AM DONE WITH YOU 🥲🥲🥲🥲 like I can’t believe he wasted my time like that!!! and I don’t understand what was going on in his HEAD like he was sooo into it like in the beginning i wasn’t even that attracted to him i just thought he was fun to talk to!! He was the one who kept complimenting me and flirting with me!!! (another red flag in hindsight lol). I mean he was hot so i was initially attracted to him but then I got the ick but then i forced myself to be attracted to him again bc his personality was so good 😭😭😭 and we genuinely got along so well 😭 anyways he never popped up again so it’s safe to say it’s done lol even if he did pop up now i wouldn’t reply 😂😂

[fmhobeus]

so, nerdy loser college boy choso *sighs* *opens legs*

a/n: just so you know, this man is gonna make you do all the hard work for a piece of that loser boy dick 😮‍💨 so... um so at some point around 2000 words in i realised this is way more than a hc post :3 eat it up if you will!

nerdy!choso who borderline has no friends except his gaming buddies who doesnt meet irl like ever. he doesnt like going to classes, especially this one. he doesnt need it but it's a requirement for all first years. and boy is glad it is when he sees you come in.

nerdy!choso who only listens to discussions when you're talking. suddenly he needs to put down his headphones and nod at every word you're saying. his eyes follow every gesture of your hand, every sway of your ass, every single time you fix your hair.

nerdy!choso who is starting to get a bit enamored with you, your style, your way of speaking. he loses track of time gawking at you in class from the last benches as you prettily do all the work in the class. he hates how beautifully your hair falls on your face, how nicely your clothes fit you despite being pretty modest for college. he hates how he can see the silhouette of your tits when you turn to the side. but he's too much of a gentleman to keep looking.

nerdy!choso who ends a game early when he remembers you, lying and saying that he had promised someone to meet them somewhere. the place is his bathroom and the person was you. god, you really shouldn't wear those tight jeans to class y'know? how will he continue to be a gentleman if you do?

nerdy!choso who despises groupwork but prays to dear god this class has some reason to pair you two together. he's getting so desperate to talk to you knowing damn well he too pussy to do it on his own. and the lord answers his prayers, the teacher assigns groups of three for a presentation. it's you, him and some slacking trust fund baby.

nerdy!choso who is about to combust and have a full blown panic attack when he sees you approach him after class with that smile on your face that would make the angels swoon. you're going on about distributing the work equally and what not while he is trying his fucking hardest to not accidently make eye contact with you and piss his pants : (

nerdy!choso who now has your name, your number and your email and he feels like the happiest man on earth. his hands are literally shaking as he responds to your request to call. he's overthinking every word he types.

choso: yeah i can do wednesday. choso: i'll be okay with whatever day you want.

nerdy!choso who hops on video call and short circuits with a view of you in an oversized band tee and a brief view of your room. why did you have to be this pretty? why did you have to video call him when you couldve done the work on text? why did you have to put your hair up like that? why oh why did you have you say "choso? hey, you there?" so seductively to bring him back to the present?

nerdy!choso who gets like no work done in a 30 minute call which felt like three hours. he knew he would hardly be paying attention so decided to record the call with your consent, saying he'd need the notes you were typing out on screen only to play it back and stroke his dick to you for what might've have been the twentieth time this week. his strokes only getting faster as you say his name in that voice he imagines sounds way better moaning and screaming it instead.

nerdy!choso who, after the presentation, is on greeting terms with you when he sees you studying in the library. he sits as far away from you as he can while still being able to see you. occupying the coziest corner of the library to stare at you study right when you come up to him.

"can i join you, choso? i'm all alone and your space seems comfy" you say with a smile, "of course, i dont mean to disturb you, is saw you were on your own too, so..."

uh oh, uh oh, uh oh. god no. please no. please dont say yes. please dont be staring at her like some dumb idiot (too late) please.

"uh... yeah sure why not?" he awkwardly says as he makes room for you to keep your things. he was such an idiot for thinking he could say no to your pretty face in the first place.

nerdy!choso who is absolutely drunk on your scent. it feels way better than any alcohol he's ever had. he feels like an animal in heat when he smells your sugary perfume mixed with the styrofoam-y air conditioned smell of the library. you're gonna kill him, yknow? how is he supposed to respond to this? what is one to do when their stupid college crush sits next to them? he gives you a half smile before furiously typing away on reddit, the only place with answers for losers like him.

nerdy!choso whose hands. oh his hands. (can be i a big whore for a second?) his long hands that feel like they're the size of your face. his kempt, beautiful and trimmed nails. his lengthy fingers that seem to yearn for something more to foddle with than just the keyboard or controller. he typed as such an insane pace it made your pussy ache. he was going so fast, jesus. those hands were meant to do more than just ask "how to talk to girls" on reddit.

nerdy!choso who (on the advice of reddit) asks if you would want him to order something for you. you tell you had a frappuccino not too long ago and that it was quite sweet and filling. and he hates himself for thinking that he could give you something much sweeter and filling than that like a horny fourteen year old.

nerdy!choso who is now determined to not come off as a creep so he does his work with the focus of four adderalls. he is typing as fast as his heartbeat, not realising he got two classes worth of work done in just an hour. he looks over at you, blissfully unaware of the absolute war in his mind.

nerdy!choso who feels as though if he doesn't muster up the courage to ask you out right then and there, he'll probably be the biggest loser on the planet. (as if he wasn't already)

nerdy! pathetic! choso who stutters a million times and barely gets the job done then too. his eyes are scanning your entire being (trying his best to not gawk at your tits) for any sign of discomfort.

"so- uhh so ummm... wo-would you, like, uh... like to do this again? sometime?... i got a.. a lot of work done today, so.."

oh heavens, the sheer nervousness in his tone makes you want to pull his pants down and show him how to really get work done.

you agree with a smile, even suggesting a better, more ambient (more romantic) cafe to study in. choso's heart is about to burst and flood the fucking library with his blood the way it is beating at an alarming rate.

"umm yeah uh 5 sounds... awesome... i hope it isn't a-a bother to you?" "no way, choso. i loved today," you offer him a smile as you gather your things, "i really like your hair, by the way" "i like your hair too, y-y-you smell very nice", he gulps.

fuck. why did he say that? what? you smell nice? who says that? is he like ten? you can't help but giggle at the sheer embarassment on his face.

he feels as though he's gonna melt into a puddle and turn to stone and throw up all at the same time.

nerdy!choso who is the most stupidly hot guy you've ever met, you think as you go giggling back to your dorm. mental note: pick a skimpy outfit for 5pm ;)

[evilgwrl]

ExHusband!Simon x Reader

You Want a Divorce? (One)

Note: I'm having the WORST writer's block now so pls excuse my lack of proper writing... I'm currently sitting in front of a beach writing in hopes that ill gain inspo

CW: Angst, mentions of sex, jealous/possessive Simon, PLS DONT LEAVE YOUR KIDS IN THE CAR !!! Or break into someone’s house

Inspired by: Ex!Husband Simon

PART TWO

Simon stared at you. The shades of his eyes simmering into endless voids of obsidian, blonde lashes moulded against his greased lids, the residue of the perpetual torture his body had succumbed to during deployment.

“You want a divorce?” He spoke, voice deep as he flickered between your shaking heads, sweat soiling into the papers gripped firmly and your swollen face, cheeks feverish with a red hue, eyes even more so.

You held back a rough sob, throat stripped of all moisture evident in your hoarse voice as you spoke, “Yes, Simon. I think it would be best for our family… for us.”

He scoffed. “You think the best thing for our family is to separate?”

“We already pretty much are. You’re away for days, weeks, months at a time. We’re hardly a family and it’s difficult to explain to the children why I’m crying.”

“Ok then.”

That was it. You would admit, it stung. His lacklustre tone felt like a stab in the gut, the blade drenched with anthrax as it reared blistering sores internally, the effects having shown through your putrid complexion. Your skin was dull, practically lifeless, the only living form of you grew day by day through the darkening of eyebags that almost made you look apocalyptic.

It had been 12 months of separation, officially 8 being legally divorced. You kept his last name, the permanent burn of hearing Mrs Riley still searing through you with every syllable, yet you feel it would only hurt you more if they said Ms.

Simon was often away now, and the minimal family time he used to get felt pointless as the shabby apartment he moved into after the sudden interference of your mind-boggling news barely fit the two kids you shared. His body felt more relentless on him, the taunting of his mind fulgurated the inoperative reality that he would come home to you, to his family.

His voice, almost like it dropped an octave had grown richer in aggression, tormenting those he deemed suitable, both with his tongue and with his bruised knuckles, an oil painting of blue and purple hues radiating across the pale flesh as he shrugged it off to his team as “pushing himself and others to do better”.

Couldn’t you realise your mistake? Wouldn’t you prefer crying in his arms about his absence than never having it fulfilled again?

As he looked around the bleak environment, tan stained walls revolting the creaking mattress he had brought someone home to, someone who wasn’t you. It made him feel sick like a viral infection had slunk its way into his bloodstream as he laid next to a woman that failed to make his cock throb, endless images of you sprawled out under him flickering. No wonder he called out your name instead.

You felt the familiar shake of your hands every time your phone dinged; Simon’s dreary tone was evident through his dry “On the way” text. You ushered a day of your children’s life into their cartoon-themed backpacks, innocent smiles adorning their skin, doe-like eyes of brown, far too familiar to Simon’s staring up at you.

The sound of his car scraping into your paved driveway almost made you feel like throwing up, the nerves of seeing him combined with the already present pit of anxiety due to your date later turning you into one big shaky mess as you brushed it off as “too much caffeine”.

The echo of his car door slamming shut rung through your ears, staining you with the reiteration that your ex-husband was now at your door, heavy fists knocking upon the wood. The image you saw of him in your mind morphed back to reality as you stared at him, a blank expression on your face.

“Hi, love.”

“Hi, Simon.”

Your frown was clear, the pet name you were so used to becoming a distant memory in the past few months. It was a hole you were attempting to fill, to clear yourself away from his teasing tongue and faux impression of a healthy relationship. You were divorced for a reason, you knew that, but as you gazed upon the lack of life in his skin, it was almost like he was holding a mirror up to you.

“Daddy!” You watched as your 5-year-old, Ella, practically leapt into his hefty frame, his hands coiling around her like second nature. You could feel his warmth, the heat that would build in your stomach when you felt those same digits touch you.

“Hi sweetheart,” his voice gruff, yet tone lighter as he placed a delicate kiss on the skin of her forehead, “You miss me?”

She nodded, her face buried in the hem of his neck as your other child cooed from the bouncy chair, tubby legs attempting to wheel himself to the door.

“There’s my boy,” Simon practically cooed as he placed Ella down, bounding inside as he lifted the toddler out, grabby arms reaching out to pull at Simon’s locks, gentle tugs causing you to laugh.

Your voice cut through the scene like glass. Why would you want to destroy such a happy moment? Weren’t you supposed to be reuniting? Just say it, tell Simon you want him to come home, that you need him.

“This is Ella’s bag,” you speak, holding up the pink Minnie Mouse bag, “And this is Toby’s.” Your son giggled as he muffled out the words, “Transformers”.

Simon nodded, “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Ella practically screeched, “Mummy’s going on a date!” The thrill of her laughter that followed only seemed to make the situation more awkward.

“A date?” Simon’s voice was deadly, the hair raising on your arms as you shook your head, a tight smile on your suddenly dry lips.

“No, no, nothing like that. Just catching up with an old colleague of mine.”

“But he’s a boy, Mummy,” Ella giggled. Who was raising your daughter to be such a big mouth? Your face formed an annoyed look, eyebrows raising as a line of wrinkles crinkled against your forehead, your pointer fingers massaging your temples.

“An old colleague?” Simon practically gasped. Had he met him at your old work Xmas parties?

“Let’s get you guys in the car.” You fumbled with Toby’s car seat as you strapped him in, your nimble fingers shaking with anxiety before you shut the door, pressing a kiss against the window before wiping away the minimal residue of dirt. Gross.

“Who is he?” His tone was acerbic like he was looking for an argument. How dare you try and replace him? He was your husband, the father of your two kids? Have you seen this random man before? Had he fucked you?

“God, Simon-“

“Who is he?” Simon was relentless, bullying his way into getting the answers as his arms folded across his chest, tattoos practically screaming at you too.

“His name’s Andrew. I ran into him at a coffee shop a few weeks back and he just wanted to catch up. That’s it.”

A loud scoff sounded in the air. “You mean that geezer from that corporate job you hated? The one who didn’t know it was weird to blatantly stare down your dress when you were standing next to your fucking husband?”

“He didn’t stare down my dress! You’re not my husband anymore, Simon. I can see who I want.”

“I don’t want our children to grow up thinking they have multiple dads.”

You’ll admit, that stung.

“Multiple dads? You’re out of your mind. The only reason they would ever believe they have multiple dads is if their real one stopped showing up. And where have you been, Simon? When have you shown up?”

Simon held his tongue, the warmth of the metallic taste gashing through his teeth as he practically snarled past you. “I’ll bring them back tomorrow.”

The dress you wore was practically suffocating you as you tucked your stomach in. Simon never minded the change in your figure after motherhood, he found himself liking it even more. He loved knowing that his seed put you through that, that he made you swell with his children, and he brought out the glow in your cheeks and the delicate stretch marks that laced your hips.

Andrew was nice. His tone was comforting as he walked to your door, ushering you to his car as he insisted you could order whatever you wanted. He was handsome, the salt and pepper hues of his hair settling your insecurity.

“We’ll take the Pinot Noir,” he spoke, looking at you with an almost arrogant sheer in his blue eyes. You only liked white. Simon knew that just like he knew everything about y-

You’re not with Simon anymore. You had to realise that. Maybe that’s why you brought Andrew home, let him shove his cock (that was a lot smaller than what you were used to) inside your heat, as you let out moans you had mimicked from the porn you watched with the actor that resembled far too much of your ex-husband.

Simon's fingers gripped the steering wheel early the next morning, your two children snuggled up in the backseat as he drove back to his old house, your old home. He wasn’t a man who gave up easy, he would show you, prove to you that you made a mistake. You needed each other.

Hold on. You don’t drive a red car?

His car lurched into the entrance of your home, nearly ramming into the garage as he shoved it in park, rolling down the two back windows slightly for air as he dug around in the small side compartment of his car.

The familiar gold key he had stolen from you the night he packed up all his stuff stared back at him, practically egging him on. Go on Simon, march in there. So he did. His hand rattled against the door knob, glancing back to peak into the car for a second before he slammed the door shut.

Your body froze. Were you being robbed? No. It was only Simon. A very angry-looking Simon. You stood, the white sheet barely shielding your naked body as he took in the sight of the man next to you, his hands wrapping around his shoulders as he practically ripped him out of bed, flinging him onto the floor as he grunted, eyes reared with hatred.

“Simon, what the fuck are you doing? WHERE ARE THE KIDS?”

Andrew groaned, on the floor, covering his groin as Simon chucked the masculine clothes at his head, the thin boxers soiled across the man’s scalp as he trembled.

“Our kids are asleep in the car, waiting for their Mummy to come to the zoo with them.” Simon’s words were despicable, laced with an acrimonious tone, small particles of spit seething through his lips as stared at you.

He turned to the man, a giant frame staggering over the top of him. “Get the fuck out, and if you wake up our kids when you go past, I will personally put a bullet straight in the middle of your skull,” he said, pushing a thick digit against his forehead as Andrew rushed out, clothes barely on before you felt the front door shut, a cry of apologises leaving your lips as you tried to assist him but Simon only held you back, a tight grip coiling around your arm.

“What the fuck was that? How’d you get in?” You couldn’t even place the words to say, humiliation roaring through you as you snuggled the sheet closer to you, away from his peering eyes.

“It’s time to be a family again, don’t you think love?”

[thevillainswhore]

New Tricks

Pairing: Virgin!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: After your brother has to cancel movie night, you’re ready to resign yourself to an uneventful evening back at your dorm, alone and dejected. But what you didn’t count on, is your brother’s best friend and roommate, bursting through the door and asking you to stay; to spend the night with him, instead

What unfolds, however, while you spend time with the star football player, both shocks and astounds you — one confession in particular. 

Bucky Barnes, the Prince Charming of campus, the man you have been crushing on for an eternity, is a virgin.

Warnings: first kisses, fluff, smut, grinding, making out, big brother!steve, college!bucky, shy bby bucky, mutual pining, swearing, pet names, huge ton of reassurances, lots of praise, big hints of subby bucky

Author’s Note: beta’d by my baby @rookthorne

Okay, so where to start with this… the idea for this fic sprung from a certain someone 👀 and I just had to write it. Thank you to my girl for being a huge support through this, I love you 💗

These two have my whole heart and who knows? Maybe more will come of them 😌 for all my playlist lovers, you’re welcome - new tricks playlist ❤️

New Tricks Masterlist

I hope you enjoy this as much as I’ve loved creating it 🥹

Standing outside of your brother’s apartment, your impatience starts to wane thin. For ten whole minutes, you have been waiting for Steve to open up. And knocking like a crazed woman is beginning to get old; so is waiting on the doorstep to his front door. 

“Oh, for–” You grumble, and you lift your arm up to bang against the door for the umpteenth time,  when your hand misses it entirely, owing to the fact it swings open to admit you with such enthusiasm, it creaks and threatens to bounce back off of the wall.  

Bucky — your brother’s roommate, best friend, and your crush — sheepishly smiles and scratches the back of his neck. 

The line of his shoulders slump when he lowers his arm, and you notice (and appreciate) just how broad and muscled he is. He must have just been working out, or you interrupted him — nonetheless, you’re thankful for the sight before you, and how it makes the crush you harboured for the brunette for years roar to life all over again. 

Excellent, you inwardly sigh.

“Buttercup,” Bucky says — the affectionate nickname born from his sappy personality always makes you swoon, and his hesitant smile morphs into a wide one. You’re left fighting  internally to keep your giddiness at the sight of him to a respectable level.  “Hey, you. Sorry I didn’t hear you; I was listening to music.” 

Your gaze continues up to his hair, finding it tied back with an elastic at the nape of his neck.  Oh, how you wished you could run your hands through–

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, furrowing his brows. 

Embarrassment floods you and you realise far too late that he probably has asked you a question, or several, while you were daydreaming. “Sorry, Buck,” you squeak, praying that the heat crawling up your neck was not as obvious as it felt. “What was that?”

His soft, puppy-eyed expression brightens when you meet his gaze. “It’s fine, doll. Everything okay?” 

No matter how badly you want to stand and unashamedly stare at your brother’s best friend and roommate, your true intention behind your visit comes to mind. 

“Can I come in?” you ask, lifting the bag of snacks you brought up higher. Bucky’s eyes glance down at the bag, and then back up to your face. “Stevie planned our movie night and he isn’t answering his phone — I told him I was on my way and I asked him if he wanted anything else.” 

The confusion that creases Bucky's brows and downturns his lips in a small frown makes you narrow your eyes. 

“Surely he didn’t forget,” you accuse, still staring into Bucky’s face. “I make the trip down from campus every two weeks. It’s been two weeks.” A sudden, encompassing guilt fills Bucky’s eyes, and he starts to worry his bottom lip with his teeth — a sight far too hard to ignore. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Um– I just–” Bucky stutters, and you watch as his fingers twitch and fidget — a nervous tic. If he didn’t look cute while stumbling over his words, you would feel sorry for being so blunt. “I just thought that– Uh, I thought it was cancelled. The movie night, I mean.” 

You step forward slightly, and Bucky opens the door wider. A wordless invitation. 

Bucky rushes to clear a space on the entryway coat rack for you, when he suddenly says, “You know, because of his date, an’ all.” His words falter at the look you shoot him. You stop taking off your coat, and you drop the bag of snacks to the floor, ignoring the crinkle and rustle of plastic. 

“What do you mean date, Barnes?” The use of his last name causes a flush of deep red to pattern his cheeks, but you don’t let up. There’s music playing from down the hall of the apartment – right where Steve’s bedroom is. “What’s going on?” 

Bucky skittishly fidgets and glances around the apartment, before meeting your heated gaze. “I– Look, I didn’t know–” 

You silently mouth a curse, beyond frustrated with your older brother, and with yourself for taking just a second to indulge and admire just how sweet Bucky is when he is unsure. “Fine,” you huff, and you turn to walk straight towards the source and to investigate it yourself.

Bucky’s frantic footsteps behind you don’t deter your haste. “Wait, stop — Buttercup, wait!”

Forgoing a courtesy knock — having had enough of banging on his front door — you barge straight into the room with as little as a greeting call or warning. 

“What the shit–“ 

The door to Steve’s bedroom slams against the wall, and you come face to face with the blond in the middle of a dance off with himself in the mirror. “Sis! Hey,” he gasps, holding his hand over his heart in fright. “What’re you doing–?” 

In lieu of an answer, you cross your arms and stare at him, unimpressed and exasperated with his antics. “Don’t you hey sis me.” The fear in Steve’s eyes as you stomp towards him almost vindicates your indignation of being uninformed. “What do you mean you’re going on a date? It’s movie night!” 

Steve has the decency to look ashamed. “Flower, I swear, I’m sorry,” he rambles, and he takes your hand, directing you to sit down on his bed. “I would’ve called to let you know but everything was so last minute.” 

The grip he has on your hand is firm, assuring you of his true intentions, even when he turns the Roger’s charm up to an eleven to worm his way back onto your good side. “I swear sis, I wouldn’t bail on you without a good reason.”

“Okay,” you say, staring into his face — still not wholeheartedly convinced of his graces. A line of questioning is in order, you decide. “So, who is this good enough reason?”

“Natasha Romanoff.” The dreamy, love-struck sigh that leaves Steve’s lips after her name is uttered has you reluctantly trying to hide your giggle; the righteous anger and frustration slowly leaves your body in his admittance.  

The fact that he has been obsessed with the college’s most popular redhead since forever, was a balm to the annoyance. You truly did feel happy for him underneath it all. 

And, in the end, it’s how you decide to let him off the hook — though not without teasing him, first. “No way, the Natasha Romanoff? How the hell have you managed that one?” 

Steve pushes your shoulder, and the force of his shove knocks you sideways onto the covers of his bed. “Fine,” you grouse, sighing heavily and resigning yourself to a night on your own. “I’ll let you off this time.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Flower,” Steve promises. And you believe him. He has always kept his word; ever since the two of you were kids. 

“Good,” you say, smiling softly. “I expect an apology at my door in the next few days, though.”

Laughing, Steve nods, and then he stands from his bed. 

“I’ll leave you to it then, I hope you have fun, bro.” 

It is an impossible task for you to hide your dejected hurt from Steve, though. Clever and perceptive as he is, he detects the subtle sombre undertones underlying your reassurances, narrowing in on them like a dog to a bone. 

You get to your feet with a quiet sigh, and as you move, you miss the thoughtful expression on his face; the perk of his ears at the almost indistinguishable shuffling of feet just outside of his bedroom. “How about you have a movie night with Bucky, instead?” 

You stop in your tracks, frozen in shock at the sudden and downright surprising suggestion. “Stevie,” you admonish, “Bucky does not want to waste a Friday night with me–“

“I don’t mind!” Bucky shouts eagerly from the doorway, and you spin around to face him. The nervous fidget of his curls his fingers and hands around one another, over and over. 

Had he been listening that whole time? 

Guilt begins to flood you. Imposing on any plans Bucky  may have made was a burden you did not want to bear,  and you couldn’t fathom who would want to spend the night with their best friend’s little sister. “Thank you, Bucky, that’s really sweet of you,” you placate, smiling at him. “But I know you’ve probably got better things to do on a Friday night than be with me.”

Bucky seems to swell in the doorway, his chest puffing up and he sets his jaw, a determined glint in his eyes. “Actually, Buttercup,” he retorts, crossing his arms in a decisive move. “A movie night with you sounds perfect.” 

The confidence in his tone takes you by surprise, and you flounder for a second while you stare into his steel blue eyes. “Really?”

“‘Course,” he replies easily, shrugging his shoulders. “It’ll be fun.”

His words, and charming smile, ultimately win you over.  

With your attention wholly focused on Bucky as he begins to talk about what movies to watch, you miss the knowing, victorious smirk that curls Steve’s lips.  

“Okay,” Steve calls from the doorway, looking back at the two of you, and you can’t help but be frustrated by his stalling. “Be good and behave while I’m gone. Oh, and, no staying up past your bedtimes — Bucky, her bedtime is ten o’clock sharp.”

The scowl on your face only serves to make him laugh, and you huff your exasperation before your hands grip his biceps; the only way to get him out the door is brute force. “Get out, Stevie,” you grunt, pushing with all your might, but it is to no avail. Steve is as immovable as a statue made of marble. “Don’t you have to go see Natasha?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, and you hear the rustling sound of fabric. “Don’t you?”

Instinct tells you to duck, and you do so, just in the nick of time to avoid the pillow Bucky launches across the room from his place next to the couch. The pillow hits Steve square in the face with a comical thump. 

You burst into laughter at the stunned look of disbelief on Steve’s face, and you look over at Bucky, who is leaning against the sofa; a smug grin pulls his lips up and scrunches his nose.  “Get the hell outta here already, punk.”

With Steve distracted by Bucky’s betrayal, you take the chance to shove him out of the front door and watch delightedly as he stumbles in the hallway. “Hey–!” The door slams shut behind him, cutting him off. 

Giggles shake your shoulders as you put your back to the door, leaning against it with all of your strength as Steve turns the handle — evidently not finished in the war of quips. 

Bucky’s laughter from his place by the sofa makes your stomach flutter, and he walks closer, just as Steve stops attempting to break down the door. 

With the end of Steve’s attempts to forcefully open the door, you turn and face the wood and peer out of the peephole. A blond mop of hair is just within view. “Bye Stevie!” you call through the door, “Have fun, wear protection!”

Steve’s reply is muffled by the wood, and he flips you off before walking away.  

Shaking your head, you turn back to face the living room, and you see Bucky fussing around the sofa and coffee table. The strong aroma of a sweet, spicy scent fills your senses and you inhale deeply, letting the tantalising smell fill your lungs, before you ask, “Bucky, what are you doing?”

He sends you a furtive glance before looking back down at the snacks laid out on the coffee table, neatly placed next to two already filled glasses of drink. A bag of popcorn threatens to spill from his arms. “I’m, uh– I’m setting up? For the movie–?”

You could not help but notice how fast the bravado and confidence he displayed in the presence of Steve vanishes when he was with you, and you alone.  

“Oh, sweetie,” you coo, walking closer. “I thought we could watch the movie in your room, instead of out here. It’ll be more comfortable, at least, and we can spread out. Is that okay?” 

The popcorn bag that threatened to spill from his arms bursts instead, scattering the popped kernels all over the floor, making him yelp. “Ah! Uh– Okay, we… We can if you want?”

You nod once. “Absolutely. I’d rather be in your bed any day, then out here,” you tease, amused by the way Bucky’s eyes bulge and his cheeks flush. Then you look down at the popcorn all over the floor, and add, “But first, let’s clean this up.” 

Bucky starts to clean up the mess, and he tells you to grab the movies you agreed upon from the collection in the bookshelf. 

The selection to choose from is packed, as it always is. “Why don’t I grab a couple?” 

“Sure,” Bucky answers, sweeping the popcorn into a dustpan. “I mean, why not? May as well go all out.”

You grin and grab a couple of cases. “Do you need some help–”

“No, I’ve got it, Bubs,” Bucky interrupts. You look over your shoulder at him to see the blankets bundled high in his arms, and before you could protest and insist you help carry them, he shuffles off in the direction of his bedroom. 

Then, you glance down at the coffee table to see that the snacks and drinks are missing. “Did you grab the snacks?”

“Yeah!” Bucky calls back, muffled by the walls between the two of you. 

A fond sigh falls from your lips and you follow after him, DVD cases in hand.  

The tension in the air of his bedroom is charged with something you could not quite describe, and the butterflies in your stomach roar to life for it. You square your shoulders, and smile through it. “It’s no different, it’s no different,” you mutter under your breath; a mantra for confidence. 

Though, it is short lived. 

Bucky throws the blankets onto his bed with a grunt, and both the TV and DVD player switch on, ready to accept one of the disks you held in your hand. 

A shuddery breath falls from your lips, and you make your way to the player to place the first disc in. It whirrs to life as you turn to look at Bucky, who is placing the snacks on a tray table, his tongue between his teeth as he works. 

“Okay,” he hums, turning to face you, a shy smile on his face. “You ready, Bubs?” Without waiting for an answer, he walks past you to the light switch, his index finger poised to flip it off. 

You look down at your body, the warm outerwear you had thrown on to get to Steve’s apartment suddenly becomes scorching hot against your skin, and an idea comes to mind — flustering him has given you a rush of confidence before… 

“Almost,” you say, a hidden smirk on your lips. The layers of warmth are soft in your hands while you take them off, and you’re left in a thin tank top and soft, cotton shorts. “Now I am.”

A faint choking noise comes from the doorway behind you when you place the warmer clothes on Bucky’s desk chair. Inwardly, a coy smirk lifts the corner of your lips; outwardly, you look over to him, concerned and ever curious. 

His face, normally soft and kind whenever he looked at you, is taut with embarrassment; blotchy and red. His eyes are frantically looking anywhere, and everywhere around the room but at you. 

“Buck?” you say, getting his attention. His eyes meet yours. “You okay?”

The fidgeting is your first clue that he is struggling with something, and it is a battle to keep the teasing smile off your lips when his hands run constantly through his long hair and or come to a stop in the pockets of his grey sweats. 

Patiently, you watch while he repeats the same actions several times, each pass of his hands only serving to make him even more flushed. “Yeah. Yep,” Bucky coughs. “Mhm. Just great, thanks.” He looks up to the ceiling and gulps loudly. “You’re really wearing those? Uh– Just those, I mean?” 

You thin your lips to try and hurriedly fight off a smile as you grab your warm, fluffy socks from your bag. “Of course, silly,” you tease, shaking your head once. “I always wear my comfy clothes on movie night.”

The room turns deathly silent when you bend at the hip to pull the socks up your feet. 

Peering up from your task, you see Bucky staring at your legs, evidently thinking he hadn’t been caught and his eyes begin to trail upwards, towards your chest. The slackjawed expression amuses you, though you feel the beginning sparks of your own shyness come to life.

“Buck?” A nervous laugh bubbles in your chest, and you play with the hem of your tank top at the heat in his gaze. “Bucky?” you try again, “Are you ready?”

“Uh– Yeah, yes,” he rushes, quickly flicking the light off so his face is cast into shadow. You could have sworn he looked like a kid getting caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar — wide eyes and a deepening blush that spread down his neck.  

Bucky had always been a little shy in your presence, this you knew. Whenever you come over to visit Steve, or you bump into Bucky on campus, you always notice a remarkable difference in his normal, unwavering charm that he had in familiar company. 

This lack of swagger gives you the impression that you unfasten the young, boyish version of him; the one ruled by nerves, and hindered by a severe lack of confidence. 

Sure, you enjoy spending time with him here and there when you hang out at your brother’s apartment, but never before have you been this close to him, and alone. 

“Why don’t we–?” You gesture towards Bucky’s bed, and before he could either protest or agree, you jog to the edge and jump onto the plush mattress with a squeal of laughter. The blankets cover you easily as you roll yourself in them. “This is perfect,” you sigh, happy and content. 

“And where am I meant to sit?” Bucky laughs, appearing in your eye line with a bright, amused expression. “You blanket hog.”

“Fine,” you drawl, and you disentangle yourself from the cocoon of blankets. 

“Why, thank you, madame,” Bucky says, extending his hand in a mock salute, and he sits down in the now available spot, before sidling up the mattress, to rest his back on the headboard.

The broadness of his shoulders don’t leave much room between the two of you, and you decide to snuggle up to his side in a bid to get comfortable. You feel him tense with the proximity, but he doesn’t push you away or say anything.

“Are you ready now?” you ask, reaching for the remote. “For the movie?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” he rasps, nodding quickly.

Despite his initial nerves, Bucky settles comfortably in your presence — half of the movie goes by undisturbed with only the occasional shuffling to get comfortable after getting a snack, or a drink.  

That all changes the moment Bucky becomes restless,his leg twitching against yours constantly, and he repositions himself every couple of minutes. From the corner of your eye, you see his mouth opening and closing; the courage building within him to speak up. You bite your tongue against the urge — let him speak first, you chided yourself. 

“So,” Bucky eventually says, his voice quiet. “How are your classes going, Buttercup?” 

You take your eyes off the screen and face Bucky, but he’s already looking at you, his eyes bright from the glow of the TV. 

“They’re going good,” you reply, just as quietly. “Yeah, they’re busy — hectic, even, but good.” 

The fabric of the comforter ruffles as you turn your body towards him — your shorts ride up with the movement, and your bare thighs brush against his sweats. Bucky tenses while you settle in and only relaxes when you stop shifting in place. “This time of year is always busy, the coursework and exams,” you continue, shrugging your shoulders. “But I’m managing okay, thanks.” 

Bucky nods his head thoughtfully. “Yeah, all those art projects you’ve gotta finish, it must be tiring.” 

Shock slackens your features and you reel back — you could not recall telling him what you studied. “How do you know what major I’m taking?”

“I– um,” Bucky stutters, suddenly overwhelmingly shy. “I hear you talking to Steve about it. Y’know, when– When you come over, on movie nights, and other nights.” 

You can sense Bucky is not done explaining; he licks his lips and stares at his lap, where he fidgets, again. Quietly, as if embarrassed, he continues, “I see you lugging your big canvases across campus sometimes, too. From class, and– And from the window, when I’m actually studying.”

Warmth creeps up your neck again and you blink rapidly. You hadn’t noticed that he took so much notice of you before now, and you couldn’t help but feel endeared over it. 

Desperate to shift the attention away from yourself, you blurt, “How’s, uh– How’s training going for football season this year?”  

Bucky freezes for a second, then trips over his words, “Oh, it’s good– Yeah, it’s great. Coach says I’m progressing well, so I’m doing alright, I guess.”

“So modest, Buck,” you tease. It was common knowledge on campus that Bucky is the star player of the college football team, while also being scouted to join the professional leagues. You place your hand on his arm and squeeze his bicep reassuringly, lending him a bit of your confidence. “Don’t you sell yourself short, I’ve seen you play — you’re amazing!” 

He inhales sharply and grimaces, an expression that contorts his handsome face. “You really think so?” 

“Bucky,” you say slowly. The tense line of his body is obvious as you shuffle closer, but you are determined to prove your point; assure him of his talent and abilities, for all of a shy puppy that he is.  

“Listen to me, honey,” you continue, and Bucky refuses to meet your gaze, instead focusing on his hands. “Everyone can see it, all of us — all of the women in the crowds, all of the kids that watch you from the sidelines. We’re all screaming for you.”

His skin is warm under your palm, but you don’t remove your hand. Instead, you grip his arm and shake it a little. “You’re amazing.”

Bucky stays silent — contemplative of your words, and you take the opportunity to think over the reason why Bucky chooses to stay in on a Friday night. 

There is no questioning the fact that Bucky Barnes could pull anyone he wanted, whether it was to party, or to fuck, but to your recollection — and from what Steve had slipped in the past — no one has ever witnessed Bucky bringing anyone home, drunk or otherwise. No partner he could call his own, either, and he didn’t brag about the obvious charm he held over the many women on or off campus. 

Cautiously, you venture towards the subject of your curiosity. “Speaking of, shouldn’t you be going out on dates on a Friday night, like Stevie? Surely you’ve got tons of girls lined up for you.”  

Bucky’s silence turns deafening, unnatural. His body becomes stiff and he looks to be barely breathing. 

“Buck?” You sit up and look into his face. It’s pulled taut with what you could only guess as shame, but that made no sense, and with a mounting, swelling horror, you realise you may have pushed him too far; teased beyond the point of what is acceptable between friends. “Hey, did I say something wrong? I’m so sorry–”

“No! No– I… fuck.” Bucky throws his head back against the headboard and covers his face. “Oh, God,” he groans, muffled by his hands. “Shit.”

“Bucky–” You hesitate, unsure of what to do or what to say. You’ve never seen Bucky behave like this, so anxious and uneasy. “I– I’ll go, it’s alright, I’m sorry,” you say quickly, and you start to shuffle off of the bed when you hear his muffled voice say something behind his hands. “What was that, I didn’t–?”

A heavy sigh lifts his shoulders, and they slump back down as he exhales. “Ihaventevenhadmyfirstkissyet.”

“Sweetheart,” you say quietly, and you shift back towards him. The curtain of hair he’s so fond of covers and conceals his eyes from view, but you refrain from tucking it behind his ear. “I did not understand a word of what you just said.” 

Bucky clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably, looking up at you with a great effort. “I– uh.” His hands land on his thighs with a finality not unlike the final siren at his football games, and he utters a reluctant, “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet.” 

His bedroom is quiet enough you would hear a pin drop. The TV had long powered off, since the movie finished while you talked, and the tension was palpable; a living, breathing encumberment that could not be cut with a knife. The flickering light from the still burning candle on his bedside drawers makes shadows dance across Bucky’s face. 

Okay, you think privately, so what? 

Bucky hasn’t kissed anyone before. It was justifiable — too busy with life, training and keeping up his GPA. You didn’t have to make a big deal out of this. “That’s okay–” Then the reality of the situation hits you, and your mind screeches to a halt. 

If Bucky hasn’t had his first kiss… “Does– Wait, does that mean–?”

“Yes.” Bucky squeezes his eyes tight and refuses to look at you — it is obviously a painful confession, yet he still forces himself to spit it out, putting voice to the doubt in your mind. “I’m a virgin.”

Now that catches you off guard. 

Bucky… is a virgin? 

Bucky, the star football player; built like a Greek god with the charisma to match. 

Sweat beads on his forehead and he looks like he is about to bolt from the room in his fear, and you realise all of your thoughts had shown in your expression. 

“Oh,” you manage, blinking slowly. The hand that was gripping his arm had moved without you realising, and you hastily place it back on his bicep. “Oh, Bucky.”

No other words come to mind. 

When you came to visit Steve for movie night, a calm, easy tradition in your routine, you never expected to end up in this kind of situation; on the other side of a confession that has left you speechless with shock, all while a strange confliction brews deep within your guts. 

You had been there once, and what you wouldn’t have given to have the opportunity to experience it with someone you trusted wholeheartedly — like you did Bucky, your mind supplies not-so-helpfully. 

The realisation hits you harder than you expect, and you gasp quietly, still gripping his arm to reassure him. 

Bucky moves his hands to cover his face again, and his chest rises and falls with a sharp hitch. The nervous pants for air that part his lips bring you back down to earth and away from that revelation. You know he’s embarrassed; ducking his head to his chest and glancing up as though you had scolded him. The entirety of his toned body is rigid with fear, each muscle clenching and poised to run, to save what dignity he feels he has left after such a confession. 

It’s difficult not to stare at the veins that line and bulge from his forearms down to his deft hands,  and you almost feel guilty for it; he’s in distress, fretting over the reveal of his lack of sexual prowess, but you cannot help the lingering gaze over his body. He just looks so pretty. 

From the get go, ever since you had met the star football player, you have always fantasised about him. The silent crush on Bucky had developed into such a deep attraction you almost couldn’t bear it any longer. 

Having convinced yourself of the non-existent reciprocation kept your tongue at bay, in the past.  And while Bucky’s virginity is a surprise, it did not hinder or lessen your feelings for him, quite the opposite; the heady weight of it settling over your mind like a blanket. 

What was stopping you now? What would be the harm in testing the waters?

To hell with it, you decide. The springs of the mattress creak as you move to shuck the blanket off of your body, then your legs. 

Bucky audibly gulps behind his hands when you move closer, and he positively freezes, like a deer in headlights, as you lift your leg up and over his thighs to straddle him. The soft brush of his sweatpants over your legs sends a shiver up your spine, and you sit down, settling your body comfortably on his thighs, just above his knees. 

“What– What are you doing–?” Bucky whispers, and his words are muffled behind his palms. You grin, unseen by your quarry, and you shuffle up his thighs to his hips, your clothed cunt just below the seam at his crotch.  

The sound of Bucky choking on his own spit is comical. 

You pull his hands away from his face, the urge to kiss each palm overwhelming; feather-soft brushes of your lips against the soft skin sends the pulse in his throat racing. “Buttercup, please– This is embarrassing enough–”

“Bucky,” you whisper, cutting him off. “Look at me.”

Blue eyes meet yours, and you pour all of the unspoken words between you both in your soft gaze, willing him to feel the yearning. “Kiss me.” 

“But–” He hesitates, a fish out of water again. His mouth hangs slack from the shock of such a bold request, and you place your pointer finger over his lips, shushing him before he can carry on protesting. 

You pout, placing a hint of pleading in your tone, “Please?”

He looks at you as though you’ve grown two heads. “I– What, I mean,” he flounders, arms hovering at his sides, hesitant to touch you — terrified of taking it a step too far. “I don’t know–“

“Aw, Buck,” you coo, smiling softly. Carefully, you shuffle further up his lap until your knees brush against the headboard of his bed. Gently, you place your palms on Bucky’s toned chest, just above his beating heart hammering away — not wanting to frighten him. “I’ll show you, okay?”

“Yeah.” The tremble in his voice makes your heart ache, but you smile encouragingly.

“Here we go,” you soothe. He smiles weakly back, eyes still wide with shock. “I’ve got you.”

You slowly and steadily move closer to Bucky’s face. A shudder racks through his whole body when he feels your breath against his neck, and you peck his stubbled cheek before sitting back upright to face him.

“Okay,” Bucky shakily says, fisting the blankets in his hands. “Okay. That was okay.”

“See? It’s not so bad,” you tease, and you tilt your head to the side, sticking out your cheek. “Your turn.” From the corner of your eyes, you watch his eyes sweep across your face, still hesitant and nervous, but a slither of curiosity now shining through. 

Broad, strong shoulders lift in tandem with his deep, grounding breath, and he steadily leans in before he second guesses himself. He resolutely does not touch your body, but he manages to find the confidence to gently press his lips against your skin, kissing your cheek. 

This time, he sits back and looks up at you for direction and reassurance. 

You consider it, ignoring the fluttering of your heart. His touch was sweet, but polite; a kiss on the cheek that you would give a friend after such a long time apart. And, in the end, you want Bucky to gain more confidence and actually enjoy kissing — he shouldn’t have to be ashamed to want it. “Good, that was good,” you say, keeping your tone mellow so as to not spook him.

He is making good progress, and gentle encouragement is the way to ensure it continues, you reason with yourself. “Now, I want you to do the exact same thing, but start gradually moving towards my lips.”

“Oh– Okay, okay,” he breathes, and his eyes widen slightly before they dart down towards his lap. 

That needs to be rectified immediately, before he shuts down, you hastily think, and you react swifty, your hands roaming from his chest and up to the sides of his neck, adding a little pressure to bring him back down to earth. 

There was an innate need for him to know that he could trust you; that you would treat him with the respect he deserves. 

Gently, you lift his head up, forcing him to look at you, and the downturn of his lips makes your heart ache. All you want to do is soothe the fear and rid the worry from his pretty eyes that pierce you, even through the strands of hair that have fallen in his face. 

“You’re okay, Buck,” you soothe, rubbing your thumbs over his warm, rosy cheeks. The movement and assurance seem to do the trick. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

A minute passes, and you watch as the confliction flitters across his face; an inward battle to assemble his courage to bridge the gap between you both.

There is another minute of silence, when he slowly advances, leaving his palms flat on the covers of his bed as he kisses you on the cheek. 

“That’s it,” you praise, sitting still in his lap, but smiling softly in encouragement.

Bucky hesitantly returns the smile, and he doesn’t move away, rather, he decides to stay close. “You did good,” you say, still smiling, and he takes you by surprise when he moves forwards again to place another tiny kiss even closer to your lips. “Oh–”

The soft brush of his lips makes you freeze, and he takes his time, building his confidence with each peck he makes. 

Finally, he reaches the corner of your lips, and he stalls; confidence wavering and faltering with the daunting task. You go to part your lips to speak on instinct, to encourage him, when he suddenly moves even closer to your face, making you hastily shut your mouth and brace for what was to come; willing for your heart to slow down the tattoo it beats against your throat.  

“Okay,” Bucky whispers more to himself, and he clears his throat before licking his lips. “Okay, okay. Just–” His lips connect with the curve of you own, the brief and fleeting connection enough to tell you that his lips are plump; ripe to swell and redden with a passionate make out session. 

Hastily, Bucky withdraws, but not all the way back — he lingers and only allows the tiniest space between your faces.

“You did it, sweetheart,” you coo, keeping your voice low. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Th– Thanks,” he stutters, and the rosy blush he sported turns a splotchy crimson. Interesting, you think.  

You turn your head to look at him, and the proximity of his face makes both of your lips brush against each other. The intoxicating softness consumes you, and you cannot deny the reality that Bucky is there, he is right there. A torture that intensifies in the billowing silence, while a burning, reckless spike of adrenaline rushes through your veins.

“Do you want more?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence and shattering the tension. 

A harsh breath falls from Bucky’s lips, and he presses forward to kiss you properly for the first time. 

Whatever you had been expecting for a first kiss from the inexperienced, sweet, charming man beneath you, flew out the window. Your lips slot perfectly over his, a chaste kiss that held enough need and want to be something far more; it could not hold a candle to the sex you had with past flings.  

The kiss, unexpected as it was, lasts only for a couple seconds longer before Bucky pulls back from it, panting lightly — puffs of air fanning over your slightly parted lips. He lingers, bumping his nose into yours to keep close. 

But eventually, Bucky pulls all the way back to rest against the headboard. 

The silence is not deafening — not like it was before, and you open your eyes, blinking slowly. 

Bucky is already staring at you. His eyes are glazed over with hunger, and he's out of breath, the rise and fall of his chest faster than before. 

You fare no better. Your heart pounds heavily in your chest, but it still feels like it’s lodged in your throat. No words are spoken between the two of you; just an invisible string that keeps you entwined to one another. 

It’s difficult to find the words to say, especially after something so raw and vulnerable; so new and budding. You want him to feel safe, like he had done good, though; you want to tell him he has nothing to worry about, not with you. 

And just as you open your mouth to speak, to praise him for how well he had done, Bucky slides his hands up your thighs, over your waist, and up to your neck, cupping the back of it in his large palm. “I want–” 

To your utter shock, he drags you closer, his lips greedily slotting over yours for a far deeper kiss.  

Bucky can’t get enough of you; already addicted and demanding more. You can’t be mad for it, not when he’s a sensational kisser — he’s good, far too good. The basics have you dizzy with want, and you decide on a whim to challenge him, to push him a little further and test the boundaries. 

You part your lips as Bucky pulls back, and before he could kiss you again, you tentatively tease your tongue against his lips. The sensation makes him sit rigid again beneath you, and he chases your tongue, the surprised moan he lets slip vibrates into your mouth.

The power of such a move has you smirking into the kiss. 

You only plan to stoke the fire by pushing him into the deep end a little — the prospect of overwhelming him too risky, but when you feel the effortless slide of Bucky’s tongue entering your parted lips to dance with your own, it leaves you physically stunned and unable to move. 

Bucky compliments you perfectly, as though he is a natural, and someone so timid should not be capable of that — it’s dangerous. 

It escalates — tongues dance and lips clash, and Bucky’s breath is heavy on your lips, as yours is on his, when he pulls back for air. There’s a pull that you can’t ignore, not any longer, and you bring your hands up from his neck to his hair, threading your fingers through it, making him moan quietly against your lips, “Bu–”

Your nails scrape against his scalp while he speaks, and you squeak in shock as Bucky’s hips surge upwards, forcing his hard cock against your clothed cunt. “Oh, fuck–” he gasps, and his body turns rigid with fear again while he pleads for forgiveness. “I’m so sorry, so sorry, Bubs– I–”

Quickly, you place your index finger over his lips. “Hush, you. It’s alright. I loved it,” you reassure, and suddenly, it turns into a game for you — you are desperate to see how Bucky plays along, how close to the edge you can get him. “Let it go, it’s okay.”

Bucky’s breath hitches as you grind down hard against him, and his hands rush down from your neck to grip your waist. The unabashed moan he lets slip is sinful; a delight to be the cause of, and a Cheshire Cat grin splits your lips. You’ll be damned if you don’t get more from him, you decide.

“Fuck,” he grits out, the grip of his hands on your waist turning painful. “Fuck, yes.” 

You moan and allow him to move your body where he wants it — predictably, he perches you straight on his crotch and his hands wander, slipping beneath the tank top you wear to brush against your skin. 

The resolve he had held onto so strongly is starting to slip, and you inwardly scream with joy at the dilation of his pupils, the heavy pants of his breath — a poor, virtuous man is melting into a puddle at your feet. 

The position of your body gives you an impression of just how big Bucky is, and with his cock hard, you can feel the girth and the size of him against your cunt  — a crime, you think, that it wasn’t inside you.

Your motions of grinding down into him have the tip of his cock catching on your clit through your shorts, and the thin material has no pretence of protectiveness, and you greedily lap every single, last sensation up while shamelessly taking more.  

“Bucky,” you whine against his mouth, and in turn, he nips at your swollen bottom lip before sucking on it. “Fuck– S’good.”

“Buttercup, baby,” Bucky slurs, and his fingertips dig into your skin, unknowingly marking you in his lust-fuelled haze. “Fuckin’ feel good, please,” he whimpers, unable to keep kissing you with the way his moans and litany of quiet cries fall from his lips, longing for more; too far gone, he can’t help himself anymore. “Need more, please.”

You’re all too pleased to listen to his cries for you; begging would taste so much sweeter, though. Next time. “Okay,” you soothe, pecking him on the nose. “I’ll give you more, sweetheart.”

The bed creaks as you shuffle up Bucky’s lap, and you move your hands to grip the headboard. “Don’t keep quiet on me,” you warn. 

“Wha– Fuck!”

You pant as you grind down on Bucky’s cock, the effort of making your hips work this hard and fast steals your breath, but the sounds — oh, the sounds falling from his pretty lips make it all worth it. 

The added friction of your lace panties against your soaked clit only amplifies the pleasure for you, and it’s all you can do to keep going.

Bucky throws his head back and groans to the ceiling, but you follow him, leaning over and panting into each other's mouths and kissing messily, barely able to put anything behind them as you work the both of you closer to release. 

You pull back to look at him, and the slope of his neck is too tempting to leave alone — the  loose strands from his hair are sticking to the sweat gathering on his skin, and you watch a bead of it roll down a curve of corded muscle. 

Of course, you weren’t going to let it go — you want him to crack.

Bucky moans, his breath stuttering as your tongue chases the bead of sweat, and you latch onto his skin, sucking steadily at his pulse point. “Baby– Baby, please, fuck,” he babbles, forcing his head back further to expose more of his neck. 

You oblige, all too willingly and with a giddy enthusiasm; the bow of your lips trace over his Adam’s apple and down to his collarbone, where you bite down gently. 

“Shit, shit,” Bucky suddenly exclaims, his words slurring together. “No– No, please, I ca– Can’t,” he begs, and you pull away from his neck, brows furrowing in concern. “Please, I don’t want to– To, shit–”

Words seem to be out of his grasp, and you wait patiently for him to gather his thoughts while you watch the thread of his restraint wearing thin, so close to snapping when he’s this overwhelmed with the pleasure you are giving him. 

You can’t have that, though. 

Bucky was torturing himself, not allowing himself the pleasure of giving into his base desires - what he needs. “Can’t what, sweetheart?” you ask. “You can’t cum?”

Bucky nods his head frantically, his eyes widening. You consider him, the sweat on his brow and upper lip, the way his eyes plead for something more; he’s so desperate to not cum, to let go. 

It’s plain as day that he is holding himself back, when you knew deep down that he is itching to relinquish control and give in. 

You decide then to push, to throw caution to the wind and make him take it. “Why not?” you whine, grinding back and forth, back and forth, over his painfully hard cock. “Doesn’t my pussy feel good, baby?” 

Bucky whimpers and scrunches his face up, cock throbbing as he grows closer to finishing. You don’t think he realises how he rambles to himself, “Fuck, yes! It does—fuck, it does baby.” 

“Think for me, sweetheart,” you say, leaning close to his face. “Just think for me, how good being inside my pussy would be.” The lure of being inside your cunt cracks the last of his resolve; control slipping through his fingers before he can grasp hold of it.  

You smirk, watching how his brows furrow and his eyes squeeze shut. “Just think, Bucky,” you repeat, “How wet and tight I’d be for you. How I would scream for more; beg for more of your cock and what you give me.” 

The sound Bucky makes is close to a wounded animal, and his grip on your waist is sure to leave bruises. “Oh, sweetheart,” you coo, mouthing softly up his neck until your lips brush over the shell of his ear, and you whisper, “Doesn’t that sound good, baby?”

Something snaps within him. 

The headboard of the bed thumps against the wall as Bucky tumbles over the cliff, his restraint long gone, and he wraps his arms tightly around you, curling them around your waist to hold you impossibly close. You feel something wet on your neck, and you realise belatedly that Bucky is crying silently, overwhelmed with the pleasure. 

To reassure him, you thread your fingers through his hair again to scratch at his scalp. You feel his lips move up and down your neck, placing open mouthed kisses over the skin “Are you okay?” you ask softly, careful to not move in his hold. “Bucky, baby?”

“Mhm,” Bucky hums, and he buries his face further into your neck, nodding frantically. “Pleasepleaseplease.”

A victorious smirk pulls the corner of your lips up. You know you have him — Bucky’s too far gone to come back down now, and he won’t be able to stop. 

“Go on,” you purr. Bucky hungrily grinds up into your heat, seeking it out and forcing a gasp from your lips with the pressure. “That’s it,” you push, and your last deadly blow has the dam breaking, once and for all: “Cum for me then, pretty boy.”

“Oh, oh, fuck– Baby–” Bucky moaned, but you keep steady pressure over his cock, and his hips start to stutter in rhythm. “Shit!” 

“That’s it, that’s it, sweetheart,” you coax, just as a damp patch stains the crotch of his sweats, and his legs tremble under your thighs. There’s a loud thump as his head hits the headboard of his bed. 

“Fuck–” Your own climax begins to mount, the tension of it unbearable, and just the band snaps, you cry out to the ceiling, “Bucky!”

The room is full of pants for air, the synchronised rise and fall of your chests in tandem with the twitching muscles of your body; the rushed gasps for breath a symphony to your ears.

“Holy shit,” you murmur, and you finally look at Bucky — only to be taken aback with the awestruck expression on his handsome face. His lips are stretched wide in a dopey grin, and his eyes, while normally so bright and soft, are glazed over with post-orgasm bliss. 

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he whispers. You feel the brush of his fingers over your waist and thighs, a soothing touch that in combination with his words sends another wave of heat up your neck. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

You smile nervously, suddenly speechless with the earnestness and fondness in his voice. Instead, you shuffle down his thighs to rest your arms on his shoulders more comfortably, and you play with the hair on the nape of his neck — the soft locks damp with sweat. 

The two of you stare into one another’s eyes, then, you rest your forehead on his to whisper, “Well, handsome, not so bad for your first kiss.”

Bucky starts to laugh, then giggles take over as he faceplants into your chest, nuzzling himself against your tits in shyness. 

After a while, Bucky starts to shift in place, and you start to rise up off of his lap, when his sudden stiffness alarms you. “Bucky? What’s the matter?”

“I— I don’t, I didn’t mean to—“ He stutters, looking down at his crotch. You follow his gaze, utterly confused — there is nothing abnormal, only the wet patch of cum staining the material. 

Your confusion only increases, and you look back to Bucky’s face. It’s blotchy and red from embarrassment. “Bucky?”

“I– Oh, goddamnit,” he mutters, and he looks down at his lap again pointedly.

The realisation washes over you; a lightbulb suddenly going off in your head. He was embarrassed over coming in his pants. “Bucky, sweetheart,” you say, moving to cup his cheeks and force him to look at you. “Listen to me, okay?”

Blue eyes meet yours, his gaze pensive. You muster the warmest, kindest smile; no judgement apparent in your own eyes as you stare at him. “There is no need to feel ashamed.”

“But–” Bucky tries. 

“No, listen to me,” you interrupt, and you lean in closer, bumping his nose with yours before reassuring him, “There's no need to feel ashamed, sweetheart.”

His pure, innocent gaze doesn’t fail to make you swoon even more over him. “It doesn’t?”

“Of course not, you know why?” Bucky shakes his head, eyes wide and intent to listen to anything you have to say. Your lips hover over his as you whisper, “Because I love you making a mess for me, baby.”

The weekend passes by swiftly, a tangle of bedsheets and limbs; kisses and fleeting touches that turn into passionate embraces. 

It was only when Steve came home on the Saturday night did he kick both you and Bucky out of the apartment with a yell of, “Bye! Have fun, kids!”

You decided to take Bucky back to your dorm-room — an easy decision when you get to watch how his eyes trail over your body as you walk down the halls holding hands. 

And on Sunday morning, bright and early, a series of knocks on your dorm-room door wakes you out of your slumber. “Damn,” you grumble, blinking slowly into the dimly lit room. The curtains are drawn, but a slither of gold peeks from behind the fabric; right over Bucky’s face and the mess of his hair. 

You sigh and tiredly throw the covers off you, mentally preparing yourself to get out of bed, but before you can get up, two arms curl around your waist and tug you backwards into a muscled chest. The warmth of the embrace makes you sigh contentedly.

“No,” Bucky groans before burying his face into your neck and smothering you with his body; trapping you with his arms and winding his legs around yours. “Dun’ get up.” 

You giggle as he starts kissing your shoulders and nibbling at your neck — the stubble of his jaw tickling the soft skin while his lips soothed over it. “I have to,” you say quietly, and you grab his arm to pull it off, only– 

“Nuh-uh. Where y’think you're goin’, Buttercup?” The deep rumble of his morning voice has you inner self trembling, memorising your antics of your weekend together. “Can’t leave me.” And to solidify his claim, Bucky clings onto you like a koala. 

“Bucky, you big goof.” You slap his arm, but he just grunts his protest, clinging to your body tighter. “Come on,” you say, wriggling — it’s met with no success of him releasing you. “Get off of me so I can answer the door.”

But you should have known that he is far too stubborn to let up that easily — a stubborn puppy that refused to give up his treat. “No. Tell ‘em to fuck off.”

“Fine.” Your only hope is an attempt to bribe him, you decide, and you look at him to find he’s staring at you through a half-lidded eye, the other eye obscured by his pillow. “How about you let me go, and I promise to give you unlimited cuddles for the rest of the day, no moving whatsoever?” 

That gets his attention, and he perks his head up to lean closer to yours. “I wan’ unlimited kisses, too,” he negotiates, pouting his lips and narrowing his eyes. 

You cannot help but chuckle. “Deal, handsome.”

Bucky plonks backwards onto the bed, star fishing in his sulking — the treat now successfully taken away. 

With your newfound freedom, you sit up and stretch, ignoring the grumbles and quiet whines of, “Bein’ left alone ain’t right,” and, “Tell whoever it is to fuck off, I mean it.”

The bedsheets rustle under you when you scoot to the edge, the warmth of Bucky’s body and the softness of the covers already sorely missed, especially when you stand up and slip into your fluffy, warm gown and slippers. The brush of Bucky’s shirt over your skin makes you smile, the fabric soft and worn but oh so perfectly Bucky. 

“Hurry back, Buttercup,” he calls after you as you walk slowly out of the room. “Please—don’ leave me too long.”

“Drama queen,” you whisper, quiet enough he wouldn’t hear. The knocking comes again and you curse the cause — if it’s your friend from class asking to borrow your notes again, you were going to slam the door straight back in their face. Aloud, you say, “I’m coming, I’m coming. Don’t bust the hinges.”

You prepare the speech to scold your friend as you walk to the door, and you grab the hand;e — the metal of it cold from the chill overnight. The door swings open with a loud creak, and you start saying, “What are you–”

The lack of a presence, or anyone at the door, stops you short — not even a shadow of someone running away down the hall.  “Fucking door dashers,” you groan, and you turn on your heel to go back inside when the toe of your slipper bumps into something on the ground. “What–?”

A gift basket, filled to the brim with an assortment of chocolates and scattered gift cards to your favourite stores, is innocuously sitting there. In the middle of the basket, poking its head out next to a bouquet of your favourite flowers, is the head of a stuffie Golden Retriever, the fur irresistibly soft and the eyes bright — much like Bucky’s. Its mouth held a note scrawled in messy cursive. 

“Okay,” you mumble, and you kneel down to look at it closer, worried that there had been a mix up or confusion of a dorm number. As you near the letter, you realise that the messy scrawl spells out Flower. “Wait.” 

That meant only one person was responsible. 

Your fingers tore open the letter and unfold it; the messy scrawl continues on the inside, too.  

Flower, I’m sorry for bailing on our movie night. 

I know you’re pissed, but I hope this and the beefcake attached to your back makes up for my mistake. 

Love ya squirt, 

Your big bro.

“Stevie,” you say, eyes darting over the lines of script. “You sneaky bastard.” There is a post script just below his sign off, and you continue to read.

P.S. Date went well, tell you all about it on movie night next week? I’m sure we’ll have guests joining us x 

Shaking your head in amusement, you place the note back with the stuffie, and pick up the rest of your basket. “What am I going to do with you,” you mumble, stepping back into your dorm to place the basket on the entry table to admire it again. 

“Wha’s happenin’?” a voice rasps behind you, and sure enough, the aforementioned beefcake in the letter from Steve plasters himself to your back; arms around your waist and his face tucked into your neck again. “Back to bed, c’mon.”

Bucky drags you backwards, chuckling deeply at your squeal of laughter that echoes down the hallway to your bedroom. “You made me a promise,” he grunts, and he pulls you back into bed and underneath the covers, intent on making sure you fulfil your end of the bargain. 

Part Two, Part Three

[luveline]

i NEED anything with glasses reid or munch reid i’m literally frothing at the mouth 🙏

ty for ur request :D fem!reader

"Emily," you say weakly. "What is that?" 

Emily looks up from her desk, clearly desperate for a distraction, the lip of her coffee mug against painted lips. "What's what?" 

"That." You point. You feel sick to your stomach. "That right there." 

"Oh," Emily says happily. "You finally noticed. Yeah, Spence forgot to renew his contact prescription. He has to wear glasses for two weeks." 

Spencer stands by the photocopier with a perturbed frown, clicking a button, then another. His brow is furrowed and his hair is falling into his eyes. He has the stupidest, dorkiest, prettiest face, and practically every expression he makes has you weak in the knees.

"That long?" you ask. 

Derek looks up in concern at your pained tone, following the line of your eyes. When he realises what it is that's hurt you so, he skirts around the desk to shake your shoulder. "You could always tell him how you feel. I'm sure he'd keep the lenses forever if he knew you liked them." 

"I don't like them," you say. You sound faraway to your own ears. You hate them. They're gonna be your demise. 

Spencer runs a fingertip across the photocopier's screen, in his own world as the machine finally begins to chug out whatever it is he'd been wanting a duplicate of. The frames of his glasses sit snug on his nose. You can tell from even this distance that the lenses make his eyes look a tiny bit smaller. You could probably point out a misplaced freckle if he asked you to.

"Don't be cruel, he looks cute," Emily teases. 

Spencer collects his papers, shuffling them into a straight line as he makes his way back to the bullpen. You pretend to take interest in Emily's things. She sips her coffee too nonchalantly. Derek doesn't even bother pretending. 

"What?" Spencer asks, swift to spot your suspicious behaviours. "Is it the glasses?" 

You wince. "Of course not. You look… you look really nice, Spence." 

"You know he used to wear 'em every day?" Derek asks.

You would've died. "Before I joined?" 

"For a few years," Spencer says, looking you over. "You're unhappy. Is something wrong?" 

He looks to Derek and Emily for confirmation. Emily stutters for an answer while Derek laughs in the background, "She– you know. She just– She missed breakfast!" 

Spencer pushes his glasses up his nose by the leg and drops his copies onto the desk. "I have dried apricot in my bag. Two seconds." 

He bends over his chair to retrieve his bag from under the desk. Your eyes blow wide at his position, the sudden demonstration of well-fitted pants. Derek's laugh echoes up to the eaves. 

"And he has that twenty four seven," Emily says against the rim of her coffee. 

You scrunch your eyes closed and tilt your head back. After a few seconds, a hand touches your elbow gently, a hesitance that comes with only one member of the BAU. "You okay?" Spencer asks. 

"I'm okay. Headache," you lie. 

Spencer presses the apricot into your hands. "Maybe you should see an optician. You know they can tell if you have a brain tumour from one photo of your sclera?" He smiles morbidly, his glasses slipping down his nose. "They measure the size of your optic disk. It takes less than a minute. I can give you the name of my doctor, if you want. She's nice. Not as nice as you." 

Your throat is so dry you can't form words to answer him. He doesn't judge your rigid nodding. 

"I'll write down the number for you. And, Y/N?" 

"Yeah?" you choke out. 

"You look really nice today, too." 

Emily has to kick you in the leg to bring you back to earth. Stupid Spencer. Stupid lovely glasses. 

[no-144444]

slip up- o.piastri (no.81)

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summary: oscar slips up about your marriage.

pairing: oscar piastri (no.81) x fem! driver! reader

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“How was your summer break Oscar?” Jack Doohan asked. 

“Yeah, it was good. Visited my wife’s family in Ireland for two weeks. It was beautiful,” he smiled, remembering the happy memories. 

Jack smirked, knowing what he’d just said and didn’t realise. “Feeling ready and rested for today? Ready to beat Verstappen?”

He chuckled. “We’ll see, I guess.”

----------

“So Y/n, how was your summer break?” Will Buxton asked, a smirk on his lips. 

“Yeah all good Osc and I went back to visit family, it was a great holiday. We spent some time in Dublin, in Galway, in Tipperary, in Kerry, yeah. It was gorgeous. We finally got some good weather for once,” you smiled. 

“Do anything special?” He asked, an eyebrow raised. 

“We actually showed his family all around Ireland, and our extended families met for like, the first time which was cool,” you shrugged. “Yeah, Nicole is an avid hiker so we went up Carrauntoohil, which if you don’t know is the tallest mountain in Ireland. Hattie was not a fan,” you chuckled. “Yeah, but it was great, we had a bunch of fun.” 

“Well, that sounds like a lovely break. How are you feeling about today? Worried about the weather and wind?” He asked. 

“No, not really. Obviously Zandvoort is always a very unpredictable circuit in terms of weather, but I kind of grew up with this being the standard for almost every karting race, or just training session. If I’m not used to it by now, I’d feel a bit foolish,” you chuckled. 

“And Oscar, your husband, how do you think he’s feeling?” Will asked, a smirk on his face, knowing that Oscar exposed you two. 

You raised an eyebrow. “My boyfriend,” you corrected. “Is probably fine. He has the fastest car on the grid, and a bunch of talent. I’m not worried.”

“Do you think the McLaren’s will beat you?”

“I’m a realist Will, and I’m not stupid. Obviously they’ll beat us, are you mental?”

“Ok,”  he chuckled. “Thank you for your time.”

“Bye!” you smiled, walking away. 

----------

Nicole called you as you stepped into the McLaren motorhome.  

“Hey Nicole,” you smiled. “How are you?”

“I’d be better if my son wasn’t stupid,” she deadpanned. 

You chuckled. “How is he stupid?” 

“Are you with anyone now?”

“No, just in the McLaren motorhome trying to find your stupid son,” you shrugged. “What’s up?”

“He said you were his wife in an interview,” she sighed and you face-palmed. “Yeah.”

“Fuck’s sake,” you sighed, picking up the pace to try and find him quicker. You went to his driver’s room, the canteen, even Zak Brown’s office as you chatted to Nicole, then ultimately hung up to try and call Oscar. 

He picked up after two rings. “Hey baby, everything alright? I’m looking for you right now and I can’t find you?”

“I’m in the McLaren motorhome,” you told him. “Did you tell someone that we were married?”

“Ummm… I don’t think so? I’m pretty sure I’ve been keeping it under wraps pretty tightly,” he chuckled. “Why?”

“Your mum just called me and told me you said I was your ‘wife’ in an interview, so… yeah,” you explained. 

“Shit,” he whispered. “I’m sorry love, I didn’t mean to- it was a complete accident, I swear-”

“Osc, I’m not mad. To be honest I thought you would’ve been worse, I thought you would’ve accidentally posted the wedding photos or something,” you chuckled. “We should honestly just tell people. Anyways, come meet me, I want to see you.”

“I love you,” he was smiling, you could tell, happy you two didn’t have to hide it anymore. It had been both your ideas to hide the wedding, just to keep it quiet for a while. You asked all the drivers (all of them came), and anyone else within the F1 sphere to not post about anything to do with Ireland. You even went as far as to shut down an entire Terminal in the Dublin Airport to get people in and out inconspicuously. You just wanted your wedding to be yours, no one else's. 

It was gorgeous though, getting married in a manor house on the coast of Galway with all of your closest family and friends was definitely one of the best days of your life. Your ‘honeymoon’ had consisted of showing both your extended families around Ireland, and spending nights watching films and reading books with Oscar by your side. It was relaxing, but not exactly what a honeymoon should be, so you two had a month-long trip to the Maldives planned for the winter. 

Oscar wrapped his arms around you from behind and kissed your neck as he hummed a greeting. 

“Well hello to you too,” you chuckled. 

“I have such a gorgeous wife,” he smiled. 

“I have such a gorgeous husband,” you smiled back. You turned around to him and kissed him quickly as a greeting, then you grabbed his hand and led him further into the motorhome. You two walked to his driver’s room, and you sat on the bed as Oscar pulled out his phone. You all sent texts out to various family and drivers, giving them permission to post pictures of your wedding, then shared your own.

"It's out," he turned to you.

You nodded, biting your lip to stop your smile. "It's out."

He smiled bashfully. :you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"Ditto," you chuckled and he laughed.

"Ditto?" he gawked. "Baby-"

"I'm kidding," you cupped his cheeks. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me too. I couldn't imagine my life without you, I love you ."

He blushed and leant in, pressing your lips together. "Now..." he smirked. "We can put our rings back on."

You smiled as you both pulled the necklaces that held you rings on them out from around your necks. You had Oscar's, and Oscar had yours. You took it off the chain and pushed it onto his finger, smiling as he did the same to you. Just like your wedding day.

"I'm so glad I married you," you smiled.

"I'm so glad you married me too."

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comments

user5: WTAF

user569: i missed like 13000 chapters, they got married?????

user46: YAY Y/NOSCAR

user72: they're married????

y/npiastri: lando will cry, change the caption :(

-> alexalbon: ok MOM.

-> landonorris: I'm a grown man Y/n

-> y/npiastri: funny, because you don't act like it when you ask me to make you grilled cheese????

-> user37: she ate him up

-> user28: THE USERNAME CHANGE????!!!!!

user72: hey so this is insane.

kikagomez: I'm so normal about them (i cried 13 different times).

-> alexandrast.mleux: same (i didn't stop crying)

lilymhe: my OTP

-> alexalbon: I'll go fuck myself I guess???

-> oscarpiastri: off you go!

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comments

user27: THE DRESS HELLO

user21: she really is the prettiest person on planet earth isn't she?

-> oscarpiastri: Yup :)

-> user21: HOLY SHIT THEY'RE SO CUTE.

nicolepiastri: ❤️❤️❤️❤️

addiepiastri: ❤️❤️❤️

maepiastri: ❤️❤️❤️

chrispiastri: ❤️❤️❤️

user80: the whole piastri family in the comments :)))))

landonorris: she slayed.

-> pierregasly: real.

-> maxverstappen: real.

-> arthurleclerc: real.

-> zhouguanyu: real

-> lancestroll: real.

-> dannielriccardo: real.

->valterribottas: real.

-> lewishamilton: real.

-> nicohulkenberg: real.

-> kmag: real.

-> oscarpiastri: real.

-> georgerusell: real.

->alexalbon: real

-> logansargeant: real.

-> kimiantonelli: real.

->olliebearman: real.

->liamlawson: real.

-> estebanocon: real.

-> yukitsunoda: real.

->checoperez: real

->paularon: real

-> alexdunne: REAL.

-> fernandoalonso: real.

-> charlesleclerc: real.

->carlossainz: real.

-> mickschumacher: real.

-> sebastianvettel: real.

->markwebber: real.

->jensonbutton: real.

->y/npiastri: THANKS GUYS :))))

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comments

logansargeant: diabolical caption

-> landonorris: THANK YOU

-> logansargeant: no ones talking about the bouquet we picked out mate, that's why.

-> landonorris: DOUBLE HOW DARE YOU

y/npiastri: Love you Alex ❤️

oscarpiastri: Thanks Albono

georgerussell: ❤️

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y/npiastri: my love :) ->oscarpiastri: MY love :) -> landonorris: possessiveness kink much? -> y/npiastri: GET OFF YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW.

zakbrownceo: Adorable -> landonorris: why is bro acting like he was invited 🤣🤣🤣 -> zakbrownceo: why is bro acting like i'll just give him a seat next year 🤣🤣🤣🤣 -> landonorris: 😐

lewishamilton: pretty flowers, wonder who picked them??? -> logansargeant: ME! ->alexalbon: ME! -> landonorris: ME! -> fernandoalonso: ME! -> valtteribottas: ME! -> charlesleclerc: ME! -> georgerussell: ME! -> zhouguanyu: ME! -> lancestroll: ME! -> danielriccardo: ME! -> hattiepiastri: ME! -> addiepiastri: ME! -> maepiastri: ME! -> nicolepiastri: ME! ->kmag: ME! -> nicohulkenberg: ME! ->estebanocon: ME! -> pierregasly: ME! -> yukitsunonda: ME! ----------

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

what friends do | f. odair

masterlist

summary: you were a simple town girl. finnick odair was the crown jewel of panem. both of you needed an escape and found it at a secluded beach just outside district four. these were three ingredients that created a year-long friendship. but were friends supposed to have… impure thoughts about one another? you weren’t so sure.

pairing: finnick odair x fem!reader

warnings: smut, wayyy too much detail, dirty thoughts, friends-to-lovers, mild angst, mostly readers pov, pre-rebellion, HEAVY dirty talk, fingering, unprotected p in v (big no no), multiple orgasms, so much pining, creampie, cock-warming

notes: i’m so sorry this took me so long. life has been up my ass lately and, as y’all know, i’m a slow writer. but thank you sm to everyone who patiently stuck around, i love y’all <3 this was supposed to be a short smut fic but um, apparently not. anyway, this has taken long enough to come out so imma stop rambling. ENJOY <3

word count: 11.7k

Mid-Autumn was closely approaching District Four.

Harvest in the fishing industry was at its peak and the docks were chock-full with boats bringing in their plentiful catches. The town centre was a bustling scene, crowded with people selling produce and trading for food to bring home to their family's kitchen table.

Last year's autumn harvest was the same picture—overflow, hustle, commotion; chaos like this was something you never came to enjoy. So, it was also around this time last year that you had decided to set off in search of the perfect location away from the rest of society. A place where you could be at peace, where you could forget the disastrous world you lived in.

District Four was home to many popular beaches, but the one you discovered was uninhabited, isolated, found after an hour-or-so-long trek through overgrown dirt pathways and a thicket of sea-grape and palm trees. A true paradise away from society. Or so you had thought in the first few weeks.

You weren't too sure when he had started showing up or how he had even discovered the beach.

However, one evening, as you were seated in the sand watching the sunset on the darkening horizon, you noticed a dark figure diving and surfacing in the flat, glimmering water. Their movements were so poised and fluid like the ocean was something they had conquered. You guessed it to be a dolphin or shark because there was no way a human being could move so gracefully.

But then the figure started wading to shore, and the next thing you knew, they were standing on two legs and exiting the water. You knew then that you had guessed wrong. The sun behind him obscured the bronze of his hair and the swirling lukewarm sea that pooled around his pupils. All you could see was the outline of his tall broad figure as he hiked through the sand toward you.

Fear had told you to bolt from the approaching stranger. You were in the middle of nowhere—it was the perfect place to be murdered or kidnapped. But something else, some deep and tangible instinct, also told you to stay.

"Didn't realise I had a captive audience," thestranger spoke, droplets of gleaming water sliding off his body and into the sand as he stood a few feet away.

Taken by surprise, you fumbled over your words trying to form a sentence in response. "I wasn't—I didn't—"

"Easy, honey," he chuckled. The sound was so warm and pleasant that it almost alleviated the slight chill in the air. "Just pulling your leg."

Your mouth formed a small circle. "Right," you said, gaze locked on the golden sand in embarrassment. "I, uh, didn't think anyone else knew about this place."

To be honest, you were pretty sure it was a restricted area. Probably the reason it was so isolated. If a Capitol official found you, the consequences would most likely involve your tongue, a scalpel, and a hell of a lot of pain. All for a wanting a little peace and quiet.

"Neither did I," the man said. "I only come every now and then. Need an escape from the constant buzz back home. Time for myself, you know?"

"Yeah." You smiled, feeling the stranger's words resonate in your soul. "Yeah, I do know."

You thought you saw the corners of his lips curve into a smile, but the shadows on his face were so prominent that you couldn't tell.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked.

Well... if he were going to murder you, he would have done it already. So, you nodded. Sometimes you questioned your survival instincts. Or lack thereof.

He didn't leave much space as he sat beside you. Only an inch or two, meaning you could feel the humidity of body heat and salt water emit from his skin. Even sitting down, he was still quite tall compared to you, but that wasn't what caused your heart to drop into your stomach.

The setting sun, which no longer disguised his face with shadows, now illuminated his entire figure and revealed his identity. His hair was a mess of wet wavy strands, the colour alight like a pale fire beneath the sun's orange radiance. His skin was sun-kissed, no doubt from days he had spent perfecting his swimming abilities. And those dimples... wow.

He was gorgeous. A man sculpted by the gods of beauty, just like everyone in Panem had depicted him to be. Even his sea-green eyes were as striking as everyone said.

Finnick Odair.

The man who was crowned victor of the sixty-fifth Hunger Games at fourteen. Who trapped multiple tributes at once in a net and killed them one by one with his famed trident. A killer.

The man whose reputation in the Capitol was known nationwide. A proud womanizer.

That was what everyone made him out to be.

Only, in the brief interaction you shared with him, he seemed like quite the opposite. He radiated effortless charm and warmth, but not in the arrogant way the media had portrayed him. Then again, did the media ever accurately portray the truth of anything?

It was then that you determined it didn't really matter who people said he was or what he had done. He was a human being—just like you. He deserved a chance.

His pink lips stretched into a knee-weakening smile; you were grateful that you were sitting down.

"I'm Finnick, by the way."

The both of you knew he didn't need to introduce himself. The whole of Panem knew his name and face. Though the fact that he humbly did so anyway made you like him the tiniest bit more.

You returned his smile with one of your own and introduced yourself.

Time passed and the sun had set; the moon had risen, but you both remained sitting side-by-side in the sand. Conversation flowed so naturally between the two of you that it was difficult for you to remember that stopping and getting some air into your lungs was an important factor in keeping a conversation going... as well as keeping you alive.

You told him about yourself as he did himself—some things that were meant to remain secrets, some things that seemed too strange to tell anyone else.

At some point, he had offered to walk you back to your house. The trek was over an hour long but neither of you seemed to care. The time flew by. 

When you were standing at your front door and he was gazing up at you from the bottom of the steps, you both promised to meet again the next day. And you did. 

As you did the day after that... and the day after that... and the day after that...

**********

As soon as the nights carried that familiar chill and the town congested with markets and fervent buyers, you knew mid-autumn had made its return. This meant most of your evenings were spent at a certain secret beach with a certain District Four victor.

Having already finished his pre-sunset swim, Finnick was sitting beside you, fingers weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath you. A couple of weeks after you had first met, he had shown up one day holding it all rolled up in hand.

"Made this for you to sit on," he had said with a proud smile. "Took nearly all night and earned me a few good finger cramps, but I think it was worth it."

Pinpointing the exact moment your attraction to him first formed was tricky. However, that gesture was one your mind returned to often. That little palm-leaf mat, the time and effort he put into making it, was scored on your heart.

Finnick was very much a gentleman.

He would always offer you a hand when standing up and whenever you walked back through the overgrown seaside forest. Sometimes he picked fruits for you such as sea grapes and mangos or would climb one of the palms and knock down a few coconuts. One thing he always, always did wasmake sure you got home safe; he never let you out of his sight until you were safe inside your front door.

All those gestures, big and small, added up. Soon enough, Finnick Odair had infiltrated your heart and consumed all your thoughts. You saw his sea-green eyes staring back at you whenever you gazed out at the ocean by your house. Felt the ghost of his hands on yours whenever you picked a grape from the kitchen fruit bowl. Heard his voice calling out your name in your most vivid of dreams.

But there was more to it than innocent adoration.

The guilt came when your gaze started lingering on his body a little too long whenever he left the water at the beach. Shimmering droplets would glide down his beautifully tanned skin; his arm muscles would flex as his fingers raked back his dripping wet hair. It wasn't yourfault he was the walking definition of perfection.

Unholy was the closest word to describe the filthy thoughts that had perverted your imagination. What started as endearing daydreams soon became fantasies that had you seeking relief between your thighs late at night. Your thoughts went wild whenever he dropped you off at your house. It took everything in you not to invite him inside and ask him to fuck you senseless against the front door.

All you had to do was ask. You knew he would say yes.

A year is a long time to know someone. A long time for feelings to grow. It also serves as a lot of time for things to happen between two people—things that linger in your mind even months after they have happened.

Like the times he would walk by you and teasingly whisper something provocative in your ear, then disappear for an hour of swimming, leaving you all hot and flustered in the sand. Neither of you would acknowledge it when he returned. Or when conversations took such a flirtatious turn, the tension only dissipated when houses were separating you at the end of the night.

But that's just what friends do, right? They tease and banter?

Maybe.

However, not all things could be chalked up to being just friends.

Another thing about Finnick's eyes was that they were transparent. You saw how helplessly they clung to you the days you stripped to your underwear and joined him in the water. He had this sort of reaction that turned his eyes into a dark violent sea, like you were some divine temptation planted to test the strength of his resolve.

Sometimes he could resist. Other days it was obvious he couldn't help but reach out and touch.

He would try to be subtle about it. Hands holding yours a little longer than necessary when he helped you stand up. Sitting too closely beside you so that your arms and legs would graze against each other. Brushing off pieces of seaweed that would stick to the dip of your waist and then constantly using the same excuse just to feel the heat of your soft skin.

There was one interaction, though, that you fell asleep to the thought of every night. It was a moment when things almost went too far; an interaction friends definitely did not share.

You could remember it clear a day. Hell, you could still feel it clear as day.

It was a hot summer evening. Both you and Finnick were at the beach and swimming in the water since being in the muggy coastal heat for more than five minutes was parallel to roasting in a thousand-degree sauna.

You were about twenty meters offshore, bobbing beside Finnick as he dived to collect various seashells. That boy could hold his breath for an unbelievable amount of time which meant sometimes you spent minutes alone on the surface, waiting, listening to the calm waves lap eerily around you.

This is exactly how people die in shark movies, said an unwarranted voice in your mind.

As usual, a minute went by. Nothing to worry about. Then a minute turned into two and you were starting to become a little concerned. And then it was two and a half minutes and you were now panicking.

"Finnick?!" you called out, hoping he could somehow hear you from the dark depths.

Three minutes had totalled, and you were pretty certain he had drowned. Just to add to the utter dread coursing through your veins, something slimy brushed against your foot. Most likely a piece of seaweed, but you didn't make that connection at the time.

That very same moment, Finnick burst through the water's surface, only mildly breathless and pinching a small iridescent shell between his fingers.

"Look at thi—"

Before the words could leave his mouth, he found himself enveloped in your distraught embrace. Your face was buried in the crook of his neck, crying tears of relief. 

Damn that stupid seashell.

He automatically secured you in his arms, concern palpable in his voice as he asked, "Are you okay?"

You pulled away, an indistinguishable combination of tears and saltwater rolling down your cheeks. Though it was hard to miss the look of distress found in your furrowed brows and trembling lips.

"Don't ever do that to me again!" you exclaimed, gripping his arms to emphasise your urgency. "You hear me?! Ever!"

Finnick's head tilted slightly, surprised by your emotional reaction. He hadn't realised he meant so much to you. The surprise faded into remorse, softening his features.

"I won't. I won't, I promise," he said sincerely. His eyes flickered over the worry lines etched on your forehead. He unconsciously brushed his thumb over the lines, hoping to draw out the anxiety with his touch, and then tucked away a strand of hair. "I'm sorry I scared you."

You took in a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to compose yourself. A mess of emotions stirred inside you—worry, embarrassment, irritation. You were partially frustrated with Finnick for making you fear for his life. Mostly annoyed with yourself for showing such vulnerability in front of him.

"God, you're an idiot sometimes," you sighed, shaking your head.

He smirked. "Didn't think you cared so much about me."

"No, you just don't think, Finn."

He glanced off into the distance for a moment with furrowed brows. "Well, that's definitely not true," he countered, meeting your gaze again with a half-smirk. "I think about a lot of things, actually."

"Oh? Like what?" you asked, slightly annoyed. "Do tell me what the great Finnick Odair thinks about instead of his own safety."

Slowly, the smirk faded from his lips. Something new tinged the atmosphere and suddenly everything around you seemed hotter than it previously was. Not an uncomfortable or sweltering heat, but one that held an intensity that sparked the air with electricity.

You suddenly became very aware that Finnick was still holding you in his arms. You recognised the confined proximity between you and him and realised that, before this moment, your bodies had never been so close.

Your legs were curled around his hips, pelvis pressed firmly against his. The position of his hands, which were keeping you afloat, was bordering on inappropriate but would only be deemed as such if you cared. Which you didn't. You liked it—having his hands on you.

One thing you couldn't ignore was the flickering of his gaze. How his eyes kept dropping to your lips. How they blatantly revealed a long-awaited confession that words just couldn't capture. Still, you wanted to hear him say it. You wanted to hear the purr in his voice as he told you.

Then he was leaning in. You weren't sure whether it was on purpose or if the pure magnetism of the tension between you was drawing him closer. Regardless, you started to lean in closer too, eyes drooping as you focused on his mouth.

And before the short distance between your lips and his became immeasurable, you whispered, "Tell me, Finn."

The hands keeping you afloat trailed up and down your back restlessly as Finnick forced a tense exhale through his nose. He seemed to be wrestling with thoughts. You waited in anticipation, and right when it seemed like he was going to make a move—

"I think..."

—you were interrupted. By no less than a pod of dolphins as they leapt from the water, causing you and Finnick to jolt from each other's embrace.

The rest of that evening was not worth mentioning. Not because you had forgotten what happened, but because the sheer awkwardness between you and Finnick afterwards was so torturous that you wanted to keep the memory squashed in the recesses of your mind. Neither of you acknowledged what happened. Finnick still walked you home, but it was done so in agonising silence.

Surprisingly, you both returned to the beach the next day. You hadn't expected him to be his usual upbeat self, but he was. So, in turn, you too acted like the previous day was erased from history. But your friendship with him was never the same.

Flirty conversations no longer felt like a joke; they now had a deeper meaning. Fleeting touches caused full-body goosebumps that didn't happen before. There was so much unresolved tension, and it was painfully thick. Inescapable.

So, as Finnick sat beside you present-day, weaving dried palm leaves into the mat beneath your bodies, you couldn't help but notice the transparency of your body language and his. The gap between you both was comparable to the size of a pearl and even though neither of you acknowledged it, you kept catching each other stealing quick glances every half-minute or so.

When you were sure he wasn't looking, you found your gaze drawn to his fingers. They were sturdy, yet nimble; curling and manoeuvring in ways that had your face feeling hotter than the heat of any sunburn or warm summer's day. This heat was beneath your skin. Spreading through your limbs in little tendrils and wrapping around your nerves. A dip in the salty sea wouldn't cool you down nor would a gulp of cold fresh water.

As you stared at his hands, you knew only the source of the sensation could offer reprieve. But that wouldn't happen, so there you burned.

The fact that he was shirtless and that his hair was a gorgeous mess of damp bronze curls helped not one bit with taming the consuming desire inside you. God, you were a mess yourself.

You sighed.

The sun, glowing intensely with a divine orange, was beginning its descent on the horizon. Your feet were buried beneath the soft sand, trying to retain some warmth as a slight breeze blew against your exposed skin.

Wearing a short sundress probably wasn't the most practical idea. Embarrassing as it was to admit, practicality wasn't what was going through your mind when you decided to wear it... Someone—Something else was.

"Something on your mind?" Finnick asked suddenly.

Your heart fumbled in your chest, terrified that he had somehow heard your thoughts. "Sorry?"

"You sighed," he said, turning his head to look at you. "Or am I just getting so old that I'm already starting to hear things?"

With relief of his lack of mind-reading abilities, you laughed softly. "You're definitely getting a bit old, Finn," you teased. "Any nursing homes you've been considering?"

"I heard retirement by the sea has its perks," he quipped, subtle dimples present as he returned to his weaving. "Although, I will need someone to make sure I don't fall asleep while swimming and get carried out by the tide. What d'you say, sweetheart? Up for becoming my personal lifeguard?"

Absolutely. "Depends. Will you force me to wear one of those awful flowery swimming caps with a matching tankini?"

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I'm thinking more like those little red bodysuits. You know, the ones that zip open down the front?"

You reprimanded him by pushing his shoulder, wearing a betraying smile. "Very charming."

"I just think red's your colour, that's all," he laughed.

Your stomach fluttered. You knew he was teasing you; teasing was basically the foundation of your... friendship. Deep down, you knew there was also some truth behind his words. A truth that was as electrifying as it was upsetting—how long were you both going to keep up with this whole 'friends' charade? Could you handle it if the answer was forever?

Best not to think about it. For your sanity's sake.

Finnick finally settled into a comfortable position with his forearms locked around his bent knees, apparently having decided to continue his mat-weaving another time. He had been extending it bit by bit ever since he first made it for you. At this point, you were sure he was attempting to cover the entire beach. For now, it was only big enough for two people to lie down on.

Sounds pretty convenient, came an abrupt thought.

And then you fell down yet another rabbit hole of depraved daydreams... A pair of hands interlocking your own above your head. Hot lips pressing kisses to your neck. Tongue gliding up the sensitive skin of your jugular. Your fingers tugging at bronze curls between your thighs.

You were sick. Diseased with immorality. Finnick was your friend. If not your best friend. You're not supposed to fantasise about fucking your best friend.

"Thinking about anyone in particular?"

You almost choked on your saliva. "W—What?" 

How did he keep doing that?

Finnick seemed to find joy in your perplexity. It was written all over his face. God, those fucking dimples. "You've been completely still for nearly five minutes and your legs are covered in goosebumps," he pointed out. "Hence the question: who are you thinking about?"

As you looked down, you found that your skin was in fact riddled with goosebumps. It didn't occur to you then that the only reason he could have noticed was if he was staring at your legs in the first place. It also didn't occur to you that Finnick obviously had the very same debauched thoughts running through his own mind.

Why did you have to wear such a revealing dress? He already struggled enough with resisting you at the best of times.

If you had been paying attention, a simple glance in his direction would have revealed how his ears were pink and his pupils were dilated. More importantly, you would have seen his legs constantly shifting to ease the discomfort tenting his pants. Fortunately, he had mastered the art of winding himself down in a short amount of time.

Unfortunately for you, that ability was not within your skill set.

You scoffed. "In case you haven't noticed, Finnick—it's autumn," you said, a quick snappy lilt in your tone. "I know you've got some weird internal space heater built into you, but normal people tend to have a reaction to the cold."

Well, it's a good thing you didn't sound defensive...

Finnick raised an eyebrow at you, displaying a puzzled half-smirk that spoke a thousand words.

You lowered your head in embarrassment, grinning sheepishly. "Sorry," you murmured. "I just, uh, don't really like the cold."

"Who could've guessed."

Despite serving as an excuse, it wasn't entirely untrue. You really did dislike the cold. And it was now that you seriously regretted your choice of sparse attire. The breeze kept blowing up the dress's skirt, threatening to expose your dignity to the world. Or more accurately, to Finnick. Thankfully, you had decided to wear a pair of delicate lace underwear that morning instead of old granny panties.

Nevertheless, now that it was on your mind, you couldn't think about anything but the cold gusts of wind blowing against you. Chills ran over your skin and you were shaking like a leaf.

Finnick, being the gentleman that he was, scanned the surrounding area for anything he could use to keep you warm. He would've given you his shirt had it not been crumpled in a ball of wet sand on the ground.

There was nothing else of use. Nothing except a single apprehensive idea sitting in the forefront of his mind. It was all he had. He bit the inside of his cheek as he contemplated the potentially disastrous idea.

Then, after taking a silent deep breath, he finally said, "Come here then." Your eyes snapped to his. You must've looked like you had seen a ghost because his brows knitted together in confusion. "What?" he breathed out a chuckle. "I'd prefer not having to carry you home as a block of ice."

You thought about it for a moment. Was it really such a good idea after the thoughts that were just swarming in your mind? Another gust of wind blew by and you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself.

"I won't bite, sweetheart. Not unless you want me to," he added.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, shut up."

With that, you slid across the mat, positioning your body, which was still facing the sunset, in front of his legs. There was a moment of hesitation. Anxiety. But before you could reconsider, Finnick wrapped a strong arm around your middle and pulled you back against his chest, situating your body between his legs.

The exhale that left your lips was instantaneous and you couldn't help but shudder at the warmth of his skin. "God," you sighed, overwhelmed by the sudden change in temperature. "How are you so warm all the time?"

"Oh, you know. Weird internal space heater."

You laughed softly, then felt Finnick's chest vibrate against your back as he joined you. His bare arms wound tighter around you, motivated by the affectionate atmosphere. Your body seemed to melt into the cocoon of warmth he provided, and a soft smile graced your lips.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded, responding with a whisper, "Thank you."

"Anytime."

You could hear the smile in his voice and how intently he was trying to hide it. You wished you could have seen it. To see the sense of peace you shared. However, feeling it in the way he held you was enough.

Instead of blood, your heart now seemed to be pumping out rather odd alternatives—waves of sea-green salted ocean, iridescent seashells, smiles paired with heart-stopping dimples. How could he? How could Finnick condemn you to loving him like this? So unwaveringly; so without a hope of ever being able to return to life without him in it.

He made a mess of you. A ruin. And even with wholesome affection running through your veins, you still couldn't ignore the hazy images conjuring in your mind from the way his body was pressed firmly behind you.

How could he?

The sun had just touched the horizon, granting the sky a few more minutes of light, meaning it was almost time to head home—an upsetting reality. You weren't sure how much time had passed before your body started to ache from lack of movement.

You wiggled your toes which were buzzing like television static. The feeling started moving up your legs and you knew if you didn't stretch, you would later embarrass yourself trying to stand on dead legs. So that is what you did. You started moving.

First, you stretched out the muscles in your legs and then moved onto straightening your back against Finnick's chest, feeling the faint pops of your spine offer you relief. And then you started readjusting your position and wriggling your hips to fit more comfortably between Finnick's toned thighs. That was your first mistake.

"Stop moving."

You were taken aback by the rigid inflection in his tone. "What?" you asked, ignoring his warning and continuing your restless movements.

"Stop. Moving," Finnick repeated, sounding more strained.

His hold on you became stiff. Completely frozen.

You were confused. Everything was perfect a moment ago, and all you were doing was stretching—why was he being so weird and snappy?

In response, you exhaled sharply. "I'm just trying to get comf—"

"Fuck," he breathed out.

Your eyes widened and it was safe to say your stomach had flipped inside out.

That was the moment you finally realised your second mistake. The rigidness in his voice wasn't him being snappy with you at all. Not even close. He was just trying to prevent the pleasure he felt below from reaching his vocal cords.

But it was too late. It wouldn't have mattered if he managed to keep quiet because you could feel it now. The achingly hard length that was pressed against your backside, reaching all the way up to your tailbone.

"...Oh," you whispered.

"Yeah," Finnick said. "Oh."

Now it was your turn to freeze. Fear consumed you, similar to what you imagined having to remain motionless in front of tyrannosaurus rex to prevent from being eaten alive was like. Thanks to the damning wind, strands of your hair blew behind your shoulders, undoubtedly tickling the exposed skin of Finnick's chest. Even that minuscule movement had your heart threatening to explode with anxiety.

As per usual, panic wreaked havoc in your mind.

What do I do? Do I get up? How will we come back from this? Does he—

Finnick cleared his throat. "Uh, you still alive in there?" he chuckled nervously.

You felt minor relief enter your bloodstream upon hearing the normality in his voice. At least one of you was composed enough to act normally. Well, as normal as one could act after becoming hard due to their best friend sitting in their lap.

"Is it—" You swallowed the nerves rattling your voice "—is it because there's a girl sitting on your lap, or is it because it's me?"

That was the million-dollar question. Was his reaction simply biological? A natural response to stimulation? Or was it deeper than that? More personal.

Finnick was silent.

The rapid thumping in your chest moved to your ears, like a drumroll leading up to some grand reveal. You felt dizzy; both filled with dreadful anticipation and exhilaration. Your senses were so heightened, fuelled by an inane bout of adrenaline. You swore you could almost hear the gears turning in Finnick's mind, smell the smoke as they rotated over and over, trying to make sense of your question and form a suitable response.

Religion never played a factor in your life, but, oh, how you were zealously praying his answer would be the one you spent all your nights fantasising about. But still, he was silent.

And right when you believed he wasn't going to respond at all, his lips finally uttered that single life-changing word. "You."

Fireworks seemed to light up every nerve in your body. You.

You weren't sure what to make of your thoughts at first. The overwhelming abundance of emotion caused by a singular word was difficult to fathom. Only one sentiment stood out from the rest—and that was the fact that Finnick felt the same as you did for him.

It was no longer a speculation. It was a fact. A truth. An undeniable reality. You had both verbal and physicalproof, literally digging into your backside.

Finnick slowly, very slowly, unwound an arm from your torso, and you held your breath. His hand slid across your waist and then plastered itself over your hipbone, careful not to apply too much pressure to make you feel uncomfortable. When you felt the slight movement of his thumb gliding across your clothed skin, you exhaled the burning air in your lungs with a shaky sigh.

"Do you want me to get up?" you asked softly while staring at the sunset, although you were focused on anything but.

"Not a chance." And then he unwound the other arm, now cupping both sides of your hips with two large hands. The heat from his palm sank into your skin, sinking deeper layer by layer until it reached the rapid flow of your bloodstream. "Do you want to get up?"

You felt a pulsing sensation between your thighs that had your parted lips inhaling slow deep breaths, and you knew the only logical answer was no. So, you shook your head.

Finnick reached up to skilfully tuck a lock of hair behind your ear before placing his hand back on your hip. He then leaned down beside your ear, voice a hot, velvety whisper, "What next then, sweetheart?"

A wave of chills ran down your entire body.

What next? Another question for the ages. You had dreamt of this moment a million times over. You had pictured the unholiest, most vivid of scenarios, and yet here you were, mind blank as an empty void.

Then it hit you. Rather than acting from a pre-planned script, wouldn't it be better to just let your body act on what it naturally desired? On instinct? You took in a deep, stabilising breath and gave yourself into moment.

You slowly began turning your head to the side until, for the first time since he pulled you into his arms, your eyes flickered up and found Finnick's. His lips quirked with the ghost of a smile at the exchange, but he held it back. His jaw clenched and unclenched, muscles ticking with tension.

He was looking at you in a way you had never seen before. Or perhaps, you were just never close enough to notice, and he had always looked at you this way. There was a blazing intensity in his eyes, dark and penetrative, a bridge between yearning and total reverence. It was so enticing that you could feel your hands itching to undress yourself in front of him.

Finnick murmured your name.

"Yes?" you managed to whisper.

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this?"

Those words—he had stolen them from the tip of your tongue.

You couldn't find the strength to muster any profound response. So instead, you found your head tilting back and the crook of your elbow winding up and around the nape of his neck. You didn't need to guide him down; he came willingly.

His lips caught yours in a soft, warm exchange. Singular yet prolonged. Then there was a brief pause of disconnection, a calm before the storm. And with Finnick, when it rained, it poured. Suddenly, a hand was cupping the area where your jaw and neck connected, and his lips were on yours again.

There was so much more heat in this kiss. A depth that kept growing with each connection of your lips. You could hear the fervour in the breathless exhales that exited his nose, the quiet groans that slipped into your mouth. Though the same could be said for you.

You couldn't subdue the moans and meek whimpers that leaked out. Especially when his tongue slipped into your mouth and took control over your own. At this point, you couldn't even be called putty in his arms; you were pure liquid, totally and completely submissive in his embrace.

It was impossible to tell who was throbbing beneath you anymore. All you were sure of was that the pretty lace panties you had put on that morning were now soaked. Though even if he never touched you, you wouldn't have cared. Having his lips on yours, his tongue on yours, was enough. And if he kept at it long enough, you were sure it would even be enough to get you off. That's how much power Finnick had over you.

Apparently, he felt the same too. Because when you leaned further back into him and your ass pushed against the length of his erection, his fist scrunched the fabric of your dress by your hip and his lips left yours to let out a shuddering breath.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he huffed, half chuckling.

Technically, it was a suppressed moan. Either way, you swear you almost came then and there.

With one last gentle kiss, you opened your eyes, pulling away to replenish your lungs with air. Finnick's eyes were already locked on yours in a drunken haze from the taste of your lips. Your arm unwound from his neck, grazing down his broad shoulders and bicep. During so, your eyes caught on the tiny bumps and raised hair scattered across his arm.

"You've got goosebumps," you smiled, trailing your fingertips across his skin.

His gaze moved to follow your hand, wearing a boyish grin. "Would you believe me if I said I was cold?"

Your throat buzzed with a suppressed giggle. Seeing the way his body reacted to yours was incredibly motivating. Someone telling you they lusted after you could easily be spoken with deception. But having visual confirmation, witnessing a reaction that couldn't possibly be forced, was a whole different story. Finnick's body craved you.

Given that incentive, the slight trepidation still holding you back now disappeared into the back of your mind. Your fingers curled around his wrist, dragging the hand beneath your jaw down to your neck, and then down to your chest. It didn't take him too long to figure out your intentions. He overtook your influence and autonomously moved his hand to cup your breast.

You were essentially caged in his embrace. Exactly how you wanted it.

You stared ahead with relaxed eyes, watching as the sun slipped into the dark water. Night had officially blanketed District Four and, now being shielded by darkness, the stars were your only witness. Strangely enough, you felt a new sense of shamelessness.

So as Finnick kneaded your breast in his warm hand and pinched the sensitive peak of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger through the lace of your bra, you allowed a soft moan to escape your lips.

It was almost as if you could actually feel the smirk growing across Finnick's lips behind you. One thing you actually could feel was the twitch of his achingly hard cock beneath you.

"You like that?" he asked, definitely smirking.

"Yes," you sighed almost immediately.

If only he knew how truly euphoric you felt. If only he knew how many times you had imagined being in this exact situation. Having him touching you like this. The guilt of imagining him in such a way used to eat you up. But now that you were past the guilt, there was no shame connected to the thought of Finnick eating you up.

Fuck, he would look so perfect between your thighs—bronze curls all messed up from your pulling and tugging; sea green eyes squeezed shut as he dedicated his attention to dragging you down to the pits of hell with his tongue.

Your head fell back against his collarbone. He took this as a signal to move your hair aside and start planting hot kisses onto the curve of your shoulder. Then he trailed further across, brushing his lips across your skin until he reached the side of your neck and started sucking gently, though enough to leave behind pretty little red marks of possession.

"What about this?" he murmured against the delicate skin.

The faint taste of sea-salted air sat in the back of your throat as your breaths deepened. You felt his tongue glide partially up the length of your carotid artery, and your entire nervous system seemed to short-circuit.

"Yes,"you practically whined.

He must have found this amusing because you could feel the vibrations of his chuckle against your neck. But he wasn't finished yet. Hell, the finish line was a lifetime away regarding the things he planned on doing to you. They probably couldn't all be done in one night though, unfortunately.

You had completely forgotten about the hand still splayed on your hip. Why would you pay it any attention when it was sitting idle? Only it wasn't simply resting on your hip anymore. No. Now it was moving. Moving down.

His lips were still on your neck and he was still cupping your breast, but all you could focus on was the carnal descent of his hand. He found the hem of your dress, fingers toying with the flimsy material as one did when deciding whether or not to go through with something potentially consequential. Ultimately, he began to drag the fabric up your thighs, knuckles grazing over your soft skin until the skirt of your dress was ruched around your hips.

You sucked in a sharp breath. The vulnerability of suddenly being exposed in such a manner hit you like a tonne of bricks. This was really happening. Finnick, the Capitol's darling, District Four's golden boy, and more significant;y, your best friend, was touching you. He was kissing you. He was seeing and feeling parts of your body you had never let him see or feel before.

Naturally, this unfurling web of thoughts produced a surge of insecurity.

But, when his hand curled around your inner thigh and spread a wildfire of warmth across your skin, every thought that was previously passing through your mind disintegrated and was replaced with unadulterated yearning.

Finnick's mouth finally detached from your neck to hover beside your ear. "And this?"

He lightly kneaded your thigh to emphasise his question, dangerously close to the place that undoubtedly crossed the boundary between friend and lover.

You were speechless. The desire running through your veins was paralysing. All you could do was look, see, feel, and hope to god you didn't pass out from the shallowness of your breathing.

"Come on, sweetheart," he roused in that low, seductive purr. "Don't go quiet on me now. Use your words."

And how could you ever disobey a voice like that? It took every ounce of strength and concentration you had in you, but eventually, you managed to find your voice.

"I—" You cut yourself off with a gasp as his thumb purposefully wandered up to the edge of your underwear. Asshole. "I lie awake every night imagining us like this, Finn. You don't need permission to touch me. You've already had it for months."

Suddenly, a gentle finger was turning your chin, compelling you to meet Finnick's gaze. His eyes lacked the intensity from before and were now brimming with awe, brows knitted as if he was asking for confirmation if what you had said was truthful. And it was, painfully so.

To answer his wordless question, you leaned forward and connected your lips with his. He responded with ardency, and not long after, you could feel his hand wander up to the waistband of your panties. 

He wasted not a second before dipping his hand beneath the lace material and finding that sensitive spot that had been begging for his attention.

Your lips separated from his to let out a breathy moan. "Finnick."

He simply smiled, two fingers rubbing circles around your clit. He pressed gentle coaxing kisses to your lips, and you really did try to respond, but you were never one for multitasking. Especially when the man you had fallen in love with was touching you so.

His other hand wandered across your torso, holding your waist, grazing over your stomach, tracing the length of your sternum. All very loving adorations compared to what his other hand was doing.

"I think I'm going to hell because of you," he murmured, millimetres away from your lips. Such a disconcerting thing for someone to admit, but all you could manage was a hum in response. "Every time I see you, I can feel myself getting closer and closer. You derange my thoughts, sweetheart. You corrupt them.

How am I supposed to be around you if I want to fuck you every time you say my name? And what makes it so much more impossible is that you don't even mean to make me feel this way; you just do. God, you're maddening. So sweet and maddening," he cooed, fingers picking up in pace which caused you to melt back into his chest and let out a pretty little moan. "Drives me crazy."

"And to think," you managed, "I thought you had your hands between my legs because you hated me."

Your hips were rolling lightly along with the rhythm of his fingers.

At the very same time Finnick's thighs tensed around your hips from the friction against his cock, he abruptly plunged two fingers inside you. Punishment.

The moan you let out was positively filthy.

"Such an attitude you have," he said. "Anyone would think you're completely innocent in a dress like this. But I know better than that." His fingers slid in and out, curling every time the base of his fingers bottomed out inside of you. "I know exactly why you wore it. Just like I know exactly why you wore those lace panties you pretend that I can't see whenever you bend over."

Heat crept up into your cheeks from hearing his words. You wanted to provoke him by saying 'And look where it got me'but who knew how his fingers would respond to your attitude.

"You can't do that to a man," he continued. "It's criminal."

"It's only fair, Finn," you breathed out, struggling to keep your voice level. "You ruined me."

A deep moan rumbled in his chest, though it never escaped. He couldn't break that easily. He needed to remain in control. This moment, to him, seemed like an eternity forthcoming. He needed to make the most of this moment with you, needed to show you what it was like to receive earth-shattering pleasure so that you only ever wanted to receive it from him. No one else.

Despite his obvious attempts at keeping himself in check, you could still feel his thick impatient cock twitch beneath your ass. Even through the layers of clothing between you, you could tell that he was incredibly big. So much so that it worried you a little. Only, when his fingers curled again, you forgot all about it.

The pads of his fingertips buried into your inner walls with every curl. The heel of his palm struck your clit with every thrust of his fingers and you could feel your stomach start tightening. Fuck, he was amazing at this.

It had been so long since someone had touched you like this. Well, someone that was actually good at it. Just a few minutes and Finnick was already about to make you come.

"Feels so good, so—ah—good!" you moaned, eyes fluttering shut.

He reached a free hand up to your breast, lightly pinching your nipple between his fingers until you let out a gasp. At least one of you was good at multitasking.

"You gonna come?" he asked, not that he even needed an answer. He could feel the way your walls were contracting around his fingers, feel the sticky warmth of your slick leaking onto his knuckles.

You nodded fervently.

"Say please first."

"Finn," you whined in frustration.

You could hear him chuckle self-satisfyingly behind you. "Come on, baby. Sweet girls are supposed to have manners, aren't they?"

His low, husky voice almost threw you over the edge. Oh, how you would love to listen to the sound of him talking you through your orgasm. That is if he ever even let you get to that point.

Never had you ever thought you would be pleading with a man for anything, yet here you were. Though, Finnick Odair could hardly be called a man. He was so much more than that; he was bordering on divinity. And you weren't going to miss the chance of being unravelled at the hands of a divine being.

"Please, Finnick," you begged, your body literally buzzing with desperation. "Please make me come."

He pressed a kiss below your earlobe. "Since you asked so nicely."

His fingers picked up in pace. They weren't even plunging in and out anymore but were rather curling, over and over again in that electrifying spot inside you. He went hard and fast, working to bring you to your high as quickly as possible. Your moans were so unrestrained, so breathless and shallow that you started to feel the world spin around you.

Your hand flew back to hold onto his arm, nails digging into the hard muscles of his bicep. Your hips were writhing in Finnick's lap and you could hear him groan out a string of curses. He held you down by the hip to try and keep you still, then moved across to the bottom of your abdomen where he pressed down.

That is what did it for you.

You cried out as tightness spread down your stomach and pure ecstasy took control. Finnick murmured words of praise and reassurance as you rode through your high, though a lot of it didn't register in your mind. You heard only a few bits and pieces which were enough to prolong the feeling that was overwhelming your entire body.

"Taking it so well."

"That's it, sweetheart. That's it."

"Such a good girl."

As the waves of pleasure slowly began to subside, you returned to reality. The heat that had been building up inside you started melting away, leaving you in a state of relaxation. Your fingers, which previously clung onto Finnick's arm, now grazed absentmindedly across his skin. It felt like you had been sucked into a dream—a little hazy and surreal, but incredibly tranquil.

"You okay?" Finnick asked softly.

You hadn't even noticed that his fingers had left your body. He had pulled down the hem of your dress— not that your dignity really needed saving anymore—and was holding your melted figure in his arms.

"Mm," you hummed contently, eyes fixed on the view in front of you. "Warmed up."

If only you were able to see his face, his smile. Those dimples. A powerful longing to be able to see every expression known to man morph his facial features washed over you. It was a little ridiculous how attracted to him you were. Nonetheless, you indulged the desire.

You pushed yourself from his lap and pivoted to face him

You were straddling his lap before any ounce of hesitation could hold you back. Finnick circled his arms around your waist, pulling you closer into his chest. He was smiling. He was smiling and it was even more beautiful than any sunset you had ever witnessed. You concluded that you had definitely made the right choice in deciding to face him.

"Hi," you whispered.

He smiled. "Hey, stranger."

He brushed back a few pieces of hair from your face, observing the blown size of your pupils and the sultry colour of your lips. He did that—he could not get over the fact that he did that to you. Finally.

You shrunk away from his gaze, a timid smile on your lips.

Finnick tilted his head slightly. "Shy thing."

You buried your face into the side of his neck, groaning quietly in embarrassment. You could hear the perfect sound of him laughing above you. He stroked the length of your spine, somehow managing to ease the nerves from your body with a simple touch. You left a quick kiss on the warm skin of his neck and rose back up to meet his gaze.

"Feeling better?"

"Much," you replied, sheepishly. Your eyes flickered across Finnick's, hesitated, and then gestured downwards. "But... you're not." His head tilted as though he were confused as to what you were suggesting, so you leaned in closer until your lips ghosted over his. "Still need to take care of you."

A breath of warm air fanned across your face as he chuckled. He shook his head. "It's alright. I can hold off for another time."

And although the prospect of doing this again another time was downright exhilarating, you couldn't ignore the palpable heat still lingering in your lower stomach, throbbing between your thighs. You could only imagine how he must have been feeling—cock throbbing with a need for relief, though ready to deny himself the same amount of pleasure he just gave you.

You suddenly curled a hand around the back of his neck and brought him into a slow kiss. To show him he was allowed to indulge himself. That you wanted him to. You ground your hips down on his lap and felt his lips falter against yours.

You pulled back and echoed your previous words, "It's only fair, Finn."

Time seemed to pause for a moment. Your breath and his mixed with one another in a sort of hot whirlwind of anticipation. Your bodies were still. Finnick's eyes were half-lidded staring at your mouth.

Then came the explosion.

His hands were hastily tugging your sundress over your head; his lips were on yours as he reached down between your bodies to unbutton his pants. It felt like a race against time. Like if you didn't do this now, the chance would never come by again. Hell, his pants hadn't even made it off his legs before he was holding himself in his hand and you were rising to your knees, positioning yourself directly above his length.

Your lips never left his, strenuous as it was, meaning the only gauge you got of how big he was wasn't from seeing it, but from feeling it as you pulled your panties aside, guided his cock to your entrance with one hand, and felt the entire veiny length of him fill you completely as you lowered yourself onto him.

A quiet, synchronised gasp left both your lips as you enveloped him completely in wet velvety warmth. His pelvis was connected with yours and his cock was pressed right up against your cervix. So incredibly deep, you could almost feel him in your stomach.

You stayed like this for a few seconds.

"So big," you gasped against his lips.

His hands were on your back, dragging up and down. "Want to stop?"

"Never."

This was so not what friends did.

He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your jaw, and down to your neck. You were grinding sinuously back and forth, Finnick's hands now on your hips as a guide, feeling his tip bury into the sensitive walls inside you. Your head fell back with a gratified moan as he nipped your neck unforgivingly, only to soothe the spots he marked with the glide of his tongue.

At that moment, the past and future were of no significance. The idea that doing this might ruin your relationship with him afterwards didn't concern you. You didn't bother recollecting a time when you and Finnick were merely friends, nor did you ponder how you even managed to reach this point.

All you could focus on was how fucking perfect his cock felt inside of you.

The cold, which was previously a nuisance, now served as a stimulant to your nipples which were only covered by the thin unpadded material of your lace bra. They were bouncing with every movement you made, the hard peaks rubbing against Finnick's chest and creating a triangle of pleasure between them and the depravity that was happening further below.

He was so hungry in the way he kissed you. His lips were soft, but they moved with heat and determination. His tongue was supple as it pushed against yours, moving masterfully in a way you could only compare to how he swam in the ocean. A conqueror—able to bring you into submission with ease.

You pushed yourself upwards, the muscles in your thighs slightly burning as you did so, and felt his cock glide through you. He inhaled harshly through his nose when his tip almost left your wet heat, and then groaned into your mouth when your hips sunk back down, engulfing him once again.

"Shit," he almost whined as your walls clenched around him. "I fuckinglove you."

You pulled away to look him in the eyes. It was incredibly difficult for you to contemplate his words—his confession—when he was, what, eight or so inches deep inside you?

He didn't look like he regretted saying it. He was simply staring at you with raised brows pinched together in pleasure, awaiting your response as you continued your sequence of rising and sinking to fill yourself up with his cock.

"You love me?" you asked in a laboured breath. He only nodded in response. You sank fully down onto his lap, discontinuing your movements, willing him to prove his so-declared devotion. "Then show me."

He was breathing heavily and watching you through strands of sea-salted hair messily splayed across his forehead. He was so beautiful it actually kind of hurt to look at him. His eyes fell to your mouth during this brief amnesty, a decision prominent in his mind. Then he was rushing forward, crushing his lips to yours and forcing your body to lay back on the mat beneath you.

Finnick somehow managed to remain inside you as he switched your positions—him now above you as your legs were wrapped around his waist. His body pinned you down with a comfortable weight, skin warm and flush against yours.

He was overpowering and dominating, and his thrusts were laced with a sense of appropriation like he was making you his. The slow grinds of his hips were hard yet measured and so breathtakingly deep, and the gentle upwards curve of his cock made sure his tip was prodding against that swollen pleasure-inducing spot every single time.

His kisses were sensual and slow; his tongue slipping languidly into your mouth, swirling and massaging your tongue like it was made of pure silk.

You had told him what to do—now he was showing you. Finnick Odair wasn't fucking you. He was making love to you.

Your hands were on his back, fingertips leaving red marks on the curves of his shoulder blades. You moved up to his hair, scratching your nails softly into his scalp, which earned you a soft moan in your mouth. Even you could feel yourself pulsing around his cock. Everything he did, every sound and action he made, had your body yielding to him.

His hand pulled you up into him by the waist, arching your back off the palm-leaf mat so that he was thrusting more profoundly into that blissful spot inside you. He never sped up his pace. He didn't need to. He was savouring the moment as much as he could, memorising each warm ripple of your walls his cock glided over inside you, every intoxicating moan your soft lips released, the pressure of your warm supple thighs hugging his waist.

He was committing every aspect of you to memory. Inside and out.

Having that knowledge only made the moment so much more pleasurable. Knowing that he wasn't just thinking about you with his cock, but was thinking about you with his heart too.

That feeling started creeping up inside you—the blissful burn of heat pooling in your lower stomach. It made your walls flutter around him. Made you whine and moan uncontrollably into his mouth until you couldn't focus on kissing him anymore and had to pull away.

Your head fell back onto the mat, hair strewn out around you. The sounds coming out of you were pure sin. Desperate, greedy sin.

Finnick chuckled adoringly above you. "Too fucked out, sweetheart?"

He couldn't exactly talk. The second you clenched around him again, he groaned out a curse and you—the parts of your mind that were still relatively comprehensible—were sure you could feel the warmth of pre-cum ooze inside you.

"Finnick," you mewled, and he caressed the baby hairs framing your face. "Feels so good. Should—should've done this sooner."

Through your half-lidded eyes, you watched as he nodded and then descended to your forehead, pressing his lips tenderly against your skin. I know, the gesture said. You felt a rush of affection flood through your body, ultimately accelerating the build-up happening inside you.

You could feel yourself teetering so impossibly close to the brink of your orgasm. The tightness inside you was so hot and overwhelming; it was a struggle for you to keep your eyes from fluttering shut and rolling back, though you willed yourself to keep them open. You had to.

Watching Finnick's face contort with pleasure as he's thrown into his own high from feeling your walls contract around him would probably be the highlight of your entire life.

"So beautiful," he cooed as he thrusted into you. "My sweet girl's gonna come, isn't she? Can feel it."

The words flew out of your mouth. "Come inside me."

"Come inside you?"

You were pretty sure he was mocking you from the devilish curve of his lips and furrow of his brows. But your lust-drunk brain didn't really care.

"Please. Wanna feel you—" Your chest heaved with each breath "—everywhere."

Finnick was so obviously trying to keep himself from giving in before you. But you could see how delirious his eyes were as they stared down at you and you heard how every low, gratified—frustratingly sexy—sound he made betrayed him. He was so close.

"Anything for you, sweetheart," he said, finally.

He managed to unhook your hands from around his back and guided them upwards, holding your wrists together above your head with one hand before he brought his other back to your waist. It was oddly romantic how he held you, given that he was fucking you like life after that night wasn't guaranteed.

And then, without warning, he was pounding into you, bottoming out completely with each thrust.

It was almost animalistic now—how you were both unable to control yourselves anymore. You were writhing beneath him, impulsively fighting against the grip he had on your wrists. And Finnick, well, he was fucking you so hard, you weren't sure if walking home that night would be a possibility.

He was a disaster of pleasured vocals, deep moans, and heavy breaths. You thanked the absolute heavens he was because it was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard in your entire life.

When your own moans started to rise in pitch, you knew you were done for. You felt so full. Stretched out to the max. Blinded by the heat that was drowning you. But your eyes managed to remain clear and locked on Finnick's the entire time, just as his were on yours.

With a fleeting glance downward, he once again placed a large hand over your abdomen and pushed down, and your back arched off the ground.

You were gone.

"Oh fuck!"

The heat, white and fiery, had consumed you. Your thighs tensed uncontrollably around Finnick, your body shaking beneath him as your insides pulsed all the way down to your stuffed entrance. White, sticky sweetness covered Finnick's cock as he continued to thrust into you, the wet sounds overpowering the waves cresting on the sands. It felt like fucking heaven.

He let out a moan, broken and breathless, and released the grip he had on your hands. In that short moment, you instantly gripped onto him, feeling his body shudder beneath your hands as his throbbing cock spurted out ropes of warmth deep inside you, the essence of both of you mixing inside your body, making you one.

You pulled him down and crushed your lips to his with a sudden intense urge to be as close to him as you could, if it were even possible to be any closer to him at that point. It felt a little spiritual, the way you practically wanted to merge your body with his. That's what having sex with someone you truly loved was like, you supposed.

The kiss was sloppy and messy, but it never lacked heat or affection. Lacking heat was impossible between you and Finnick.

A lot of time passed before either of you even contemplated pulling away from one another. Finnick was inside you for what must have been a good half hour after you had both finished. It felt close. Deeply intimate. He held you in his arms, his hands mapping out various parts of your body with unhurried measure as you lay beneath him, lazily yet affectionately making out with warm, reddened lips.

There were quiet giggles and heated words whispered between you that would have prompted another session had either of you been graced with the energy.

But it was late. The remnants of the sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon, dimming the sky to a deep dark blue, the world's only source of illumination being the stars casting their sparkling light on the rippling water.

It was a new moon.

Eventually, you ended up laying over his chest, legs strewn across his as you both faced the ocean. Your head rose and fell with each breath Finnick took and it felt unreal. 

You were momentarily worried your infatuation with him had grown too out of hand and you had imagined the whole day, or perhaps, the entire time you had known him. That it was all a figment of your vivid imagination.

Then, his warm hand slid into your own, which was draped across his stomach, and you knew that this, the newfound relationship between you and Finnick, was undeniably and rapturously real.

He slowly lifted them together above your bodies, palms flat against one another. There was a notable size difference between them—his palm was large and calloused with long fingers that squared off at the tips, meanwhile, your own fist could probably fit into his palm.

Your fingers danced delicately together as you both watched from below. He traced the length of your fingers with his fingertips; followed the etches in your palm, and turned your hand to explore the protrusions of your knuckles. There was a certain gentle curiosity in his touch, similar to that of someone who was discovering the act of human connection for the first time.

"I don't know if I can walk home," you whispered.

Finnick lowered your interlocked hands to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles before placing them back on his stomach. "I'll carry you."

"For an entire hour?"

"I'll manage," he said, "I've got muscles."

You scoffed quietly to yourself, smiling. "Ok, big strong man."

"Says the girl who needs to be carried home."

"Well, you are kind of the one to blame for that."

You tilted your head to glance up at him and found exactly what you were expecting to see. He was wearing a proud grin, all apple cheeks and crinkled eyes. It was something you had come to adore, even though sometimes it was out of arrogance.

Your head turned to rest back on his chest. You watched as his thumb caressed slow circles over your knuckle.

"What you said before," you began, "is it true? Do you really... love me?"

The heart beating beneath your ear genuinely sounded like it skipped a beat. You imagined that was a good sign, though your nerves were still a little frayed. What if he had only said it because of the heat of the moment?

A beat went by. "I've been trying to tell you ever since I first wove the mat for you," he confessed, his voice quiet yet holding the weight of the history that made up your friendship.

There it was—the truth laid bare. Despite hearing the words, it didn't really change anything. You suspected deep down you knew the entire time; you were just too self-doubting to accept it. To accept that Finnick Odair, the crown jewel of Panem, had fallen in love with you, an ordinary girl from District Four who just so happened to meet him at a secret beach.

Although, there was a sensation you remember upon first meeting him. That instinct that had told you to stay instead of running away, as any logical human being would do upon being approached by a stranger in the middle of nowhere. That instinct, despite sounding utterly ridiculous, caused you to believe that perhaps it was fate.

Maybe you were destined to meet. Maybe it didn't matter that he was a nationwide celebrity, nor you a simple town girl. Maybe your souls were entwined from the start and, one way or another, you would have met anyway.

Maybe.

"That's a long time," you said.

He laughed. "Yeah, well, I thought you would've gotten the hint by now."

And you couldn't help but join him. You thought you were the one who was deranged out of their mind. Here Finnick was telling you he had spent an entire year trying to confess his love without you even realising.

"I'm sorry it took me so long."

"It's alright," he said, earnestly. "I'd say it worked out pretty well. I mean, look where your obliviousness got us."

You smiled. Your legs were tangled with Finnick's; his arm was holding you tightly against his bare upper body, and his fingers were lovingly tracing over yours. Yeah, you were pretty grateful for your obliviousness sometimes. A new pair of underwear might have been something to consider, though.

A silence settled between you, comfortable, peaceful. Being in Finnick's embrace almost made you forget entirely about the reality of your existence—the Games, the dominion over Panem, the chaotic environment back home. It was the reason you had set off last year in search of a place away from society.

You had now found that the escape you were looking for wasn't a place or a hidden paradise, but a person. It was Finnick.

"Finn?"

"Yeah?"

The trees and palm leaves danced in the light breeze. Waves lapped on the shore.

You angled your head back to look at Finnick and felt him pull you closer. His expression was a picture of relaxation and contentment. His eyes gazed down at you, glimmering with the reflection of scattered stars in the night sky, just like the sea in front of you.

He seemed to already know what you were going to say. Always the mind reader.

"Say it, sweetheart." The corners of his lips twitched expectantly.

Sweetheart. Oh, how could you have ever felt for him in any other way?

"I love you too."

His face broke into one of the happiest smiles you had ever seen.

...roll credits

[pucked-bunnie]

menace ⎜l.hughes

pairings: luke hughes x reader ⎜ ft matt rempe prompt: "back the fuck off" genre: fluff ⎜established relationship ⎜ warnings: matt rempe being a menace as per usual ⎜angry luke ⎜protective bf luke ⎜mentions of fighting ⎜insults towards reader and luke ⎜ synopsis: you never realised your boyfriend could get so fired up by a simple little comment. word count: 3.6k authors note:  this was requested a while ago and was the clear winner of the poll I put up so I hope you all enjoy. also don't pay too much attention to the timeline it is less than accurate.

(UNEDITED)

+

+

Luke doesn’t know a lot about many things. 

But he does know a lot about hockey. 

His life has always been about hockey - sleep, eat, hockey, repeat - so when he met you it was refreshing to not have to live for hockey. 

It was refreshing to live for him. 

The first time the two of you had met, you were sitting at the only table with a free seat in the library - Lukes textbook for his sports management classes in his arms as he looks around for any other possibilities, not wanting to disturb the brunette girl with her nose in her own textbooks. 

“You can sit down, you know.” Your voice was quiet, and at first he was sure he had imagined it and continued glancing around for other seats. “I’m not going to bite.” You added as you pushed your headphones off your head, glancing away from your books at the lost boy. 

Lukes eyes shoot to yours, his head nodding quickly as he shuffles over to the seat, his shoulders rising in a cringe as his textbooks drop on the table - the bang resonating through the library, a few heads turning his way as he quickly slides into the chair. You watch him as he opens his text book staring at the page for a few moments before pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“You good there, curly?” Luke's eyes raise to meet yours, your head tilted in amusement as you glance down at his books and then back up at him. 

“This class was supposed to be easy.” He admits slowly, sighing as a smile blooms on your face - your hand flicking closed your textbook, the front cover matching his. 

“Super easy.” You admit, as you close your laptop, your headphones are still around your neck as you scoot your chair around the round table to look down at his notebook. “You’re a bit behind on the lessons?” You question, noting his notes are from a class over two weeks ago. 

“I get caught up with sports sometimes.” He can’t help the goosebumps that rise as your arm brushes over his - reaching to flick his textbook back a few chapters. 

“You do know that the student comes first in the name student athlete?” Your words are sharp but the smile on your face lessens the blow, his head nodding quickly again - and he’s sure there’s a dumb glazed look in his eyes. 

“I can help you out if you want.” Lukes never agreed to something quicker in his life - his hand shooting out to shake yours as he almost yells his name in introduction - he repeats your name under his breath a few times after you return his introduction not wanting to forget anything about you. 

Months passed quickly - the two of you meeting up at least once a week to go over the material you had learnt in class, making sure Luke was understanding everything - even going as far as to FaceTime when the team was on road trips. 

It was a Thursday afternoon - the two of you sitting on Luke's small bed in his dorm room, textbooks splayed on the bed though neither of you were paying much attention to them. Luke's attention was focused on the hockey game on his laptop, and your attention was focused on him. 

“Hey, Luke?” You call quietly, his eyes never leaving the screen as he hums in response - his body tensing every time one of the players in red get close to the goal. “When are you going to ask me on a date?” Luke doesn’t look at you, but you can tell his attention is no longer on the hockey game in front of him - the goal horn blaring as he sits frozen on his bed. 

“You’d want that?” He finally asks, his voice cracking as his head lifts to slowly close his computer, his hands gripping the cold metal as he waits for your response. 

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want it.” Luke can feel his heart burst in his chest, your hand reaching out, a gentle finger on his chin turning his head towards you - “ask me.” You say firmly, his eyes locked with yours as you wait for his brain to reboot. 

“Would you like to go on a date with me?” He asks, the words falling out of his mouth before his brain can catch up. 

“I would love to go on a date with you, Luke.” 

+

+

It’s funny how true the silly little saying your parents teach you as a kid can be so true. 

Time really does fly when you’re having fun. 

It also flies when your boyfriend gets called up into the professional hockey league and has to leave you behind. 

“Did you watch the game today?” Luke asks through your phone, his small face on your phone propped up beside you on your desk, his hair wet from his shower post game, a soft glow on his skin as he smiles at you when you’re not looking. 

“Of course.” You say, jotting something in your notebook before closing it softly, “I also watched when you almost got your back broken by being hit into the bench.” You huff, a frown on your face as you glance over your boyfriend. Luke's smile drops a little, as he sits up in his bed, watching as you wipe at your face roughly. 

“I just worry about you, Luke.” You say quietly, your eyes teary - Luke can feel his heart stop as he looks around his room in panic, for what no one knows. Luke feels his chest tighten as you let a small sniffle escape before wiping at your face again. 

“When are you going to ask me to be with you?” Luke never knows what to do when you ask questions like this - his response typically falling under a freeze response, his brain moving slower than normal when you catch him by surprise. 

“You’d want that?” He asks, the deja vu settling in his bones as he adds, “What about school?” 

“I’m doing a degree in business management, Luke - I can do that online if I wanted to.”  Luke feels like he’s going to have long term effects if you keep making his heart stop and start like this - the deja vu hitting again as you add, “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want it.” 

Luke feels like he’s going to explode as he yanks his laptop from where it is charging, looking up flights and hotels as quickly as possible. 

Luke doesn’t know a lot about many things. 

But he knows he would pay whatever he had to, to have you here with him - to be able to entwine his two favorite things in his life together. 

+

+

The last six months have been a crash course in ice hockey - after the play off season had ended with an unfortunate loss Luke had dragged you to Michigan for the summer, wasting no time in introducing you to his whole family and everyone around who would listen. 

His two older brothers had put in the work to sit you down every night after dinner. A game from the previous season loaded onto the T.V a notebook in your lap as Luke slipped onto the couch behind you - his hand fiddling with whatever they could latch onto. 

“Okay so what is it called if one player insults another player?” Jack quizzes, the video paused on his captain's mouth open mid yell. 

“Chirping?” You say Jack giving a strong nod and a smile, resuming the video. 

“And what do we do when someone chirps us?” Jack asks, his smile mischievous as he waits for you to respond. 

“Chirp back?” You assume, Jack clapping his hands together in joy as Luke shakes his head behind you - leaning forwards to pull your short hair out of its bun. 

“No, we ignore it.” Luke corrects, his fingers gentle on your scalp as he detangles the knots left in your hair from the day on the boat. 

“That’s not fun, Lukey.” Jack huffs, looking over to his older brother for back up, Quinn just throwing his hands up with a shrug. 

“I think ignoring it is a better answer.” Quinn says softly, his attention solely on his phone. 

“Alright let’s watch something else - I think she knows everything she can.” Luke says pulling the remote from Jack's hand as he exits off the hockey game, pulling up Netflix to scroll through. His arm banded around your waist as he pulls you to lie back against him, a blanket thrown over the two of you as his brother argues over what to watch. 

“The post is blowing up, Luke.” You say quietly, showing him the notifications on your phone - Luke had posted an instagram story early, undeniably hard launching the relationship into the public - both of you had expected some attention but this had been more than anything you would imagine. 

“It’ll settle down eventually - you’re lucky Jack hasn’t posted anything, that would probably make your phone crash.” You let out a small chuckle, leaning into Luke further as you scroll through your notifications trying to clear your inbox as much as possible. 

“Hold up, who’s that?” Luke asks as you stop scrolling through your inbox, clicking on the message he pointed at. “Matt Rempe? Why does that sound so familiar?” Luke questions as you click on his profile scrolling through the photos in confusion. 

“You mean the giant kid who was just signed to the rangers?” Jack asks, his attention momentarily leaving the movie trailer Quinn was showing on his phone to respond to Luke. 

“How do you know that?” Luke asks, his brother just shrugging in response. “What did he say?” Luke asks as you swipe back to the message reading over the words with a frown. 

“Hey, how’s heaven handling things now that you’ve left?” You read aloud, Quinn letting out a loud snort and Jack's mouth falling open in surprise. “Oh dear god, that’s bad.” You sigh, moving to delete the message before Luke’s hand stops you, his hand swiping the phone from your hand as his fingers tap on the screen. 

“Luke, what are you doing?” You hiss, watching as he types out a message before deleting it and starting again “What happened to ignoring it?” 

“This is off the ice - you don’t hit on other players' girlfriends.”  Luke types again before hitting send on the one sentence message. 

‘She has a boyfriend.’ You roll your eyes before snatching your phone back, the device dinging as you place it back in your lap. Luke looks at you expectantly as you pick up your phone again showing him the response. 

‘We’ll see about that.’ 

“He’s messing with you Luke, just leave it.” You say, blocking the players profile before turning off your phone and tucking it under the blanket before he can type out more messages to his fellow rookie player. 

The message echoes around Lukes head for the rest of the night - the man shocked by his fellow players' audacity. 

Luke doesn’t know a lot about many things. 

But he knows about hockey - and you don’t go after another player's girlfriend. 

+

+

The season started off tense - with most of New Jersey’s star players out with injuries the team was scraping by on wins - only just managing to pull ahead towards the end of each game. 

The most anticipated game of the season slowly sneaking up behind every one - the New Jersey Devils against the New York Rangers - normally a big rivalry but this year everything seemed more tense - especially with the rising enforcer of the New York Rangers making his presence and dislike for the New Jersey Devils team known. 

“Everything will be fine.” You reassure Luke for the hundredth time, squeezing his hand once more before releasing it to fall back to his side, his face falling as he stares down at his empty palm. “I’ll meet you in the locker room after you take the arrival photos.” You say softly, before leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek, smoothing out his unruly curls before giving him one last smile. 

He watches as you walk away, greeting some of the staff you pass as you move to where the other family members were gathering to wish their player good luck before the game. You lean against the wall as you scroll absentmindedly on your phone, occasionally adding something to the conversation going on around you, each of the wags splitting off towards their players as they make their way to the locker room. 

“Excuse me?” A deep voice says from behind you, a large hand tapping on your shoulder. You turn slowly your head lifting as you glance up at the abnormally large man, his face immediately flagging recognition in your memory. “Are you a keyboard?” He asks quickly - your brows pulling together as you frown. 

“What?” You respond. 

“Are you a keyboard?” He tries again, waiting for a few moments before adding, “because I think you’re just my type.” You can’t help the scoff that comes out of you, physically cringing at the pick up line. 

“Wait, I have more.” He exclaims quickly, a soft smile on your face as you shake your head. 

“I’m aware - I’m pretty sure heaven is fairing pretty well without me.”  Your retort seems to strike something in the man's memory, his mouth falling open in surprise before a slow grin grows back in its place. “You’ve really lived up to your name as hockey’s new menace.” You add, glancing over your shoulder to see Luke making his way up to the locker room. 

“Ah so you’ve been watching me?” Matt’s confidence in himself is jarring, your frown deepening as you shake your head. 

“Unfortunately for me, you seem to pop up in a lot of conversations about my boyfriend.” You say quietly, “Maybe it was due to your blatant disrespect for your fellow rookie players in this league.” Matt hesitates for a second, his eyes grazing over your face for any sign that you were joking. 

“You’re not my type, and frankly I was hoping you got the message when I blocked you, but clearly your thick head isn’t good for anything other than fighting.” You add, and you know you shouldn’t be adding fuel to the fire but you just can’t help it. 

“Everything okay over here?” Luke's voice is like dousing fire with water, his hand smoothing over your back to sit against your hip as he slides up beside you.

“You should keep your girl on a tighter leash.” Matt speaks before you can reassure your boyfriend, “Seems like she’d jump ship to anyone offering her a good time.” You can feel Luke tense beside you, a few of his team mates pausing in their movement, watching their rookie player glare up at the intruder. 

While Luke has always been considered in the group of larger hockey players - Matt was on a whole other level. 

“What did you just say about her?” 

“You heard what I said - your girlfriend is a whore.” You flinch at the words, your arm looping around Luke’s back to grab hold of his suit jacket hoping he was smart enough not to engage with the larger man. 

“What are you gonna do about it?” Matt continues his taunting, your gaze flicking over your shoulder hoping to catch the attention of another person. 

Luke takes in a deep breath, rolling his eyes before stepping away from you a little, his hands moving you behind him slightly as he moves toe to toe with the fighter. “Look, back the fuck off dude. She said she wasn't interested and I’m not interested in paying a fine for bothering with someone like you.” 

You let out a sigh of relief as one of the older players steps up besides you, pulling you a step further away from the pair, his own glare set on the two boys. 

“This can be dealt with on the ice.” Kurtis says roughly, tugging on Luke’s arm to break contact, the rookie quickly following the wordless instructions of his veteran teammate. “Forget what you said about her…” Kurtis pauses, waiting for Luke to object before adding, “Why don’t you fight someone your own size?” You can see the anger rolling off the two rookies as they finally nod at each other in understanding, Matt glaring at the three of you before turning towards the away team locker room. 

“Leave him for me, Kid.” Kurtis says quickly as Luke turns towards him, adding “You’re not a fighter, Luke. We need you to be able to play.” Luke nods hesitantly, the two of you watching as Kurtis kisses his wife quickly before moving into the locker room, your gaze turning up to your boyfriend. 

“He’s right, you know.” You say. 

“I know.” Luke agrees, leaning down to give you a chaste kiss on your cheek before following after his team mate. 

“Play safe.” The words falter as Kurtis’s wife thread her arm through yours - reassuring you everything will be okay. 

“Kurtis will sort that kid out.” She says quickly, the cheeky gleam in her eyes.

The pre game warm ups move quickly - both teams seemingly tense on the ice, neither making much contact with each other, Luke goes through his normal motions, his body seeming no looser than before as he exits the ice to walk back into the locker room. 

“Why do I have a feeling this is going to be bad?” You ask the wives and girlfriends besides you - all of them agreeing with your gut feeling, all of you tense in your seats as you watch the teams take the ice again - a strange mix of players starting for New Jersey - Luke steaming from the bench as he watching the referee talk to the players at center ice. 

It’s not clear who starts it from where you’re sitting - but as soon as the puck hits the ice, chaos breaks out - each of the ten players on the ice matching up a five on five brawl sprawling across the ice. Most of the fights end quickly, each player slowly making their way to the penalty box as they get pulled apart by the officials, but one match up continues. 

Matt and Kurtis go head to head for over five minutes - both teams cheering them on the pounding of sticks on the boards echoing through the arena. Finally the two get pulled apart and to everyone's joy Kurtis comes away relatively unharmed - the other team's rookie seeming to have gotten the worst of the hits in the fight. 

You watch Luke yell something across the ice as Matt is dragged from the ice the two of them yelling at each other back and forth until Luke’s captain pats his shoulder gently, motioning for him to calm down.  

The game continues tensely - the ejected players cleaning themselves up before joining your group in the family area, Kurtis patting your shoulder gently as you thank him for stepping in. 

“The kid needing a proper welcome to the NHL - I’m glad I was the one to give it to him.” Kurtis says quietly, before adding, “Luke’s pretty fired up, try to get him home in one piece.” 

The game finishes with a loss for the Devils, everyone disappointed but unable to wipe the smiles off their faces as they reminisce on the earlier fight - everyone wanting to share their point of view. Luke pushes his way out of the locker room, his face set in a deep frown as he reaches his hand out for yours, his shoulder dropping a little as you squeeze your hand in his. 

“You need to relax and try not to crash on the way home.” You comment as you both get into the car. Luke lets out a long groan before flopping against the driver's seat.  

“I feel like such a wimp.” Luke’s words surprise you, your boyfriend had never had much interest in fighting before definitely being a lover and not a fighter. 

“Why?” 

“Because I let another player fight my battle.” You let out a snort of a laugh. 

“That’s his job, Luke.” Your boyfriend flicks his faze over to you, “He’s supposed to give and take the hits to keep the best players on the ice, I think Kurtis had more fun than anyone else that player today.” You continue, reaching over to pull on one of the curls sitting on his forehead. 

“It’s not a bad thing to know when to fight and when you’re outmatched - Matt is a fighter and knows what he’s doing and you’d be stupid to think you could take him on.” Your words are harsh, just like they were when you had first met - but the blow is softened as you smile softly as the man sitting next to you. 

“I’m proud of you for choosing the high road - he’s a meat head hockey player who’s got more brawn than skill - but you have talent and it would’ve been a shame to see you waste it all for one stupid fight.” Luke nods slowly at your words, turning his head to press a kiss against your palm before turning back to the front of the car. 

“Okay, I think it’s safe to drive now.” He jokes, his posture far more relaxed than it was before. 

Luke doesn’t know a lot about many things. 

But he knows that he would do anything for you. Even get in a stupid fight.

[ellecdc]

Can we get a James potter pregnancy fic like the moon water one? I just on ow he’d be so sweet and doting and wouldn’t let you lift a finger.

it's so true though - he would be a master coddler, & sorry to leave you waiting since April, this fic gave me a run for my money 🥺

James Potter x pregnant wife!reader who interrupts game night

CW: mentions of pregnancy, gambling?

Sirius was not too proud to admit that he felt immediately guilty when he realised the mistake he had made.

As you got further along in your pregnancy, James had become increasingly less inclined to leave your side for any extended amount of time.

It got to the point that James actually took a leave of absence from work, and was now debating whether or not he’d ever go back once the baby was born. 

Remus, Sirius, and Peter all had bets on how long that was going to last, knowing how…involved James could be, not withstanding the potential pregnancy hormone related fits of anger and exhaustion. 

So, this week's game night (and likely every remaining one until perhaps your child went to Hogwarts) was being hosted at James’.

“Sorry boys, I just don’t want to risk not being here in case she needs anything, you know?” He had said. 

And they did know; and quite frankly, Sirius was looking forward to not having to clean up after his sodding friends, so there were no complaints from him or Moony. And your place was closer to Peter’s flat, so he was happy for an excuse to take an evening stroll.

So when the four friends were sitting around a circular dining table, bickering over whose turn it was in their game of muggle poker and you were - what was only now very clear to Sirius - tiptoeing down the stairs of your townhouse, Sirius really shouldn’t have made your presence known. 

“What are you doing up?” James asked as he quickly dropped his cards - face down, dammit - onto the table to make his way over to you after being alerted to your presence by Sirius’ traitorous smile and wave.

“I just wanted a snack, Jamie.” You admitted, half bashful and half frustrated at the fussing, though you accepted James' embrace willingly.

Sirius thought the hug looked awkward, seeing as how the two of you needed to leave so much room for your belly. 

“You should’ve told me, angel; I would have gotten it for you.” He chided gently as he ushered you (forced you) into his seat with a gentle hand on your back.

You smiled apologetically at the boys as you sat in James’ seat with only a small groan and a hand on your belly.

“Sorry, Trouble.” Sirius apologised quickly. But you - the sweet ‘angel’ that you were - simply waved him off. 

“Even if I had made it to the kitchen, he would have heard me rummaging in the fridge.” You said simply, picking up James’ cards and reorganising them.

“Has he got anything good?” Peter asked quickly, causing you to shake your head no before putting the cards back down.

“Damn sod’s been bluffing; he was always such a terrible liar at Hogwarts when he was the lookout for our pranks, how on earth can he bluff?” Remus asked incredulously as he dropped his own hand down on the table (face down, damnit). 

“He’s not bluffing; I don’t think he has a clue how to play this game.” You explained simply.

“You should come to all of our game nights.” Sirius chuckled as he gently nudged your arm with his elbow. 

You chuckled and looked towards the kitchen. “The point of gamenights was for you four to get together, and for me to have a quiet house.”

“Please.” James called as he made his way out of the kitchen with a tray of various treats in one hand and a large cup of ice water in the other. “You gave up having a quiet house the second you said ‘I do’.” 

You accepted a loving kiss to your temple as he handed the cup of water to you and placed the tray in front of you on top of his cards. 

If Sirius didn’t get a peak at someone’s cards really fucking soon-

“How many more weeks do you have?” Remus asked you then; probably a polite thing to ask a pregnant couple but Sirius was a little preoccupied wondering if there was an X-ray vision spell he could use to see through Peter’s cards. 

“Too many.” You responded as James offered a jovial “It’s gone by so quickly!” 

“Jamie, I really don’t think you get to say that.” You admonished him, though Sirius could tell the furrow of your brows was all for show. 

“What? Why? I feel like this pregnancy has just flown by!” 

“Oh, well I’m very glad you feel that way.” You sneered. “But you’re not the one who had to stretch and grow and carry around a bowling ball.”

Sirius felt himself swallow nervously in James’ honour, but the dumb sod simply beamed at you lovingly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s because you’ve done it so beautifully, angel; you made it look easy.”

And damn James and his smoothness; he had even Sirius blushing.  

“Alright, I’m in.” Remus announced then as he pushed a pile of chips towards the centre of the table.

“Me too.” Peter agreed as he followed in suit.

Sirius felt like he was grasping at billywigs, but he felt he had a better chance than James, so he, too, bet a couple of chips. 

“What say you, Prongs?” Peter asked then.

James turned back to the game, looking surprised as if he’d forgotten they’d been playing at all.

“Oh, I fold.” He said simply.

“What!?” Sirius screeched as he threw his cards down on the table. 

Remus made an exasperated groaning sound as he also placed his cards face up.

“Yeah, I had nothing.” James responded with a casual shrug.

“Nice.” Peter murmured quietly as he took in the state of Remus and Sirius’ cards before placing his own down on the table and pulling the chips towards himself.

“For fucks sake!” Sirius shouted.

“Pads! Little ears!” James chided.

“Are they even fully developed yet?” Sirius muttered back, earning him a swat up the back of the head from his boyfriend. 

“Oh yes.” You said solemnly. “Babe has been very active everytime Uncle Pads talks.”

Sirius paused in his tussle with Moony to whip his head towards you. “Really!?”

You smiled and nodded, holding your hand out for his which he took willingly and allowed you to place it to a particularly hard spot on your stomach.

“Say something.” You instructed.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good!” He chanted, the end of his sentence rising an octave (or two, if you asked Moony) when he felt a little kick right underneath his hand. “Oh my godric!”

“I wanna feel.” Remus murmured as he reached over his boyfriend to swap places.

“Mischief managed.” Sirius continued, feeling the slight jump of excitement in Remus’ body at the movement he obviously felt beneath his hand. 

“Oh gods, you’re gonna have a trouble maker.” Peter remarked with a shake of his head, though his smile let you know the comment was made in jest. 

“Oh, there was never any doubt about that, considering who the father is.” You quipped back, smiling lovingly up at James who simply beamed down at you in turn. 

“Well, I’ll get out of your hair, boys.” You said as you made to stand. “Let you get back to your games.” 

Your sentence was met with a round of dissent. 

“No, no mama. We’ll leave.” Sirius argued as he too stood. 

“What? Why are we leaving!?” Pete asked then.

“Peter, you already took all our money, leave the expecting parents to their evening, yeah?” Remus reprimanded, causing the three of them to look over only to see James blanketed over you from behind with both of his hands resting on your stomach as he murmured softly into your ear.

Your eyes were closed as you allowed James to rock the two of you back and forth with a soft smile spread across your face. 

“Come on Petey, we’re officially intruding.” Sirius added as he tossed another chip at his friend. “Take this for the road - I’ll be winning it all back at our next game night.”

[tojirights]

Omg omg i love your Alastor posts. Something about him realising that you have a thing for his voice (and it takes him a while cause he’s so dense when it comes to things like that lmaooo) and just exploiting it whenever he wants something from you ahhhh

a/n: his voice is sooo 🥰🥰🥰 requests open!

"greetings! welcome to the hotel." alastor chirps as you're lead through the doors to your new 'home'. your eyes widen, goosebumps forming on your skin immediately after his voice hits your ears. you're completely enamored, jaw hanging open in awe. "O-oh, hello." you smile meekly, a blush on your cheeks as he reaches out his hand. "pleasure to be meeting you, the name's is alastor. " he bows ever so slightly, forcing even more color to your face.

you're at a loss for words, nothing but a fumbled 'thank you' can leave your lips. you hear snickering behind you and turn to see angel and husk covering their mouths to hide their laughter. alastor is none the wiser, smiling at you as if it's not obvious you're head over heels just after hearing his voice.

this goes on for weeks until someone (likely angel) tells alastor straight to his face that you hang around him so much just to hear him speak. alastor's ears twitch at angel's overly sexual comment, something about "she's prob'ly touchin' herself to your every broadcast, dummy." but that does give him an idea...

the next time he sees you, alastor decides to put angel's theory to the test. "hello, darling." he speaks, slow and purposeful. your body shudders as, once again, your arms fill with goosebumps. "yes, alastor?" you reply, pretending to keep your cool. "i have just a little favor to ask..." he hums, his hand reaching around to rest on the small of your back to lead you out of the hotel lobby.

you almost glare at him, feeling weak in the knees. "a favor for the radio demon?" you shoot back, earning a chuckle from him. his hand feels warm on your back, too warm. "nothing serious my dear! i've just been hearing through the grapevine that a little someone finds my voice... irresistible?" alastor whispers the word right by your ear, forcing you to bite back a whine.

quickly, you put distance between the two of you. "w-well that's interesting, huh? want me to find out who it is?" you laugh, quick and breathless as you try to cover for yourself. alastor raises his brow. "now now, no need for shyness. i can always talk you through it." he winks.

[cxffecoupx]

realizing that they're in love with you

seventeen × gn reader fluff, svt being soft for s/o, comfort warnings: mentions of food, alcohol word count: 1.4k author's notes: my first ever requested article. to the anon who sent me this, i love you so much and thank you so so much for sending it in, i hope you like it, and i'm so sorry it took so much time, my brain was smoked for a bit😭 but i absolutely loved writing it. i had to read similar stuff by other svt writers (mainly @emocheol how seventeen realized you were ‘the one’ and @suhnshinehaos the soft italicized 'oh' moment) to get into it. please do check them out too, i love it!!

➼ choi seungcheol

seungcheol had come home late in the evening, tired and exhausted. work was rough, the boys were chaotic, and all he wanted now was some peace and quiet. the moment he sees you at home, however, all his stress just melts away. you're just there, smiling at him, asking about his day, but he already feels so much better. and when you stay up all night, sitting with him and helping him work through his troubles, that's when it hits him. he wants you by his side as his support, forever.

➼ yoon jeonghan

you both were out for dinner with your friends. two hours and 3 glasses of beer in, the chatter had cooled down into private conversations. you were talking to one of your colleagues when you notice jeonghan zoning out in the middle of the gathering. realising he's run out of his social battery, you say your goodbyes and stand up, and drag a drowsy han back to your car. it's not until the next morning that jeonghan understands everything and smiles to himself. a person who deciphers him state of mind? maybe you were his best match after all.

➼ hong jisoo

jisoo had gone to his hometown for some two weeks to spend with his mom. he was so excited for it he didnt even notice how much you hated him leaving you. he had been quite busy during his vacation, meeting friends, spending time with mom, but something kept troubling his mind. something he had no answer for. even the voice calls and facetimes didnt help. then he returns and sees your face among all other blurred people and smiles. he never wants to stay away from you, he realises.

➼ moon junhui

between work and practice, jun hadnt really noticed his birthday approaching. coming home after work one day, a familiar scent welcomes him. he goes to the kitchen to find a pot of simmering hotpot broth and its ingredients sliced and kept aside. with the emotions flooding in with every whiff, he doesnt notice you hugging him from the back while singing a 'happy birthday' softly, and turning him around to kiss a gentle kiss on his forehead. he has no words to say; he only embraces you tight and cries on your shoulder as the members, who had arrived a little after him on your request, watch. he doesnt say anything, his eyes conveying that he's grateful for everything you've done

➼ kwon soonyoung

if you ask his friends, kwon soonyoung was a very weird person. he says he's an introvert (well, his MBTI said that), but he's as extroverted as they get. he pretends to be a tiger most of the times and his behaviour is VERY unpredictable. everyone thought he'd be difficult to tolerate or balance out. but then you came along. now they've got two very weird people to deal with. they had talked to soonyoung how he'd met his match, but he never thought more of it, until he sees you with his friends and sees something of himself in the way you are with them. he'd finally found someone who'd match his weird.

➼ jeon wonwoo

wonwoo's camera roll was full. which only meant one thing: time to save all the pics to his laptop. he inserts the sd card into the computer and opens the file. his face instantly lights up. you had always been shy in front of camera lens. meeting wonwoo was one of the best moments of your life, but it still took time for you to adjust to his captures. that didn't stop him from considering you his muse, the one he's love to click again and again and again. seeing you smiling in the pictures he took warmed his heart. you could be camera shy, but he only ever loved capturing you.

➼ lee jihoon

jihoon is a workaholic through and through. he wouldnt think twice about missing food and sleep if its to get his work done. you'd often complained about him working saturdays too. imagine the surprise his team had when he called in to announce a day off. like, what caused the mighty lee jihoon to take a day off on a saturday?? the answer was at his home, lying between his arms, a sleepy you that had cuddled your way into his arms in the early morning hours. he'd fallen in love watching you be so comfortable with him. you'd convinced him to stay home once in a while.

➼ lee seokmin

company celebrations usually always ended with fireworks. and usually, you watched it with everyone else in the hall. but this time, seokmin arranged for the keys of the roof for you two to have a better and private view of the sparklers. you sneak in with him, giggling and tripping over your own feet in the dark as you reach the roof to see the spectacular show. you walk ahead, mind blown by how much more beautiful it looked from up here. but seokmin had his eyes locked on something else. you. he'd rather admire you than watch the fireworks.

➼ kim mingyu

food was mingyu's love language. he absolutely LOVED cooking food and feeding it to his loved ones. but since after he met you, he realised he especially loved cooking for you. he loved cooking your comfort food for you. he cooked your mom's recipes when he felt that you missed home a little too much. he loved to listen to your comments when he experimented with the ingredients. it's during one such preparation when it dawned on him. he'd love to make food for you for a very long time.

➼ xu minghao

you'd always been mesmerised hearing hao speak chinese. he doesnt use it very much; pretty much only when he's calling his family or sometimes when speaking with junhui, who's also from china. to say chinese was becoming second to him wouldnt be false because he's using so much korean in his daily life. one day, while walking around the house, he hits his toe on the couch and lets out a sharp curse in his mother tongue. you gasp and say "oh my! hao just cursed," and hao quickly turns his head towards you. it's not what you said, it was how you said it that surprised him. you had responded to him in chinese?? you explain to him how you started taking small classes in learning chinese so that he could converse comfortably with you too. you even asked him to help you. hao swore once again, but in his head. someone was ready to go to such lengths for him? he's truly fallen in love with you.

➼ boo seungkwan

seungkwan had begged for you to stay overnight. it was difficult of course, because you both were tired from work. but when he pulls the ultimate puppy eyes, you couldn't really refuse. you went through an elaborate routine of doing skincare and bathing as a way of relaxing, and watching sappy sitcoms until you both fell asleep to the white noise of the tv. seungkwan woke up first, but his breath hitched seeing you asleep next to him. apart from the little snores and a string of drool from the corner of you mouth, you looked so adorable, snuggled in next to him; so tiny, and so so cute. he stayed there, watching you, silently wishing he could see you like this every morning.

➼ chwe hansol

everyone says hansol has a weird sense of humour. it's not that he doesn't make good jokes, it's just that no one reacts in the way he wishes. so when he goes, "why did the bicycle take a nap? because it was two-tiered" and you end up crying of laughter among the dead silence of his friends, he feels a blush creep up his cheeks. someone who laughs at his corny jokes? that has to be the soulmate he never believed in.

➼ lee chan

chan cannot deny that he loves smiling. laughing. chuckling. he loves to be filled with happiness at all times. whether it's through his own jokes, or his friends' crazy antics, he wishes to be happy most of the time. that's how he realises one day that being with you makes him smile automatically. there is absolutely no specific reason. seeing you, talking to you, listening to you talk about anything and everything. no matter what you do, you always manage to bring a smile to his face. he doesnt really understand it though, how it happens. but one thing's for sure. he wishes to remain happy with you always.

[idksmtms]

I Sit And Watch You... (tolerate it p2) (Daemon Targaryen x Niece/Wife!reader, Criston Cole x reader) - evermore series

P1: tolerate it

A/N: After intense and popular demand, I decided to write a part 2 to ‘tolerate it’ even though the goal for the series was one fic per song… ANYWAY! I hope you guys enjoy it! And sorry that it took me so long but I went soooo overboard writing this… 

Summary: After the realisation that your husband not only does not love you, but has been in love with your sister since before you were even married, you feel adrift in the world. But then suddenly, like a flame appearing in the dark of night, your heart is reignited by someone. This poses an entirely different problem for your poor little heart. 

Word count: ~17k (my god...)

Trigger Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, Rhaenyra’s younger sister, canon typical incest, INCEST, age gap, unrequited love, angst, like a lot of angst, like ANGSTTTT, depictions of depression, bedrotting due to depression, cheating, insecurity, self-hatred, self-abuse, SMUT, PinV sex, oral (f!receiving), sex-related shame, feeling shame after having sex, just really sad tbh, forbidden relationship, probably OOC characters but I honestly can’t give a shit bc I want to write angst, probs typos (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not claim to own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. 

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

You weren’t sure how long you drifted between sleep and wakefulness in the dark comfort of your bed. Every few hours one of the maids would poke their head through the crack in the curtains and ask if you were alright, if you wanted or needed anything. Sometimes you wouldn’t answer, would simply stare off into the distance as if you were watching worlds they could not see. Other times you would shake your head despondently, slow and stiff, your eyes not moving from the spot they had latched onto. 

Once you had turned to look at the young girl standing at the side of your bed, the curtains pulled back a little and her frowning face shadowed by the sun from behind her. You had simply stared into her face and your eyes had slowly begun to fill with tears until she panicked and slid the curtain shut and rushed out of your room. 

You never wanted anything, never needed anything, the maids noticed. They could see tear tracks on your cheeks from time to time, could see the dampness of it on your pillows, and they often muttered to each other about your state, but not a word was said to anyone unless they took notice of it themselves. 

The entire week you stayed in your bed, your father knew nothing of your state. He had washed his hands of you the second you had been married off to Daemon, and his sole focus in his slowly dwindling life was Rhaenyra. He had asked after you only once and received the response that you weren’t feeling particularly well. He had frowned, asked the maids to keep an eye on you, and left it at that. 

Rhaenyra, hearing of your sudden sickness had come to inquire after you but had received no response from the curtained bed and had felt too awkward around you since your wedding to even try and breach your little confinement. She had stood just beside the bed for a few moments, head tilted up to the ceiling as she tried to think of something, anything, to say but eventually just sighed and wished you well before hurrying out of the room. 

Alicent came by to visit you once every day. After hearing of you taking to your bed on the first day and refusing your meals by the evening, she had told Ser Criston to take up a post outside your door and inform her of any changes. She always came to sit on the edge of your bed for an hour to simply watch you or offer idle words about her days. She liked to believe you only responded to her, for you would often simply grasp her hand with shaking fingers as she sat with you, and closed your eyes to listen to whatever she had to say. But despite her best efforts, her gentle words to try and convince you to get out of bed or to at least change out of your nightgown went unanswered. 

Daemon visited you once in the entire week you were abed. When you had not shown yourself for dinner on the first evening, he had asked for the maidservant to check on you. He had become accustomed to having meals with you, to the comforting drone of chatter in the background while he sat at the table, and it felt freakishly odd not to have it. Though he was often described as a chaotic person, he was disciplined, and once set in a routine enjoyed keeping it that way. 

When the maids returned with a quiet “the Princess said she is not feeling well and has gone to her bed early”, he had simply shrugged and moved on, eating his meal while reading a scroll on the Valyrian histories. But then you were nowhere to be found on the second day, and the third, and when half of the fourth passed and he heard whispers of your complete absence from all of your duties, a tingle of discomfort had settled itself in the pit of his stomach. He wouldn’t say he was worried about you, but something in the air suddenly felt off and he wanted it fixed as soon as possible. The world being out of order simply wouldn’t do. 

In the sunlight hour just before dusk, when everything was bathed in a yellow slowly turning to orange and gave the world a warm hazy glow, he marched all the way to your chambers (the ones he had been supposed to share with you). When he had found Criston Cole standing guard at your door, he had almost snarled out loud like a disgruntled dog. He paused for a moment, grimacing as if someone had just put a lime in his mouth without his consent, and then pushed through the doors before remembering you were unwell and might be sleeping. He became quieter then, turning slowly to close the door behind himself and walking with light footsteps. 

Though it was still daytime, your room was pitch dark, illuminated only by the thin cracks of light that peeped between the curtains. His eyebrows furrowed, hands clenched into fists at his sides as he searched the room for any threat but found nothing in the low light. When he found the curtains around your bed closed, his heart began to thump wildly in his chest. For a moment, when he reached out and gently grasped the edges, he wondered what he would find in the bed. Would there be a corpse, rotten and shrivelled from how long it had been there? Or would there be an assassin, an attacker ready to pounce as soon as he illuminated them? 

He pulled the curtain back only enough to look through with one eye, but what he found was nothing more than the sad sight of a girl asleep in her bed. Though it was warm in the room, becoming almost stifling, you were under the covers. You were on your side, curled around the pillow you clutched tightly in your arms, and for a second he imagined that that’s what you would look like in bed with someone. Your hair was splayed out behind you messily, all over the pillow and some strands fallen upon your cheeks. Your mouth was parted just a little, lips moving with soft steady breaths. Your cheeks were flushed, and he could see the shine of sweat creeping forward from the back of your neck. 

He wasn’t sure exactly how long he stood there, watching you sleep, but he had found it difficult to tear himself away. How did one manage to look so sad while asleep? He wondered as he noticed the puffiness around your eyes and the way your fingers clenched into the pillow as if it would be taken from you at any moment. 

There seemed to be nothing else wrong with you, no gauntness in your cheeks or skin rash in sight, no visible ailment from how much of your body he could glean, but he decided to find the maester before the day was over. He left as quietly as he had entered, tucking the curtain closed again and shooting Criston a sneer as he came back out and strode down the hallway trying to remember where the maesters kept their quarters. 

You were in your bed for a week, leaving only to use the chamber pot behind the changing dividers before clambering right back into your bed. All your meals were brought in and left on the little table just beside your bed, and for the first three days were returned to the kitchens untouched. It was only after the third day went by, when Christys, once your nursemaid and later a kitchen hand when you had no more need of her as a child, noticed your third breakfast returning without even a nibble and made her way up to your chambers. 

She gently pulled your curtain back and stared at your pathetic little figure curled up under the sheets and sleeping though it was midday. Your eyelids were puffy and dark circles had begun forming under your eyes despite how much you seemed to have been resting. She placed the tray on the little table then sat down on the edge of the bed, just as she had once done when you were sick as a child. Her old weathered face was pulled into a worried frown and she gently reached out and caressed your head. Your eyes opened instantly, it appeared that you hadn’t been sleeping after all, and you watched her as if you had never seen her before. She smiled, or tried to, and caressed your cheeks with a little hum. 

“Little princess,” she called kindly, and you felt the urge to reach out and caress her face, all the wrinkles that had appeared since you had been a child under her care. Her skin was beginning to sag a little around her neck and cheeks and her face was all soft and pudgy, as you imagined a grandmother’s to be like. 

She did not try to convince you to leave the confines of your bed, to come out where the sun was shining and to leave the melancholia behind. She simply told you that if you would like to sit up a little, she would help you drink a sip of water, eat a bite of food, and perhaps you would feel a little better once you lay down again. 

You nodded, just one little dip of your head, and allowed her to help you shift your body up a little so you were sitting up against the mound of pillows. You reeked of sweat and the slightly sour smell that came from a stagnant room. Your hair was beginning to get matted and greasy but you did not seem to care about a thing, did not even notice it all. 

Christys brought the goblet to your lips, smiling joyfully as you began to take sips, then gulps as the thirst you had ignored took control of your body. You finished two full goblets before you were sated and lay back on the bed with your eyes closed for a moment, heaving as if you had been running through the halls with Rhaenyra as you had once done as children. Christys gently caressed your head, smiling fondly as you leaned into her touch. 

“Would you like to eat something, little princess?” She asked quietly, and you only opened your eyes. You looked unsure, as if you were aware of the world around you for the first time, and she didn’t give you the chance to refuse, simply brought the plate into her lap, spooned up a little bit of the broth, and brought it to your lips. Slowly, you opened your mouth and accepted it, humming softly when you realised it was the slightly spicy southern soup she used to make for you when you were sad as a child. 

You looked at Christys with your big eyes wide open, as if you were waiting for something, and she almost began to cry. That was exactly how you used to look at her when you were just six summers old, eyes wide, mouth open, as you waited for her to feed you another bite. But there had been nothing so despondent about you back then, no air of defeat hanging around you. What had happened to you that you became like that child again? 

Christys smiled at you, a thin watery smile, and held up the spoon again, watching you swallow the broth once more and gently saying “my good girl”, squeezing your hand in commendation as you allowed your lips to relax and smile for the first time since you had entered the bed. 

Once you had finished about half the meal, you shook your head and slowly began sliding back down under the covers. Christys simply nodded and placed the plate back on the tray. She gently took a hold of the covers and pulled them up until your chin, tucking them in a little around you before bending down and pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. 

“Rest well, my sweet princess,” she whispered, and when you closed your eyes, you finally looked serene. 

On the fourth day, just as night fell, a maester came to see you. You were sat up in bed again after Christys had come to feed you your dinner and had decided to stay sat up even as she left to bring the tray back down to the kitchens. Though the despondency hadn’t left you still, you felt marginally better now after eating and being doted upon by both Alicent and Christys. 

You still had no plans to leave your bed, you had become very quickly accustomed to the little space you had created for yourself in it, and were suddenly beginning to feel a debilitating sense of worry every time you imagined stepping foot outside of it and facing the rest of the world. Despite this, after your second day of proper meals, you were considering reaching out of your little cave and grabbing for a scroll or tome you might have left upon your little table if something still happened to be there. 

But just as you had finally resolved to do so, you heard the doors open and one of your maids announced that a maester had come to see you. You said nothing, hoping perhaps that your lack of an answer would send them away, but one curtain was simply pulled back and the maester gazed down at you. You looked up at him with wide eyes, as if you had been caught doing something you should not have been doing, but he smiled gently and came closer as you gulped in fright. 

“Your highness, word is that you have been taken ill for the past few days,” he spoke jovially, as if hoping his joking tone would heal you, but you simply shook your head and dipped it down to look at your lap. 

“Thank you for coming maester,” your voice was hoarse and croaky from a lack of use, and you quickly grabbed the goblet that Christys had left on your table to both take soothing sips of water and give your hands something to do. “But your visit is unnecessary.” You tried to smile but it wouldn’t show, and eventually you looked up at him with earnest eyes, hoping he would leave as soon as you were done speaking. “Though, yes, it is true that I have been confined to the bed, it is myself that has done the confinement. What ails me is not a matter of the body, but one of the heart.” You chewed on your lip, feeling as if you had said too much, but the maester smiled understandingly and gestured to the edge of your bed as if asking to sit. You nodded. 

“Your highness, if I understand correctly, you have been in your first quarrel with your husband, and it has much affected you.” You began to shake your head, to open your mouth to deny his claim, but he went on without allowing space for interjection. “But it is the way of marriages to have disagreements. You and your husband will likely have many more before the time of either of your deaths - gods willing it be a long time from now - but it is nothing to worry over so.” You pursed your lips and let him speak, hoping the spiel would end quickly and he would be out of your hair.  “And if you believe your actions have caused your husband to abandon his love for you, then know that it is he who came himself to find me and instruct me to visit you out of concern for your wellbeing.” He smiled almost triumphantly, and began standing from the bed as if he had solved everything already, but you looked up at him with a little frown. 

“Daemon went to you?” Your voice was small, confused, and he nodded quickly. 

“Yes, just as the sun set he found me and told me that you had not been out of bed for four days and nights and to heal you at once.” You nodded, not knowing what to say, and watched him walk out of the room, disgruntled that he had not closed the curtain behind himself. 

You were unsure as to the weird churning in your heart. It was all warm and giddy at the thought of Daemon being concerned for you, visiting you while you were asleep and then hunting the maester down for you. It was an act of caring, if not love, and your poor battered heart already began to churn with hope that maybe he could love you if he did not already. But then you were seeing him leaned over Rhaenyra, hair flopping forward onto his forehead. You saw the way she twisted back and forth at the waist teasingly, eyes dancing with mischief as she bit her lip and waited for him to bend down and kiss her silly. 

The hope crashed, the despondency returned, and the cycle began once more until you felt you were going mad and began smacking your head against the pillows until your brain felt physically shaken. You wanted to cry, but you were all cried out. You wanted to scream, but you had no voice. You wanted to run, but you couldn’t move. In the end, you lay back on the bed with your eyes closed and let your mind spiral. 

Why did he not love you? What was it you had done that made you unworthy of love? Or maybe it was not what you had done, but what you hadn’t. You hadn’t been pretty enough; you were always noticing blemishes on your skin or fat in places there shouldn’t be or the fact that all of your mother’s beauty had been inherited by Rhaenyra, the realm’s delight, your father’s precious and beautiful child, while you were left to yourself without compliment or radiance. You weren’t funny enough; you never had a joke on hand to tell, you weren’t confident enough to tell it anyway. You couldn’t command a room the way Rhaenyra could, or make everyone burst out with laughter at the simplest of words. You always felt stupid despite the amount of time you spent reading or conversing with maesters or travellers. You weren’t loving enough; your smile didn’t instil warmth in the hearts of others, perhaps your kind words weren’t kind enough or your efforts to demonstrate your love were not worthy enough. You simply hadn’t been enough. 

The final two days you spent in your bed, you spent thinking. What would you do when you were eventually forced back into the world? How would you continue on? It was obvious that you could not stay hiding in the little world you had created for yourself, if only because you desperately needed to bathe or had begun wanting to visit the library to pick your next read. You didn’t find the answer while still in your bed, but on the sixth day, Christys finally convinced you to get out and properly stretch your legs before having a bath. 

“A good stretch, a nice warm bath, getting dressed in your prettiest clothes, will do wonders for you little princess. You may not feel all the way better, but something will have changed and you will be the better for it.” You had nodded, thanking her in a small voice and slipping out of the bed as she went to get the maids to start your bath. 

You shivered when your feet touched the cold stone, and though your muscles were stiff at first, it felt good to walk the length of the room over and over until your weakened legs began to shake. You had pushed the curtains back not only on the bed, but on the windows too and had felt your spirits lift as the afternoon sunshine filled your room. 

When all the maids came in to fill the tub set at the side of your room, they smiled with relief and tittered over the state of you. With the sunshine and the friendly faces and jovial chatter, your mood began to rise again and despite the ever-present sadness that still lingered in the back of your mind, you felt good for a little while. 

They steeped you in the bath like you were tea, letting your skin become pruny as they washed your hair three times over, then scrubbed you down like you were one of the old dirty carpets from the storeroom. You felt pink and raw, like a new skin had emerged from under your old one and the world was a little brighter again. You even laughed when one of the maids made a joke about the habits of debauchery of one of the stableboys. 

You picked out a beautiful blush-pink dress that had been made from special fabric brought from Dorne. It was light and airy, designed more in the Dornish fashion leaving your shoulders and arms exposed except for thick straps that held the dress up on your upper arms. You twirled giddily in front of the mirror a few times before sitting down to have your hair done, you never could help yourself from it when you were in that dress. 

The maids enjoyed seeing you so alive again after the past week of worry and woe. They giggled happily and clapped for you, and were excited to do your hair. They weaved intricate braids and gathered some of them into a twist on the back of your head while leaving others to fall down your back over the last layer of your unbraided hair. They even wanted to rub rouge on your lips and cheeks and line your eyes but you had politely refused saying you were enjoying the feeling of being clean and fresh-faced, and would keep yourself that way for the rest of the day. Though you had been worrying about your beauty a few days prior, you knew you looked the way you did and couldn’t change it. If you weren’t pretty enough for Daemon, for anyone, you would simply have to learn to accept it and live with it, no matter how much you wished it to be otherwise. 

When you opened the doors to your room by yourself for the first time in a week, a little jittery to face the world once more, you were surprised by the guard who stood across the hall from your chambers. He was not your usual protector, the fresh faced Ser Arryk you had become used to, but a stoic faced Dornishman you believed you had seen trailing Rhaenyra before her wedding, but you couldn’t be sure. 

You gazed at him for a moment, at the shiny black eyes he averted to the floor as he bowed stiffly in his armour, the thick and beautiful hair combed perfectly back and the faint beard he sported around his mouth and over his jawlines, just past a stubble but not very much. His skin was beautiful and golden brown, like he had been born with the gentle touch of the sun, and for a moment you lost yourself while looking at him. He was exactly as you had imagined a knight to be, tall and dark and strong. He was limned with lethal power. 

You smiled, polite and surprised and small, and though he did not return it, only nodded in acknowledgement, you could see his face soften slightly and settle into something a little more gentle and blurred around the edges. You stepped a little closer, still a respectful distance from any man who was not your husband, and curtsied as if you were not the princess but a serving girl passing him in the halls. 

“Hello, Ser,” you began, voice almost whispery, “I mean not to offend, only to inquire where Ser Arryk has been off to and left you to his usual duties.” You were warm, and polite almost to a fault, Criston thought, and he had to purse his lips for a moment to stop a smile breaking out on his face at the innocent yet slightly smiley look you offered him. 

“Your highness, I am Ser Criston Cole,” and he bowed again as if he had not already done so when first laying eyes upon you, “and fret not about Ser Arryk shirking his duties. He has simply been posted elsewhere for the past week as the queen has personally asked me to oversee your protection while you were unwell.” 

“Oh,” you breathed out, smiling in both realisation and fondness as you thought about Alicent sacrificing her trusted guard for you. “The queen is a kind soul,” you spoke with reverence, smiling at the floor for a moment before looking back to him. He had been watching you the entire time, as if he simply could not avert his eyes lest you disappear in a cloud of smoke the second his attention was elsewhere. “Well, if you are still on duty as my protector, would you care to accompany me to the library for the afternoon? I am in desperate need of new reading material.” You asked it as if it was not his job to follow you everywhere you went, as if he needed convincing to accompany you and wasn’t under threat of being a deserter, a traitor to the crown if he refused. 

“Wherever you go, I will follow, your highness,” he stated simply, holding his hand out as if telling you to lead the way. You nodded in return, but stood still for a moment as if you were a bit dazed and lost in your surroundings. Then you shook your head a little, like a puppy shaking water off its fur, and continued down the hallway with your light, graceful steps. 

As you walked, Criston a stride behind, he watched you with curious (and apprehensive) eyes. You had always been a distant, rather obscure, figure in his life. Someone he walked past in the hallways of the Keep or only knew by name. When Rhaenyra had first chosen him to be a new member of the King’s Guard, he had been briefed on the entire immediate family, anyone who he could possibly be assigned to if he was not with Rhaenyra, and of course you had been included in it, but he had not been told much, and had never needed it either, for Rhaenyra took up so much of his time and never spent any of hers with you. Not once had he heard her mention her younger sister, nor meet with you for more than a moment in passing in the hallway during which he bent his head in respect and allowed you two your privacy.  

There was only one moment he remembered clearly from that time. He had been strolling through the gardens with Rhaenyra on an idle and rather humid afternoon. It felt like the entirety of King’s Landing had been poured in syrup, each movement one made was slow, lethargic, succumbing to the heat of the summer. Rhaenyra, still in her youthful blissfulness, her mischief knowing no bounds in her rebellion against her father and Alicent, had been slowly twisting her way down the path, twirling a plucked flower in her hands as he followed. She would occasionally speak to him, say something witty or sarcastic or give a boring observation about something or other, and he would hum or nod or offer whatever thought had conjured in his head at the time. Though it was boring, it was also comfortable. 

Then, a light tinkling laugh carried over the air making them both pause. They couldn’t see you yet, you were past the next curve and some bushes still hid the courtyard from which the laugh came. Rhaenyra paused where she was on the path, staring ahead and continuing to twirl the flower in her hand before turning around and walking back toward where he stood. 

“I have suddenly changed my mind,” she spoke quietly, eyes distant as she chewed on her lip, “perhaps finding a cool sitting room somewhere in the Keep would be better suited for this afternoon.” He only nodded, he could sense the change in her mood, the pensive air that now hung about her, but before they began walking, hurried little steps came down the path and you were barreling into their view. 

“Oh!” You let out a surprised little sound, pausing and almost falling backward in your surprise as you brought a hand to your heart. He watched the fabric of your dress, flowing and beautiful, sway with you, your bare shoulders and the long bell sleeves draping down your arms. The light fabric and the way it moved around you like air reminded him of the time he had spent in Dorne, of the trees swaying in a midsummer breeze. Your cheeks were flushed and a happy little smile widened your mouth, eyes sparkling with girlish joy. Your hair was braided in the fancy way all Targaryens braided theirs, but there was something more free and wild about yours compared to Rhaenyra’s. “Sister,” you breathed out quietly, smiling almost bashfully when you looked upon her. He could tell neither of you were close, but you seemed to put in much more effort to be kind to her than she did in even acknowledging you. 

“Sister,” Rhaenyra responded, almost curt, a tight-lipped smile pushing uncomfortably on her face. 

“How do you fare on this fine day?” You asked, clasping your hands in front of yourself. 

“Fine,” she answered simply, and a rather awkward silence fell between you as you nodded, pursing your lips and suddenly looking rather downtrodden. 

“I’m sorry to have intruded upon your leisure time,” you spoke quietly, “and excuse any impropriety I may have shown in running through the halls, I was simply excited. I…” you looked down to the floor and bit your lip to control your smile. “Some special new thread has been brought in from Dorne and I wished to immediately start on my new embroidery project.” You spoke as if she had asked after you, when Criston had noted a clear absence of not only Rhaenyra’s questioning of you but of her seeming interest in your presence. But you continued as if you were used to it, as if you believed she wanted to ask these questions but simply chose to let you speak, and something churned in his stomach at the thought. “I would like to embroider my dragon saddle with some designs, and this thread would be perfect for it, hardy but pretty,” and you looked at your hands giddily as if you were already holding it. Then you seemed to bow your head for a moment as you said your goodbyes, “I shall leave you to your leisure, Sister,” and you walked off hurriedly past them, as if you hadn’t noticed his presence the entire time. 

As he looked upon you now on the way to the library, he realised a change had overcome you since that time. Just as one had overcome him. Though you were dressed more in the Dornish style, like a summer sky on the hottest day of the year, you reminded him more of the monsoon rains at the island’s southernmost tip, warm drops of rain falling from orange-grey skies at sunset. Your steps were no longer light and dance-like. Though they were still graceful, they were careful, measured. You held yourself differently, much more still, and he couldn’t imagine you skipping or running girlishly through the halls. Even your face, having grown a little more, had taken on a sombre quality. Your eyes were thoughtful, slightly closed off, and… sad. And your face rested on something serene now, something gently heartbreaking though you were neither smiling nor frowning. 

He followed you all the way into the library and then back and forth through the spaces between the shelves. Occasionally you would turn to him and point out a tome you had once read as a girl, or the scrolls you had only just returned the week before. Then you would smile up at him, as if his silent company was most cherished by you, and it soothed something in him he didn’t know was hurt in the first place. 

Later in the evening, when all the candles had been lit and you had been returned to your room to prepare for dinner and Criston had been relieved of his duties for a few hours by the return of Ser Arryk, he found a messenger from the queen requesting his presence in her parlour. The entire way there, he thought about you, as if his mind could find nothing else interesting other than the way you had gently refused him from taking the books from your arms as you traversed through the library. Though he had taken the first few, when he began to reach for the little pile you had accumulated in your arms to add to his own, you had shuffled away from him with a little huff, saying “you have quite enough load as it is, Ser Criston. I may have been…” you hesitated before choosing your next word, “unwell for the past few days, but I am no invalid, and am perfectly capable of doing my own hefting.” And at that you had hefted the pile a little higher into your arms, and he could see them trembling a little as you hurried your step a little to reach one of the tables. 

“My apologies, Princess,” he had answered with the hint of a teasing smile, and you had beamed up at him as if that little show of emotion was everything you had wanted and more. 

“Unnecessary and therefore unaccepted,” you had quipped before turning your back on him and dropping the books onto the table. 

As he thought about it on his walk to the queen’s sitting rooms, he had to swallow down a chuckle that threatened to break out at the memory. Though most of the time he had spent guarding your rooms was uneventful, those few hours were joyful and distracting. Even as you had sat at the little table, forearms leaned against the edge, it had been satisfying to simply watch you scour the pages, your lips moving as you read the words. A sudden request for you to read aloud to him had even entered his thoughts at one point, if only to hear your soft voice a little more, and he had needed to clear his throat at the intrusion upon his mind. You had glanced up at that, eyes wide and asking if he was alright without saying a word, and he had simply bowed his head so you would continue undisturbed. 

When he reached the doors to the queen’s rooms, he knocked three times. He was quickly told to enter in her quiet yet firm voice, and found her sitting at her writing desk as the toddler Helaena crawled about the floor near the fireplace with her maids while another cradled the baby Aemond. Alicent beckoned him to close the door and come closer, and he obliged quickly, coming to stand right beside her desk and leaning down a little so he could hear her clearly over the children’s babbling and the chatter of the nursemaids. 

“Ser Criston,” she began, heaving a breath out that made her shoulders drop a little and folding her hands one on top of the other on her desk. She smiled up at him as if content and a little weary. “You have been a loyal knight, and a comforting presence for me in my time at the Red Keep. Do not think I am dissatisfied with your service as I request of you what I am about to do so,” and she paused, pursing her lips for a moment and looking at her two children before turning back to him. “I would like for you to change your posting to be sworn guard of Princess Y/n. I trust you will find a worthy replacement for yourself at my side and will not question whomever you choose.” She paused again, eyes pensive and mouth opening and closing as she tried to think of ways to explain her thoughts. She closed her eyes, no more than a long blink, then sighed long and low. “I have feared for her since the day of her betrothal, and I fear still that the toll of her marriage is becoming too much to bear. But the princess is self effacing, and would never dare to burden another with any of her worries or woes. I simply wish for you to be the loyal knight to her as you have been to me, and if you see a change in her spirits, or any… behaviours displayed by her husband that may be a cause of concern for her, come to me with these observations and I shall do my best to aid her with the hand she has been dealt.” She smiled up at Criston as if to say ‘you understand, don’t you?’ and he nodded, glancing about her desk as if he was already thinking about everything she had said. “Good,” Alicent finished simply and dismissed him with a wave of her hand telling him to start as soon as possible. And with that, he went to find Ser Arryk and realight upon his duties at your side. 

You were usually quick to be ready for dinner on time, never wanting to keep your husband waiting lest it harden his heart to you anymore than it already was, but at your first dinner returning to his company since your discovery, you took your time. Until the last second you toyed with the option of simply not attending, saying though you had felt better during the day, the bout of wellness had ended and you needed to take to your bed once more. Even sitting at the vanity as your maids redid your hair and applied rouge to your lips and cheeks, your bed seemed to call to you, a siren song begging you to return to your self-imposed conferment and spend the rest of your days hidden away. But you could not. 

When you were ready to leave, you were surprised to find Ser Criston Cole returned to his post. He had informed you of the change of guard before he left, but you had believed he would be gone for a whole shift before returning (or not returning at all). He nodded to you as you walked out, and you paused just in front of him with a surprised smile. 

“Ser Criston! You told me Ser Arryk would be returning as my guard for the evening!” He nodded sheepishly, looking away for a moment, and you almost caught a little smile brewing at his lips before his face returned to its natural stoicness.��

“The queen has decreed that my oath of service to her be transferred to you, your highness,” and the way he said it was so simple, a man following an order. 

“The queen?” You asked, frowning a little in confusion. 

“Yes. I hope you are not put-off by it, your highness. If you wish to choose your own King’s Guard or have Ser Arryk return to his duties, I will speak with the queen myself on your behalf.” He seemed eager not to upset you, brown eyes widening a little in earnestness as he spoke, and you smiled, waving off his concern. 

“No, no, Ser Criston, nothing like that. You have served Alicent well in your time with her and if she trusts you, then I do so as well. I simply wonder if she has done this out of some misplaced concern about my wellbeing,” but the way you said it was warm, as if you appreciated that she had done it nonetheless. 

“I could not say,” he replied quietly, but the way he looked to the ground made you believe he was holding something back. You decided not to question it. 

“Well, off we go, Ser Criston. I believe I am late to dinner with my husband,” your joviality was forced, he could see it in your distracted eyes and the tight smile you tried oh so hard to keep up. Your back was rigid rather than the naturally straight posture you usually kept from years of training, and your clasped hands in front of you were fidgeting with the rings upon your fingers. 

He could see the wedding band you had been given, a band of gold around a big fat ruby. It screamed more of your husband’s tastes than your own, gaudy compared to the delicate jewellery you had worn during the day.

 He thought it rather funny that you wore a ring on the same finger of your opposite hand, this one more simple, a thin band of silver inlaid with tiny sapphires all around. The blue was bright against your skin and your dress, and though it seemed often polished, it looked a little worn and old. He wished to ask you about it, but simply bit his tongue and followed you to the next wing in which the dining room you and Daemon used resided. Once more he noted how odd it was that husband and wife ate dinner together but not ever in their own chambers. 

He stopped outside the doors, turning his back on them and subsequently facing you, and he noted the way you were stopped just in front of them. You were staring ahead of you fearfully, as if whatever lay behind that door was the greatest enemy of all, the thing you feared most in the world, and you seemed to revert to the little girl you had once been, hands shaking and lower lip twitching as if you were about to cry. The urge to comfort you as one would a child raised in him, and he gazed upon you with a pitiful, dog-like sadness. He cleared his throat. 

“Your highness, admonish me if I break any code of impropriety,” he began quietly, not looking right at you but somewhere just above your head. “But if you do not wish to dine with your husband, I can carry in the message for you and escort you back to your chambers at once.” 

You turned to look at Criston, into his eyes that had softened much since you had first met and the little crinkle just above his brow. You smiled, albeit it being thin and watery as you suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to cry, but you shook your head. You wiped at your under eyes until you felt that your tears had dissipated and took deep breaths until your lips no longer shook and the lump in your throat had been swallowed down. 

“No,” you shook your head, closing your eyes for a moment before opening them and shaking your head again. “No, that will not be necessary.” But you smiled at him in thanks, and reached out to gently touch the forearm he held over his stomach. Though you only touched metal, your fingertips tingled and you felt like your septa would come running in to scold you for touching a man who was not your husband. Nothing happened, and you simply curled your fingers inward and brought the fist to your side. Criston watched you like you were created anew before him. And then you opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind you swiftly, and leaving him to the silence of the hallway, and the crackling of fire in the sconce directly ahead of him. 

For the first time you entered the room when Daemon was already seated at the table. He looked back as the doors opened and found you striding in with your head held high, more confident than he had ever seen you before, and he raised an eyebrow at the spectacle. Your lips were pursed tightly, and your eyes were wary, but he couldn’t see it. You walked all the way to the table and sat down swiftly across from him, folding your hands in your lap and only looking so far as your own plate. He hmphed, twisting back to sit properly in his seat and resting his elbows on the table as he watched you. You glanced up, and when you noticed his eyes on you, you seemed to wilt a little like a leaf being boiled in front of him. 

“It seems you have recovered, niece,” and after a moment, you nodded. He never called you wife, you realised. No endearing name like dearest or ‘my heart’. It was always either your name or ‘niece’. 

“Yes,” you answered, and then the servants were bringing the dishes to the table and you two remained silent until they had returned to their spots against the walls. 

Daemon felt a little startled as he poked at the chicken on his plate. It was so… quiet. Usually by this point in the evening he would have been briefed only on the contents of your morning, and though he often lost himself in his thoughts or simply didn’t pay attention, the chatter in the background had become surprisingly… soothing. He looked up at you, but you were simply swirling your soup around and around with your spoon. The silence was grating. He clenched his jaw and put his knife and fork down onto the plate with a little ‘clink’ sound. 

“Was that Crispin’s voice I heard at the door?” He asked a little tersely, and your eyes were wide as they shot up to him. Wide and almost fearful, he would think. “He stood guard at your door while you were sick, you know? Has Alicent finally tired of her dog?” 

“I-” you gulped, glancing all over the table but never at him. You looked anguished, pained, and he wondered if whatever had kept you sick in your bed had not fully left you. “It’s Criston.” 

He looked at you, blinking a little quicker, mouth a little open. Your voice had been small, like the voice children used to wake their parents from their beds, and he couldn’t quite believe you had said what you said. 

“Come again?” And he put his hand to his ear, leaning in and squinting his eyes exaggeratedly, all a show for his heart had begun to pound a little in his chest. 

“His name is Criston. Ser Criston Cole,” you answered, and he clenched his jaw so hard it throbbed for a moment after he released it. You still refused to look at him, and it was beginning to irritate him to the ends of the earth. Though you had not been a particular fan of eye contact before, whenever you had spoken to him at the wedding, at the dinners that followed, you had always looked up at him with big eyes and a tentative little smile. Always looking for his approval. He simply hummed and leaned back to continue eating. 

The dinner was entirely silent after that, and though you left feeling relieved and a little stronger, Daemon was left unsatisfied, something suddenly unsettled in his chest as he watched you breeze out of the door in your fluttering gown without a look back. 

Two weeks on from that day, and you had established a new routine. You would spend the morning hours as you had done before, ensuring everything in your husband’s personal life was perfect, from newly ordered bedsheets and the restuffing of his pillows, to ordering only his favourite cuts of meat and ensuring the squires polished his armour regularly. Perhaps it was out of habit, perhaps out of social convention that you had never once flouted, or simply because despite your anguish when you even thought of him, you may never stop pursuing the need for your husband’s love and approval, but you couldn’t stop yourself from doing it. 

These hours were usually rather hazy in your memory, a series of yes’s and a grey melancholic sheen over your eyes, but after a slow and lazy lunch (usually in Alicent’s company) you always felt better for the latter half of your day. 

You did what you had once done before your marriage, carrying a book or your latest embroidery project in your arms and meandering through the courtyards until you found one devoid of people (or at least devoid of a crowd) and settling down under the shade of a tree. Since your marriage you had found the company of your ‘friends’ grating. Some found pleasure only in the love of their husbands, speaking on and on about the gifts of jewellery and flowers and the showers of attention they received while you simmered in jealousy and an overwhelming feeling of failure. Others found pleasure in telling racy stories of their escapades in the bedchamber(often not with their husbands) and here you too were jealous or simply lost. They described feelings and sensations you had only ever known in hints, desires you didn’t know one could desire, actions of those desires you didn’t think were possible. 

Soon you felt so estranged from them all, so alone in your circumstance, that you simply avoided the gatherings. Though you did sometimes miss the camaraderie of the ladies, the easy laughter and womanly loyalty, you found that it wasn’t such a devastating loss. Especially when you found such a thoughtful companion in Ser Criston Cole. 

He was as stoic as many a knight of the King’s Guard, but you found a certain kinship in his silence and soft looks. He seemed to understand the sadness that seemed to tinge even your happiest moods. He never questioned the sudden onslaught of tears that sometimes attacked you during the day, only offering a handkerchief if you began looking around desperately for one. Nor did he question why you avoided the wing in which Rhaenyra and her soon to be growing family lived, even if it was at your own expense. Or why at even the barest hint of Rhaenyra’s voice you turned and almost ran in the other direction. Though he often only spoke when he was spoken to and usually chose the least verbal answer, his consistent presence and vigilant watch over you was comfortable. It may be only a job for him, but to always have someone watching over your safety and comfort felt… frankly, amazing. 

“Ser Criston?” You looked up at him from your place nestled between the thick roots of an old oak tree in the western-most courtyard of the keep. 

It was one of the colder days of the summer though the sun was shining brightly. A brisk breeze had picked up over the evening before and rarely settled. You were dressed in your Targaryen colours, a black dress with red accents, and if it hadn’t been for the bright pops of colour he would think you had donned your mourning shroud. 

Your hair had been left undone for the day, and you seemed to enjoy the freedom of letting it fly around you untamed. It made you look younger, wilder, and Criston found it an enjoyable sight. You seemed a little bleary after your lunch and laid your head back against the trunk of the tree as you read. You had tried to convince Criston to sit down multiple times and though he refused each time, you chose not to comment about the way he sometimes leaned subtly against the trunk of the tree. 

“Yes, Princess?” He answered, tilting his head down to look at you. You smiled, you derived a secret kind of pleasure when he addressed you so. 

“Would you enjoy this more if I read aloud to you? I fear you must find these afternoons rather dull.” Your smile was almost teasing, and you were successful in eliciting a little smile in return. 

“Do not trouble yourself on my account, Princess,” his voice was soft and he looked away from you to smile at the floor. Your entire body suddenly felt warm and almost giddy. 

“It would be no trouble, I am already reading after all. I simply hope to ensure you do not find my company exceptionally boring,” you said it with a little laugh, bringing your hand up to your mouth as you giggled, and you couldn’t be sure if the sound you heard was actually the little huffing chuckle you believed it to be. When you looked back up at him, his eyes seemed to shine and you wanted to push your face so close to his that those eyes were all you saw. You cleared your throat and averted your gaze as the tips of your ears began burning. 

It was quiet for a few moments, only the rustle of the leaves and the soft sounds of your breathing as you lay your head back against the tree and closed your eyes.  

“I enjoy your company,” it was soft, low, barely audible, but you heard it and your entire body tensed. You refused to open your eyes for a moment, wanting to sit in the words, in the pleasant feeling of being liked, of being enjoyed. When you did open your eyes again and look at him, he had already trained his gaze somewhere across the yard. You cleared your throat and began to read aloud. 

Since your wedding, your husband came to visit your bedchambers once every fortnight. He would knock quietly on the door at the hour of the bat, when the moon was highest in the sky, and enter before you could say anything. Upon the sight of him, you would usually begin walking toward the bed, climbing over the covers to situate yourself in the middle. There were very few candles lit at that hour, and everything was shrouded in a soft secretive light. 

He would be quick to follow you onto the bed, simply undoing the laces on his trousers and slipping them down a little so his cock could bob out. There was never any need for either of you to get undressed further than this. 

Usually he would have you on your hands and knees, a pillow shoved under your hips and another below your head so you could rest the side of your face against it. It was carnal, and unfeeling, how you imagined animals coupled in the wild. You often felt a little sick afterward, like for a moment your body had not been your own, and you would wait to move from the bed until you heard the door close behind him. It was different this time. 

Your spirits were lifted after an enjoyable afternoon reading to Criston and though you continued to stay silent at your dinners with Daemon, you were too lost in your own thoughts to feel tense and skittish. You allowed yourself to be lost in the memories, to imagine the breeze blowing over your skin again and pretend you could hear the leaves rustling above your head once more. 

Daemon had tried to initiate a conversation a few times over the weeks since your silence began, but you answered sparingly, either humming a response or shrugging or simply nodding. He had again attempted this night, but you hadn’t even bothered to answer any of his inquiries, staring off into space as you slowly chewed on your piece of chicken, an odd show of rudeness from you. He had simply taken to watching you instead. 

You were dressed like a true Targaryen princess, a bright red dress like you had bathed in blood. The sleeves weren’t really sleeves for they were cut down the middle and hung from your shoulders at your sides and your arms were bare despite the cold day. Your hair had been threaded into one large braid and you wore gold jewellery, delicate ruby drop earrings to match your dress and wedding ring. Your mother’s ring, the one gift she had left you days before her death clashed with the rest of your clothes but he had never once seen you without it. 

Daemon was not often surprised with himself, but as he looked upon your face he felt he had never seen it before. He traced the slope of your nose, the curve of your jaw, the set of your brow bone and the flesh of your cheeks with his eyes. The curve of your eyelashes, the shape of your cupid’s bow, the slant of your eyebrows, was all new to him. You looked exactly the same as on the day of your wedding, but he felt he had not seen his wife before. And an even greater mystery, something random and unexplainable, was the sudden desire to know her. 

When you finished your meal and were about to leave, he stood with you and began following you out. Upon realisation, you paused just before the door and turned to look at him. He raised an eyebrow for a moment, but when you didn’t continue on your way and simply kept staring up at him in confusion he sighed and walked to stand just in front of you. 

“I shall accompany you to your chambers this evening, wife,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him, “to share some wine and… converse.” It sounded almost painful coming out of his mouth, as if he was uncertain and disguising it with a false bravado. But you could see the way he glanced away from you and to the corners of the room, the way his hands fidgeted a little with each other and how his body looked like it was desperate to march out of the room but his entire willpower was devoted to keeping him standing exactly where he was. 

“Alright,” you whispered, and a blush filled your cheeks like hot water being poured into a mug. Surely sharing a cup of wine was a euphemism. You twisted the fabric of your sleeves into your hands as you walked half a stride behind Daemon. 

All of Criston’s training had to be used when Daemon came walking out of the room shortly followed by you. He had endured the look of disgust that overcame Daemon’s features as he laid eyes upon him, then felt his heart melt at the little smile you offered. More and more he felt himself fall victim to your charms and each passing day had the feeling of a march closer and closer to heartbreak. 

He had begun to follow you, as was his duty, but when Daemon heard his heavy-booted footsteps, he paused and turned around with a fake smile of kindness and a very real look of triumph in his eyes. 

“You may leave us, Crispin, I am experienced enough in combat to protect my wife,” and for a moment Criston thought Daemon would try and wrap his arm around your shoulders. “Take a break, visit a brothel.” Criston couldn’t control the grimace that moved his lips. You were looking at the wall, hands twisting and twisting in the fabric, and he watched you with the sudden overwhelming need to take your hands gently in his and kiss each of your fingers until your hands relaxed. 

“Would you like me to relieve my duty for the evening, Princess?” He asked quietly, as if only your voice mattered, and not once had he looked up at Daemon since your uncle spoke. You smiled, equal parts joyful and thankful, and looked up into his eyes. 

“It is alright, Ser Criston, you deserve some time devoted to yourself. But when I next open my door in the morning, I expect to see you there,” the order in your voice was so joking and pathetic, the fake frown on your face shining with mirth; he half expected you to wag your finger at him. He smiled, not for the first time resisting the urge to reach forward and press loving kisses to the backs of your hands, and bid you goodbye with a bow before walking off in the other direction. 

You stood there for a moment, watching him walk away, when Daemon cleared his throat behind you. You turned around and gazed up at him through your lashes. Every ounce of irritation Damon had felt a moment ago seemed to suddenly become secondary. He held out his hand to you, and you simply stared at it. You could see the calluses on his fingers from where he gripped his sword. He wiggled his fingers, watching you with raised eyebrows as if you were going dumb before his eyes. Slowly, with a hand that twitched like a skittish deer, you settled your hand into his. 

He looked down at it and felt his chest bloom with warmth at how small your fingers were against his, how gentle they looked against his palm. He wrapped up your hand in his own and gripped it firmly, not tight enough to hurt but you would have to tug against it if you wanted to get away. Your fingers became warm and a tingle went up your arm. You weren’t sure if it was a good or bad feeling. 

He led you all the way back to your chambers and even held the door open for you. He didn’t let go of your hand as you passed him, instead following quickly after you and closing the door quickly behind him. It made a loud sound as it closed, not a slam but the sound of wood hitting wood a little hurriedly, and you jumped, trying to tug your hand out of his. He didn’t let it go, simply shushed you a little and led you to the little seating area by the fireplace. He settled you into a chair and, finally letting go of your hand, went to the side table that had a jug of wine ready on it. You turned in your seat and watched as he poured two cups and brought them back to you. He smirked a little when he noticed you but didn’t say anything. He sat in the chair next to yours with a little huff and sipped from his glass. You simply held yours in your hands and looked into it. 

“Will you not say anything at all to me this evening, wife?” He asked, and you weren’t sure if he was teasing or there was a harsh edge to his voice. 

“What would you like me to say?” You asked quietly, not moving your eyes from the cup of wine but watching him through your periphery. He paused at that, eyes trained on you in the way you imagined he faced a problem on the battlefield. 

“Hm, that is a rather good question,” and he smirked as he took another big gulp from his cup. He drained it right after, and you watched him get up and refill it. You hadn’t touched anything more than the cup the wine was in. You turned to watch him again. 

Daemon stood at the table with the jug of wine and stared at it. Then, slowly, he put his own cup down and spun on his heel. He walked back over to you, eyes on your face, and your breath caught in your throat. He was not walking quickly, but not slowly either, and it felt like a lifetime before he found his way to you. He gripped where your head met your neck and used his thumb to lift your head until you were craning it up to him. Then he bent at the waist and pressed his mouth to yours like he was sipping wine right from the centre of the barrel. 

You didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, and the fear of tipping over the cup of wine made you grip it until your fingertips turned white. Your eyes stayed open, but you couldn’t see anything more than a skin-coloured. Your mouth had opened a little in a silent gasp when he had first kissed you, and he used his lips to open it further, to plunge his tongue into your mouth and taste you. He tasted of wine and the slight sourness of alcohol, and you remembered how much you’ve always disliked the drink. 

It was an odd sensation that brewed within you as he kissed you and tried to coax your response. It was something you had wanted for so long, a simple act that should have been common between man and wife that you had been denied as long as you had been able to call yourself a wife. And now that you had it, you had it so freely given and initiated by the husband who hadn’t desired you, an uncomfortable mix of triumph and repulsion, glee and disgust made your stomach churn. You found that you no longer wanted the kiss he so freely offered and it made you want to cry with disappointment. 

He pulled away, not far so you could feel his heavy breaths against your lips and his eyes blurred together in a hazel slash. He simply watched you, gaze switching between your eyes, and for a moment he looked dissatisfied. Was it you that caused it in him, or was it his inability to see what he wished for? He moved his hand down a little from the base of your skull to the back of your neck and caressed his thumb along the front of your throat. The thought that he could simply press inward and strangle you flashed in your head. 

Daemon leaned down again and as you closed your eyes in preparation, he used his other hand to pluck the cup of wine from your grip and deposit it on the table. You watched the wine slosh almost to the edge but swing back the other way before it could spill. He used the same hand to grasp your arm and urge you to stand. You did without struggle. The hand on the back of your neck was uncomfortably warm and the callus on his index finger was rough against your cheek as he pushed a strand of hair out of your face. 

“Come to bed,” he whispered, and you nodded, allowing him to lead you to the edge of the four-poster. He turned you around and began undoing your braid until your hair fell in waves down your back. He caressed it, soft and reverent, before undoing the back of your dress and slipping it over your shoulders. The top fell down to your waist and he pushed it over your hips until it was in a heap at your feet. He kissed along your bare shoulders, first on the left then on the right, and smiled against the skin when you shivered. His hands moved up and down your arms, warming you up, and goosebumps pimpled on your skin. He pushed the straps of your shift down your arms, and you let him. The crumpled fabric slipped easier over your skin and joined the pile on your feet. 

Everything was hazy in the world, like smoke had filled the room and you could feel it only slightly against the back of your throat. You were not you, and the room was not your room, but some ethereal version of each thing. Nothing of consequence would occur in these moments. 

He turned you around then, and gently cupped both your breasts in his hands. He caressed them, ran the pads of his thumbs over your nipples as they hardened in the cold air, held their weight in his hands and felt the hot underside of your breasts. Your breath was shallow, chest quivering, and he bent down to kiss each breast, hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses that made you gulp with a dry mouth and throat. He licked each nipple, bit each one, and when your hand came up to grip his arm as you swayed a little, he pulled away. 

“Sit and lay back,” he ordered, gripping your hips and guiding you backward until your thighs hit the bed and you were sat on the edge. He reached up and pushed your shoulders down until you were flat on your back with your legs hanging over, toes just barely brushing the cold floor. You felt like the dolls you had once played with, stiff and inanimate, moved only at the will of others. 

Daemon was quick to rid himself of his clothes. His jacket was already crumpled on the floor and his shirt was thrown through the air to land somewhere on the stone floor past your bed. The laces on his pants were undone so quickly you thought he might rip them right off, but he simply loosened them until he could push them and his underthings off. 

Daemon got on his knees between your legs and carefully raised them so your knees bent over his shoulders and your calves rested against his back. He pulled you forward a little more and gazed at the space between your legs. Your skin was tinged yellow from the candlelight and he had never thought a woman more beautiful than in that moment. He moved his hands up your thighs and rested both flat on your stomach. He pressed his face to your core, licking over your lips and between the seam until the taste of you was imprinted on his tongue and your slick was smeared over his mouth and pushed its way down to his chin. 

You lay back with your eyes clenched shut and your mouth open, chest heaving as you panted like a dog. Your hands were twisted in the sheets and the skin on your chest had gone red. Your mind was somehow rooted in your body yet floating away at the same time. You existed in every cell, every sensation, the feeling of his wet tongue against that little spot right at the top that made fire erupt in your stomach made you moan louder than you ever had. You hadn’t even known you were capable of moaning. 

Daemon lapped against you like a dog licking up a treat, wide and wet and rough against the inflamed little nub that twitched with your heartbeat. He felt you cum on his tongue, felt the quiver of your stomach against his hands, the way you curled upwards a little. He tasted it, the sudden increase of slick against his lips. He seemed to drink your entire being as he kneeled between your legs. 

You looked down as he pressed his cheek to your inner thigh. His face was warm against where he lay it down and you could feel his heavy breaths over your core, like gentle fingers brushing over the sensitive skin. He met your eyes, his dark and looking black in the dim light. For a moment you wanted to get up and run. It was not your uncle but a demon between your legs, sent to the world by the old gods to devour you. You pushed up, suddenly scared, but he was quick to slither up your body and press his mouth to yours, press his tongue to yours, fill you with the light sticky taste of your core. You heaved against his mouth and one of your hands came up to clutch his shoulder. He took it as encouragement. 

Daemon lay his weight over you and stared into your eyes. You could feel his hand at the apex of your thighs, haphazardly grabbing his cock and bumping the tip against you until he found your entrance. You held your breath, the pressure in your chest steadily increasing, and waited for the inevitable sting and drag. It hurt less for the first time, more like tiny concentrated bolts of lightning zipping along the flesh inside you, and you huffed out a breathy sound, both hands clutching at his arms as he pushed into you. 

Each time Daemon bedded you, he always made this expression, this look of pain and pleasure that had his eyebrows scrunching together and his mouth opening as he closed his eyes. This time he kept his eyes open, as much as he could anyway, and looked straight at you as his hips met yours. Your spine felt fluid, like it no longer existed and therefore you were incapable of movement. 

“Tighter than a virgin,” he huffed out, and you clenched around him which only made him rock his hips. You weren’t sure if you liked his words or not, a little grimace on your face. You began to close your eyes as his hips began to slowly rock into you, gulping as you panted, but he gripped your chin tightly in his hand. “No, keep looking at me,” and so you did. 

It was painful to look into his eyes as he pushed into you. You felt the pleasure shooting from your core, the natural tightening of your thighs around his hips, but an equally painful internal turmoil mingled with it. You looked into the blackness of his blown-wide pupils and saw the darkness of the hallway in which he had stood kissing Rhaenyra. In his grip on your chin you imagined how Rhaenyra felt when he had gently tipped her chin up to press his lips to hers reverently. You wondered if she knew the weight of him on top of her exactly the way you knew it now. 

Daemon leaned down and broke eye contact to press his face into your neck, to smell your skin and sweat. He panted against you, eyes closed in the blackness of the little space around his face and he pushed his hips in and out faster despite how much he wanted to keep everything slow. He wanted to feel you, to know you as intimately as a man and wife should know one another. He knew nothing else but this. You whimpered a little into the air, like a bird falling from a branch, and he wrapped you up a little tighter in his arms. 

The coupling was quick. You found it easy to fall over the cusp after the time he spent on you with his tongue, and he seemed eager to follow soon after. When he finished, he lay himself on top of you for a little while, breathing heavily and allowing the sweat on your bodies to dry a little. You felt suffocated. You wanted him off. But you said nothing. 

Eventually, Daemon rolled off of you and used the edge of the sheets to wipe himself off. Then he clambered onto the bed and lay across it properly, sheets at his waist and head settling into the pillow. Your limbs were stiff as you got up, and your core felt sore. You settled your weight on precarious legs, and made your way to your little private area behind the divider. A bowl of water was set on a little table and you dipped a washing rag into it before slowly cleaning the seed from your legs. You were careful, and your fingers were soft against the tender flesh between your legs, but you only stopped when every crevice felt clean. Perhaps this was the reason you weren’t getting pregnant, you thought, but you couldn’t stop. 

Your nightgown was hanging over the divider and you quietly pulled it on, settling the fabric around you before slowly making your way back to the bed and getting onto your side. Daemon watched you curl your knees to your chest and sit against the pillows, only allowing the sheets to cover your feet. You rested your chin against your legs and let out slow breaths. He couldn’t see your face properly because of your hair falling forward but he was desperate to. He reached out and gently pushed some of it back. Your eyes were closed and he couldn’t tell what you were thinking about. He simply sighed and reached out to rest his arm over your feet before closing his eyes. 

The only candle that had been left burning was on the little table beside your bed, and it watched you sit there for an hour. When you had felt Daemon’s breathing slow down, you had opened your eyes and watched the door. When you were sure he was asleep, you gently slid your feet out from under his arm and crept over the edge of the bed. You didn’t put on slippers and stood for a minute to shiver as the cold from the floor seeped into your toes and heels. Then you crept to the divider again and gently brought down your robe from the corner and slipped your arms into the sleeves before tying it at the waist. You looked back to see if Daemon was sleeping only once, then walked to the door. You opened it so slowly the wood made not a hint of sound, and when you were finally outside you let out a deep breath. 

You weren’t quite sure why you had come outside in the first place, but you felt a little better. You turned to the right and there stood Ser Criston against the wall just beside your door, watching you in the dim light. You watched him in return, the hair that curled a little inward at the nape of his neck and the pink tint of his lips. The sudden urge to cry overwhelmed you and you rushed toward him, wrapping your arms around his torso as you sobbed against his chest. 

Criston wrapped you up as much as he could with his armour still on, but he pressed his cheek down onto your head and shushed you as you cried. Your sobs were soft and muffled, your tears smearing on his armour and your cheeks as you hiccuped in his arms. He smoothed a hand over your hair, down your back, then cupped it around your waist. 

When your sobs began to quiet a little, your hiccups not as frequent, you pulled away quickly and stood against the wall across the hall, curling in on yourself as you used the edges of your nightgown to wipe at your eyes. Only your laboured breathing filled the hall, and the creak of his armour as he stood to attention again. You waited until you felt like you could open your mouth again without dissolving into sobs and turned to him with splotchy cheeks, a shiny nose, and red eyes that made you look like a little girl again. 

“I am sorry, that was inappropriate of me,” you whispered, and your voice was gritty and painful. He simply shook his head, pursing his lips for a moment before looking away from you and into the fire of the sconce directly in front of the door to your chambers.

“Nothing happened, Princess,” and you smiled a little, huffing out something akin to a laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

You pulled the sleeves of your nightgown and robe so they covered your hands, then pressed one of your fists to your lips and nose as you leaned back against the wall directly opposite to Criston. Your other hand came around to grasp your elbow and support it against your stomach, and you looked into Criston’s eyes. They were the colour of the bark of oak trees, the darkest honey, the sweetest chocolate from Dorne. 

“I don’t like my husband,” you whispered, and it felt criminal to voice the opinion out loud. You looked around a little, as if he would suddenly be standing at the door, ready to punish you for it, but nothing happened except Criston huffing out a laugh. You smiled at the sound, a warm, gruff, sort of sound. 

“Truth be told, I do not like your husband either,” and you giggled at that, pressing the smile into your fist. 

“I-” you paused, averting your eyes to the floor. “I like you though.” You glanced up to see his reaction, but he was looking at the wall ahead of him, and his face didn’t change. 

“I’m not sure that is a wise decision, Princess,” he said simply, as if he was reading it off a paper, and you laughed, thinking he was joking, being sarcastic or self-deprecating, but when he didn’t join in your laughter you stopped. Your cheeks burned and you were overwhelmed with embarrassment. 

“I did not mean-” you cut yourself off, biting your lip until it hurt and then biting it a little more. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, and he shook his head, frowning, looking down to the floor. 

“There is nothing to be sorry for, Princess, I simply meant that I am a knight of the Kingsguard and-” 

“Ser Criston, I know, I would never put you in a position to even question your oath let alone any imagining of you sullying it!” Your voice elevated a little in your hurry as you held out your hands and looked at him with wide eyes. He turned his gaze on you, some inexplicable expression on his face, and you blushed again, curling your hands against your chest and leaning against the wall once more. You trained your gaze on his feet. “I enjoy your company, and I respect you.” You watched him shuffle his feet a little. You were both quiet for a little while, letting the silence cover you like a soft blanket. 

Criston’s hands tingled with the need to reach out and caress your face, his heart strained against his chest with the need to meet your own, to press your two bodies together and press your mouth to his and kiss you until he couldn’t breathe anymore and then keep kissing you. 

You let your gaze trail all over his body, to the muscular shoulders hidden behind armour and the white cloak hanging from them. His neck seemed soft and blurred compared to the rest of him, and you wanted to reach up and caress the light dusting of a beard on his chin and cheeks. You wondered how coarse the hairs were. You wanted to kiss his eyelids, his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. You wanted to know what the skin felt like under your lips. 

“If it was a different world…” he trailed off, but you knew what was to come next regardless of him saying it or not. 

“I know,” you whispered quietly, taking a deep, shuddering, breath in and wrapping the robe tighter around you and following it with your arms. 

“I know,” he repeated back to you. You were both quiet again but the air felt a little heavier. You swallowed and closed your eyes.  

“I would love to kiss you, right at this moment,” you whispered, eyes reopening slowly to look at him. His eyes were on the ground but his lips were parted just slightly. His breath was shallow and his hands clenched into fists at his side slowly. You felt like you were watching everything he did a second after it happened. 

“I would love it if you kissed me, right at this moment,” his voice was low, gravelly, and you took a little step closer, a shuffle. 

You wanted to reach out and touch his stomach, feel the muscles beneath the shirt. You wanted to touch his shoulders, feel them tense then release as you ran your fingers up them. You wanted to caress his neck and gently press your fingertips to his cheeks to see how plush they were.

 Instead, you slowly made your way toward your chamber doors. When your shoulder was level with his, you looked at each other. His smile was so soft and warm, so kind and gentle, that you felt the tears begin to climb up behind your eyes. You looked back to your chamber doors and opened them just as quietly as you had done before, slipping inside and closing it behind you. You looked around the room for a moment, unseeing, then walked all the way back to your side of the bed. You blew out the remaining candle and got under the sheets right on the edge so not even Daemon’s outstretched hand could touch you.  

You and Ser Criston never spoke of that evening again. But sometimes, when everything was quiet and you were alone, you would look into his eyes, and know. 

After the night he kissed you for the first time since the wedding, Daemon suddenly felt like his entire life was off-kilter. He could not escape thoughts of you. He could not escape memories of you. 

At first he found himself sitting at the edge of the training pit, watching the gold cloaks spar as he awaited his turn, and all he could think of was the image of you in your wedding dress right after he had kissed you, blushing cheeks and cut lip smeared with spit and the mix of his blood and yours. As he took his midday meal in Rhaenyra’s solar across the table from her, he saw your frown as you told him you were still a maiden. As he flew on Caraxes on a hot afternoon, he saw the relief in your eyes as you lifted the strap of your shift back onto your shoulder. 

He began to wonder about you, about your days and nights, about what books you enjoyed or the temperament of your dragon. Each day brought new questions about you that he pushed away because they were unnecessary and only served to drive him mad. 

He noticed himself noticing you. His ears would perk up if he heard your voice somewhere in the distance, and something in his chest would jump a little. Your perfume lingered in the library after your visits, and if he happened to visit at just the right time, traces of it would gently touch his nose and his stomach would suddenly feel warm. Each time he entered your room for your fortnightly fucking, he found himself dallying longer and longer before and after, simply to gaze at your belongings and learn about you. 

Slowly, it became an irrepressible infatuation. He would watch you from the terraces and balconies around the Red Keep as you sat in the various courtyards, admiring your hair and your dress, jealous of the sun for being able to touch you so reverently in a way he never could.  He would dab your perfume on his handkerchief and keep it securely tucked in his pocket, pulling it out and pressing it to his nose in the quiet of his room on the other side of the Keep. He had even had one of the tapestries you had done removed from the halls of the Keep and hung on the wall across from his bed. He was lost in you. 

In this new daze, he had abandoned his trysts with Rhaenyra and had been shocked to find he did not care when she took a new lover. She had asked after his sudden disinterest, why he no longer visited her in the evenings or ate his lunch in her company. He hadn’t had an answer ready to give. 

In this time, he had also grown aware of Criston Cole’s infatuation with you. He had already thought it odd that the knight had abandoned being the Queen’s lapdog for the forgotten princess, but he had assumed that Alicent had ordered him to and was simply enacting another of her many schemes. He had even scoffed at the idea, laughing to himself that Alicent would gain nothing over him for he was only a husband in name. 

But after all the time he spent watching you, he could see how truly devoted to you the knight had become. He stood as close to you as was appropriate for a knight and not an inch farther. He held your projects or piles of books as he walked beside you, refusing you from taking any load from his arms. If you ever had a request, he forced whichever servant was closest to complete it in an instant so he could fulfil it without leaving your company. 

And he was always looking at you. Sometimes when Daemon watched you in the courtyard with Cole, the knight never removed his eyes from you for a second. You would turn your face up to smile at him and he would already be looking at you. You would return to the book and his eyes would still be on your face. 

It wasn’t just the fact that he was looking at you, though, it was the way the knight watched you. He always had this warm little expression on his face, his eyes a little wide and shiny and full of awe. His mouth was always gentler in those moments, lips softened and hinting at a smile. He seemed entirely at peace in your presence. 

And as Daemon watched you more and more, he realised the knight’s infatuation with you was returned. You were chatty around him, spilling your thoughts or asking him questions. You read aloud to him, made him little gifts of handkerchiefs or embellishments on his cloak that he always refused at first before relenting when you claimed you would be thoroughly upset if he continued to deny you. Your embroidery featured motifs of white knights more and more and you smiled at Criston in a way he wasn’t sure you had ever smiled at anyone else. It made him angry. Angry in a way that could only be soothed by hacking at a straw dummy in the training yard with Dark Sister until the thing had to be replaced. 

When Daemon found you, you were sitting at your writing desk with a parchment in front of you, quill raised as you bit your lip and formed the words in your head. His chest was heaving despite him not having run. The sunshine falling over the desk from the window behind you made you look like a spirit from the stories, all your edges glowing and a shadowy haziness draping your face. He walked right up to the desk, cupped your face in both his hands and kissed you on the mouth.

 It was firm, insistent, his mouth moving and pressing yours open while your mind tried to catch up with the sudden events, your quill dripping ink onto the table where you still had your hand raised. You pulled away after a moment, a frown creasing your brow and lips parted for a moment. You licked them, pressing them together as you swallowed and turned back to face the desk. Your eyes roamed over the little trinkets as if they had not been there before. Then you turned to look at Daemon again. 

He was standing above you, dazed as he gently touched his thumb to his lower lip. He looked bedraggled. Some of his hair had been pulled back into little braids to keep it from his face, his battle hair, but some of it curled with his sweat and other strands had been pulled out as if he had forgotten about the braids and had begun pulling at his hair in frustration. He was only wearing his training tunic, and there were mud stains on his pants and you guessed he had come straight here from the training grounds. 

He was staring at you now, eyes blazing and you shuffled back a little in case he tried to kiss you again. Kissing him was nice, it had never not been at least somewhat pleasant, but you didn’t care for it anymore. He leaned down again but you closed your eyes and leaned back further, holding your hand over your lips. A frown slashed his brow and he gripped the back of your chair tightly. You feared it would crack under the pressure. 

“You would deny your husband?” He spat, and you flinched, curling a little inward as if a pang of pain had hit you in the chest. “Do you deny Cole when you are a whore for him?” And your eyes snapped up to look into his. He was seething, you could practically see the fires of rage behind his eyes. Your own began to fill with tears and he stood up again, taking a step back. His face fell a little as you closed your eyes and took a deep breath in. He could hear it shudder through your open mouth, saw the quiver of your chest. If you began to cry he wasn’t sure what he would do. 

But then you pressed your lips together, so tight they went white, and opened your eyes. They were no longer filled with tears. You stood up, brushing down the skirt of your dress. You ensured it fell around your waist correctly before clasping your hands together over your stomach and finally looking up at him again. 

“I know you do not love me,” your voice was quiet but steady, and he opened his mouth to speak, to rebuke, but no sound came out. “It is alright,” and for the first time since that fateful day, you felt it truly was. Then your eyes hardened a little, almost imperceptibly. “You are not angry because you love me, or you feel denied by your wife. You are angry simply because you feel that something you possess may be eyed by another.” Then your eyes returned to their usual gentleness, your hands loosened against each other and your entire body seemed to release a little. “But do not worry, husband. Since I was a little girl it has been ingrained upon me that marriage is sacred. One must treat it with the utmost respect, cherish it, protect it with their own actions.” You held your hands to your heart like you were cupping the very notion of marriage against your breast. “I would never dream of defiling its sanctity.” You bowed your head and breezed out of the room before he could even attempt to open his mouth. 

For a long time after, Daemon wondered if you knew of his long ago trysts with Rhaenyra. Though you had not said the words with any sort of obvious insinuation or spite, fear and guilt churned in his gut until he had to sit down and press his palms to his eyes. All he could ask himself was ‘did you know?’, all he could feel was shame and regret. 

He didn’t want you to know. He wanted to take everything back, starting with your marriage. He wanted to wrap you up in his arms and cherish you as you deserved. He wanted to spend his hours on his knees in supplication to you. He wanted to follow you around like a dog chasing its master if only you would glimpse at him with that little loving smile you reserved for so few people and press a gentle kiss to his face. He wanted your love. And somehow, he thought as he sat on the floor of his room, back leaning against the side of his bed, I have lost it before I even knew I wanted it. 

Daemon spent much of his life in the aftermath trying to win you back, and it somehow made everything worse. You were always the perfect image of a wife. If he brought you flowers, you thanked him gently, sincerely, then handed them off to a maid to have them put in water. If he brought you jewellery, you caressed it and put it on in that instant, asking him how it looked on you. He only ever had one answer, ‘radiant, my love,’ and you would smile at his reflection in the mirror before gently taking it off and putting it in your jewellery box. If he found fabrics from all corners of the world and had them brought to you for your dresses, you kissed his cheek in thanks, then asked the tailor to create something for you, never your own design. You wore them in front of him, showed him that his gifts were used, and once he had torn them off in his vigour to fuck you, you folded up the dresses and put them in the back of your wardrobe. 

When the gifts elicited nothing more than politeness, he began spending more time with you, hoping you would somehow see his devotion, see a reason to love him. He would find you just before you went to eat your midday meal with Alicent and instead guide you to a picnic in the Godswood. He would bring one of his many books on the Targaryen histories and settle himself down next to you in one of the courtyards. He would lay beside you in your bed after he finished inside you, cheek pressed into the pillow as he watched you until you fell asleep. 

Each attempt had entirely the opposite effect to his wishes. Though you never changed outwardly, never made him feel unwelcome or told him to leave, he could sense how much you preferred to be without his presence. 

And you never acknowledged Criston Cole in his presence. Whether from some deep seated propriety that refused to offend your husband or insult him in the company of others. Whether from some embarrassment that whatever feelings you held for the knight would be so easily displayed from simple conversation, he knew not. But it made everything even worse. 

You spoke not to Criston, which meant you didn’t speak to him either unless he tried to start a conversation. The silence would become suffocating to the point he would sweat through his clothes. You would be oblivious, sitting there humming or simply gazing upon your book or embroidery or letters. And he would be tortured watching you sit under the watchful eye of your knight, not saying a word. 

Each time he returned, he tried to outlast himself, outlast the silence. And each time he failed. It would be five minutes, ten minutes at most, before he stood up and walked out of the door without a goodbye, and somehow he knew that you didn’t bother looking up as he left. 

These little communions were often followed by an overwhelming sense of betrayal and embarrassment. With every failed attempt, every time he fled, he thought he could see Criston Cole’s smug smile. He thought the knight’s secret satisfaction in your favour of him suddenly became apparent on his face and in his gait, that the fool was mocking him for not being able to win his wife’s love while he held it freely in the palm of his hand. 

And then he found a slow decline into shame as he sat in the ruins of whatever furniture or ornaments he had destroyed in that bout. Vases of porcelain were left in shattered little pieces when he thought about the way you looked up at Cole like he hung the stars in the sky. End tables of oakwood were left in splinters as he imagined Cole whispering lovingly in your ears. And each time he sat in the wake, staring at his hands as they bled due to his carelessness, and he prayed to the old gods and the new, asking for your forgiveness. 

The cycle never ended, because however much he tried, however much he inserted himself in your life, you seemed forever content to play your part as a dutiful wife while simultaneously withholding the only thing he wanted from you now. Any other man would not complain about being married to you. They would be ecstatic that no matter how much debauchery they committed, however many whores they fucked and taverns they inhabited, their wife still demurely welcomed them home, ensured their needs were always met, and never deigned to bother them. He hated it with every fibre of his being. 

He wanted you to scream and hit him in the chest in your anger, to call him names and loathe him. He wanted you to glare at him in bed and refuse his kisses. He wanted you to hate him, because if he could make you hate him, he could make you love him too. He could turn those screams and punches into laughs and loving caresses. He could turn the names and loathing into soft words and adoration. He could turn the glare in bed into a soft look of relaxation as you lay your head on his chest and hummed in comfort. He could turn the refused kisses into begs for more. He often thought he was descending into madness. 

Some months later, after everything in the world had jumbled itself around and left Daemon adrift, useless and hopeless to the point of self-loathing, he found himself watching you in the gardens from one of the balconies above the south courtyard. 

When Daemon looked at you, he felt his chest begin to fill with something thick and painful. It was liquefied stone crushing each of his organs, it was hot syrup drowning his lungs. Your smile was sad and gentle as you ran your fingers over the embroidery you had just finished. 

To know he was filled to the brim with love for you and you had nothing more than indifference to offer him now was already a kind of crippling pain he now had to endure. To know he had broken your heart long before he had even cared for it was another. But to live for the rest of his life knowing he had trapped you, that it was the devotion and loyalty you gave him unconditionally simply because you were married to him, that your marriage to him was the sole reason you would never be happy… That was the worst pain of all. 

Taglist: @mornixgstar18 @carmalcandylover @aedhyratargaryen @kamcrazy123 @wallacewillow0773638 @yo-alli @kishie8 @freyathehuntress @moonlightstuffs @snowflames-world @adombtch @snowtargaryen @mrs-kise-ryota-kise-wife @she2rreal @immyowndefender @dantefairyfrogs @vavafaure1994 @loveyouok @tallrock35 @whitehare7701 @claraisme23 @carl-grimes-eye-socket @dilfluvr4evr @seasonswinter @mah1644 @diqnawn @anna-2401 @vanessyyyu @ninihrtss @inkedmetanoia @m3hr33n33

[satoruhour]

LAUNDRY DAY

a/n: I AM ALLIVEEEEEEE 🔥🔥🔥🔥 sorry i had a crazy week! can be read as a standalone piece but based off gojo’s roommate au of here and here / tagging @jabamin @hyomagiri @utahimeow @lov3rbody ☆

wc: 4k

warnings: sub!gojo that turns into dom!gojo, fem!reader, fantasising? gojo is a pervert too, mentions of semi-public sex, implied somnophilia, panty sniffing, pillow / dry humping, m! masturbation, oral (m receiving), deep-throating, praise, pet names, unprotected sex, multiple rounds, creampie / breeding kink, n*sfw under the cut

living with you was hard. brushing his teeth with you was hard. being around you — hard. both figuratively and—

there’s a loud sigh from you.

clearly tired from the day’s activities of ushering in freshman after freshman, you lugged your body into the bathroom. the same rehearsed words have been leaving your mouth as your cheeks hurt more and more by the hour, only to repeat it all over again the next day.

“you look like shit,” it’s muffled by the way the toothbrush is stuffed into his mouth, foam peeking out from the corners of his mouth and you’re trying not to tell your roommate (and boyfriend) to shut up — you didn’t have the energy to do, much less say anything and you certainly didn’t have time for your lover’s clever quips so late in the night.

it didn’t help that you recently had an argument too; well, trivial to him but much more major to you. it was a matter of getting gojo to keep his laundry properly and to clean up after himself once he’s gotten himself comfortable in the relationship. it’s not like he doesn’t want to — he was cleaning up in the first place to impress you — but now since he’s got you, it’s like he simply expects you to act as his little wife when it was a shared space. the exact argument you used against him.

“satoru— this is a shared apartment! you can’t just leave tteokbokki cups lying around with the gochujang sauce still inside! it’s going to attract cockroaches and ants!” you gesture wildly, the sheer amount of trash lying around making you even sicker than you thought possible. getting paid to usher in freshmen and then coming home to this? it felt like every cent of your hard work had gone to waste.

there’s only a grin on his face, “you’re so attractive when you’re mad, baby.”

that was another thing: the lack of seriousness that gojo possessed at times, simply talking to piss you off, simply living to be the bane of your existence. “and you’re fucking unbelievable, gojo satoru. clean up— or don’t,” you made sure to lace that last word with venom, “i don’t care.”

that seemed enough for gojo to snap out of his stupor, “no, no— princess, fuck, i’m s—” his brows furrow when he briefly spots the thickening glaze of your eyes, possibly filling with tears before you’re marching into your room to slam the door and he swears to himself. satoru had never felt embarrassment and shame and sadness like that day; having just taken a shower but his skin was sweaty and uncomfortable and his heart sat right at his feet.

gojo swears he never wants to hear you say his full name ever again.

since then, it’s been a little tense between the two of you. geto had noticed it on movie night, shoko realised you haven’t been looking at your phone as often. hell, even prof. yaga had to tell you that you were distracted way too much lately, and it’s only been two days.

satoru tried to possibly take back what he said with whatever powers he didn’t possess, but he only gets another sigh from you as you squeeze the toothpaste out and start brushing your teeth, not even sparing him one glance in the mirror.

and yet while he was the first one to start his nightly routine, he’s left to be the last again from the way he’s unable to stop staring at you, a recurring trait of his whenever you were in the same room with him. it’s a testament of how attracted he was to you — at how his shirt slips off your shoulder from how big it was because even when you were mad at him, you forgot about that little detail. gojo’s eyes trail from your exposed shoulder to your legs and back up again to your fatigued face. he skims over the shape of your eyes and down to your nose and he thinks he’s the luckiest man to be brushing his teeth beside you now, blessed with seeing such an intimate side of you even if it’s as simple as this.

until gojo’s eyes fall upon your mouth as your toothbrush is doing its job of perfect innocence, cleaning some teeth, scraping off the bacteria on your tongue, except when you’re switching it from side to side all your roommate can think about if it was his dick instead. and the thought leaves him as fast it comes.

all you do is shoot him a weird look through the mirror when gojo exclaims like he was a vampire whose skin burned under the bathroom lighting, and he regains composure with ease.

“i’m fine! fine. doing a-okay.” satoru speaks through the foam and it’s spraying everywhere and you’re too tired to care before you hear another gulp when you move your toothbrush again, “sorry! sorry— continue please.”

gojo is starstruck for an entirely different reason, now, watching the toothbrush making bulges at the side of your mouth as it moves in and out and he’s left to fantasise about the many, many times you’ve gotten him in you and the warmth of everything. he can feel himself get hard under his sweatpants when you start brushing your tongue and you gag and he wants to die standing in this 30 square foot bathroom because the last thing he wants to do is sexualise something perfectly mundane.

gojo isn’t like that (well, most of the time. can’t blame him for finding you smokin’ hot).

“what the fuck is your problem?” you’re speaking through your foamy mouth now, spitting it out and proceeding to clean up with no clue of what you do to him. satoru on the other hand — terribly excited that you’d even open your mouth to talk to him after two days of endless silent treatment. 

“nothing, baby. it’s nothing, i promise.” you can’t lie at the way your heart jumps at the familiarity of it all, of being in such proximity to your lover, doing domestic things like these and the ‘baby’ and yet your pride is holding you back on everything.

you go straight to sleep, too, not wanting to entertain anything related to gojo satoru and you feel just a little bad when he looks at you with those baby blues and a sweet pout on his face. he looked especially pathetic in the bathroom, like a deer caught in headlights at just the presence of you and you want nothing more to apologise. it’s never that easy, though; you needed a promise, you needed the reassurance that he wouldn’t be leaving you to clean up after him again.

all these worries are willed away when you finally fall into slumber in your own room, body craving the warmth of satoru unknowingly. you had stolen a pillow the day before and it’s been the sole source of his scent, the only thing to keep your mind sane.

gojo’s heart drops again upon seeing you already deep in sleep, thinking he had a chance to catch you before you did, but the needines for you never goes down even now. he cannot take his mind off the way you’d run your hands through his hair or tangle your legs with his, satoru’s limbs recall the memory of you playing with his fingers and how you like to curl your arms around his neck. 48 hours is enough for him to go insane, and also maybe at how your leg was propped up on his missing pillow, hugging it so tight to your chest. you hadn’t bothered to wear pants either, so all he can see is the shape of your cunt under.

he stalks into the room and kneels in front of you, finger so tempted to run along your folds and make you wet, staring a whole minute and weighing his options until decides he doesn’t deserve it, turning away and closing your door softly.

“going now, satoru.” it’s soft when you mumble it, not even wanting him to hear before you’re stopped. you’re donning the uni orientation shirt and eyebags, a soggy sandwich from yesterday staining your bag with its smell. “what?”

“made you somethin’,” gojo’s cute like this with a frilly apron and hair band, still managing to tower over you despite the adorable get-up he’s got on, “it’s a bento.”

and you wish you could just melt the pride that runs through your bones and kiss him all over, and you break just a little. a small smile and you walk up to him, grabbing the lunchbox and pecking him softly on the cheek, turning away fast enough to not catch his fangirl moment — because you knew you wouldn’t be able to make it on time if you did.

“we still have to talk later when i come back, okay?” you call out as you put on your shoes and you steal one last glance at him, “and today’s laundry day. you know what t—”

“yes ma’am!” gojo salutes and you roll your eyes with a small smile, locking the door behind you with heat on your cheeks and the pounding of your heart. it was difficult not to break when it came to satoru, when he’s trying so hard to win back your words and love, and so tonight you’ve decided after the tiring week is when you’d finally stop running away over such a small matter.

although, gojo got caught up in something way beyond your expectations even if he had his initial intentions (which involved ordering your favourite takeout and kneeling at the front door in apology). 

your roommate lays around for a bit before grabbing some lunch and heading to the back room, a little extension attached to the kitchen with a tune on his lips. it’s clear he’s a little driven by your little innocent peck, a sign that maybe you weren’t so mad any more. for the next hour, satoru is contently doing the laundry with a smile, until—

the panties you threw in before showering must have fallen to the bottom of the pile, the same one he saw you wear last night and he thinks maybe the low humming buzz he heard last night wasn’t his imagination because when he picks it up he can smell your arousal. there’s a stain from the previous night and another pool of juices from this morning and he now knows that it wasn’t the kettle.

“dirty girl,” he grins, “both yesterday and this morning?” he’s thought about this for the longest time, always holding himself back because you found him weird enough even before you were dating, always letting you do your own separate load for your undergarments. but since you’ve gotten together, you were more comfortable, throwing it into the same laundry basket — the compulsion has never been this strong before.

gojo puts it up to his nose and smells like the pervert he is, among other times: teasing you with a hand down your pants when the two were over at your dorm, fucking you in the kitchen as they focused on the movie, pounding into you with the windows open, and he almost ascends at the scent of your pussy juices. there’s a spark that goes down right to his core and he palms his bulge unconsciously, coming to his senses when the washing machine beeps.

he impatiently puts in the settings and leaves, heading straight for your room and is hit with all reminders of you. the perfume you used this morning and the body wash you share with him, walking almost under a trance to your bed where he moans at the softness of the sheets as he falls face first. it doesn’t take him much to scoot to your pillows, but the need for you is just too much.

gojo grinds his cock into the bed, whining softly as he whiffs up your natural body smell, hips moving on their own accord as he manoeuvres a pillow between his legs. he humps it like a dog, groaning and moaning and the strain on his dick is just too much, balling up the undies in his hand and his body tenses at the friction. 

“baby . . f-fuck—” satoru’s voice is high-pitched and choked, all the thoughts of you culminating into one big ball of desperation for you and he cums in his pants, tainting the fabric a darker colour than before. but he’s not done — his hips still move against the pillow, thrusting into the fluff as he rides out his orgasm, moans muffled by the pillow. “miss you . .”

gojo misses you more than anything, feeling so much distance even within the house that he flips over — by now the sun shines its golden rays a little less. the afternoon is winding down into a cool evening — and pulls at the waistband of his pants. he’s still sensitive, wrapping a hand around his hard cock and pumping and the sound that leaves his mouth is borderline slutty. with another smell of your cunt, he strokes his dick, using his cum as lube.

“oh . . r-right there— mhnng . .” satoru’s hips buck into his hand, squeezing and thumbing at his cock before unbundling your panties and wrapping them around his shaft. the sight drives him insane. sure, it’s one of your more everyday underwear, neutral in both design and colour but he can feel the fabric get wetter and wetter from how much cum he’s pushed out earlier and that’s enough to keep his hand pumping. “s-sweetness, cummin—”

gojo’s head makes a dent in your other pillow from how hard he was pushing it, back arching at how the warmth in his hand will never compare to your mouth or pussy. he can already feel his second orgasm approaching, your room filled with the squelch of his cock and his sounds and he shoots his load with a drawn out moan all over your panties and his stomach. his cum is always so much, dripping down his pelvis and onto his hand and also . . yours?

your boyfriend lets out the girliest scream you’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing, scrambling up to the headboard when he sees you hovering over his body. he accidentally kicks your chest in the process and you have to clutch it with a small “ow”, although a small smile is still present on your face.

“having fun?”

“dude, what the fuck?” 

your smile drops, “dude?”

gojo suddenly has his hands moving frantically, “nonono— no, sorry, i meant baby!”

you sigh, sitting back down on your heels as you take in the sight: his still hard cock and the sweat lining his body. his bangs are wet and your eyes flit down to your soiled underwear.

“uh . . i was just borrowing it,” gojo nervously chuckles, handing the cum-filled panty to you and your brows furrow.

“darling, you can’t just give someone back their clothes with your come on it.”

and your boyfriend pouts again, “i really am sorry. and for everything else, too. for not cleaning up and for being a general bum,” this is why you also (sometimes) favoured his unseriousness when you were talking about difficult things. the amount of times you had succumbed to his touches and kisses when you were mad at him was much better than your pride. gojo brings you onto his lap like his dick wasn’t just out, and you relish in the closeness you’ve missed.

“i need you to show me you mean it, ’toru,” he lights up at the nickname he loves just as you point a finger in his face, “aht! calm down. don’t think we’re all buddy-buddy again.”

“i will try,” gojo is smooth, taking your hand into his while the other brushes the hair away from your eyes. you lean into the touch, “and i will try until you see my efforts.”

you smile at his honesty, “and i’m sorry for ignoring you as well. it was childish of me.”

gojo hums, bringing your face in to plant a kiss to your lips, “i missed you like crazy, princess.”

you laugh, “yeah i can tell, i miss you too.” you gesture to all of him and he whines softly at the joke, squeezing your waist.

“you’re not weirded out?”

his breath hitches when you move down his body and situate yourself between them, finger tracing his tip and teasing him, “why would i be? i’ve literally fucked myself wearing your shirt.”

gojo gulps loudly, “you did w-what?”

“i’m just better at not getting caught.” all words are taken from his lips then, when your mouth engulfs him and the feeling of it is just pure insanity. gojo pants and his thighs tense, a hand gathering your hair into a ponytail to keep it from interfering. his eyes fixate on the way your suck him off, recalling the last time he’s watched you do that was in a damn bathroom. 

“y-your mouth—” satoru swears under his breath when you swirl your tongue around his shaft, the tip of his cock making bulges on the side of your mouth and it only leaves him calling out your name time after time.

“y’know,” you gargle on him, slurping up his cum, “i know what you were thinking starin’ at me last night.”

gojo snaps his fingers and mumbles out a shaky damn, because he can always be read like an open book. he just didn’t know he was that obvious.

“looked cute staring,” you mutter around him, “like a little puppy.”

you slap his thick length on your tongue, moaning when you feel just how heavy it is, “you just wanted this so bad, didn’t you?”

gojo whines at your words, nodding, and you go back to the abuse on his dick, bobbing your head up and down as your hand plays with his balls. the other moves over his torso, at the porcelain skin there and you can feel his stomach heaving at your ministrations.

“are you close, baby?” you ask mindlessly, the lewd sounds of his fat cock in your mouth sending sensations right down to your sex as well. you never really listen to his answer, taking a deep breath and sucking in your cheeks and soon you’re deep throating your lover.

“mh— mmf . .” sounds deep from your throat as your nose buries itself in his pubes, and satoru struggles to hold your tantalising stare. he can feel his tip hit the back of your throat and his moans are quick and high-pitched.

“cumming— ’m cumming,” before you come off and you go back to your pace and gojo’s small moans descend into longer ones at the feeling. his eyes roll back right into his skull as he twitches in your mouth and soon he’s spilling right into your throat and tongue.

“baby—” satoru’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, “s-shit . .” and the sheer amount of cum always takes you off guard, sputtering over it when you drag your lips off of him. your boyfriend’s eyes are hooded and darkened, looking at how the strings of his semen droop from your mouth and connect right to his weeping tip.

“eugh, eat more veggies, ’toru. you’re bitter as fuck.” you say with a giggle, swallowing nonetheless as you wipe a hand across your mouth, “thanks for the meal.”

his spirit has certainly ascended, chest heaving and legs jelly from that mind-blowing orgasm. even he takes solace on the headboard, looking down at you with tired eyes.

“but i’m not done,” you truly weren’t, driving satoru to the brink after you’ve milked him to his limit, and yet he wouldn’t have it any other way as he thrusts into you, having had a new burst of energy after seeing your confidence wane once you’ve gotten his dick in you.

it was cute — your words breaking up and staggering as you sink down for the first time after two days, reduced merely to whines as you ride him. gojo lets you have your fun for a bit before he properly flips you over, pressing down on your lower back.

“fuck yourself onto me, baby,” he can tell you’ve missed him too by how you squeeze around him, a sly grin on his face when your hips push back onto him. he sees the tight hold you have on the silk sheets and the soft whimpers leaving your mouth. “good girl . . juuust like that.”

you’re jerking forward when he slaps your ass, letting it ripple from the force of both of his hand and your hips. but he takes over soon enough, grabbing both your arms and pulling you gently off that you’re hanging limply. and even while he does that, he’s still focused on the way your lips spread to accommodate him together with a ring of white at the base of his cock.

“that feel good? huh?” gojo mumbles, loving the way you arch your back and your head lols forward, just letting him do whatever he wants to you. you’re too far gone to even quell the ache in your thighs, too distracted by the wetness of your pussy.

“feel s— s’good, satoru—!” you moan out and like always satoru is indecisive in everything, now tugging you up to rest chest to back. “g’na cum!”

your legs spread more and more as your lover keeps you tightly pressed against him, an arm around your neck and the other, waist. wordlessly, he guides your face to the side, meeting your mouth in a sloppy, drooling kiss and his hips stutter at the way you mewl into his mouth.

“that right, princess?” he asks into your lips, relishing in your face contorting in pleasure. eyes reaching heaven and your mouth parted cutely even more when he props a leg up and his cockhead presses against your cervix ever so lightly.

“y—yeah . .” it’s a mix between a whine and a moan before the only rub of your clit from satoru’s hand sends you reeling and you’re trembling in his hold. you can feel your juices coat his length just as he cums as well, too obsessed with the way your cunt feels aeons better than his pathetic hand. he litters your skin with groans of his own, continue to fuck his cum back into you as you milk him dry with ropes and ropes of semen painting your womb white.

“good little girl,” he hums, and you sigh at the feeling of him cumming again, sensing him removing himself with you with an obscene pop! and you want to continue. you’re already moving your hips yet again, begging with small please’s but the happy-go-lucky song of the dryer interrupts the both of you. you scowl.

gojo laughs into your neck, and you’re left grumbling as he sets you down gently, letting you catch your breath before he presses a kiss to your sweaty cheek.

“i’ll handle it, baby,” satoru made a promise to you and he’ll keep it. he hurriedly pulls his sweatpants over his bottom half, “you just rest up.”

it’s not even two minutes later that you already miss him, trotting over to the laundry room in nothing but his shirt and you just watch as he removes the clothes with a certain tranquillity and delicateness that you’d like to see this sight more often and all you can muster in the moment is your arms around his middle.

and the sweetness of the moment is immediately ruined by gojo, “let’s fuck here. whaddya say?” 

your roommate and lover can only grin when you turn him around to smack him (“it’s!” slap “not!” slap “sanitary!” slap “here!” slap), finally happy everything’s back to normal. satoru simply presses a kiss to your temple.