#and no matter what I do. no matter what I say. it’s always the wrong thing to do or say! always! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

viasdiary · 3 days ago

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☆ i'm yours (luigi mangione x reader)

☆ word count: 2.4k

☆ warnings: slightly toxic, smut, unprotected sex, breeding kink, not really proofread

☆ after taking a break from each other, you decide you should make it permanent. you invite luigi over to break up with him but he's got something else in mind.

luigi was so wrong for you, but you couldn't get enough of him. even after you'd broken up and gotten back together time and time again, you'd always end up back with him. this time was different though. you'd found someone to take your mind off of luigi, someone who made you feel so good about yourself. you were finally ready to let him go.

sitting on the couch in your living room, you pick up your phone and call luigi. he picks up after the first ring.

“hey what’s up,” he says, aiming to sound nonchalant but miserably falling short. he sounded like he'd been longing to hear you so badly.

“hey lu,” you say, feeling a pang of intense guilt. he has absolutely no idea what’s coming next.

“i’ve been meaning to uh-” you begin to say, before realizing you just don't have the heart to break up with him over the phone.

"why don't you come over tonight?" you suggest, your voice softer now, as if you’re bracing yourself for the weight of the words. "there’s something i’ve been meaning to talk to you about”

“uh yeah, i can probably be over in about an hour”

you nod, even though he can't see you. your fingers grip the phone a little tighter, and you press your lips together, trying to steady your breathing.

"okay, yea. i'll be here," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

the call ends before you can say anything else, and the sudden silence in the room feels almost suffocating. you stare at the screen of your phone, the echo of luigi’s voice still lingering in your ears. an hour.

you sit there for a moment, trying to gather yourself. you fidget with the hem of your sweater anxiously. the weight of what you’re about to do presses down on you, and you wonder if you’re making a mistake. but deep down, you know this is the right thing. you’ve been holding on for too long, and it’s time to let go.

the clock on the wall ticks louder than usual as the minutes slip by, each one pulling you closer to the moment when you’ll have to look him in the eyes and finally say the words. the words you’ve been avoiding, the ones that will end everything.

you stand up, pacing the small space of your living room bathed in the amber glow of the sunset shining through your window. you're not sure what to do with your hands, or your mind for that matter. the thought of luigi showing up here, of seeing him and feeling that familiar pull, makes your stomach twist. it’s always been like this—he’s always been like this. he’ll look at you with those wide brown eyes, and you’ll almost forget why you need to let go.

but you can’t forget. not this time.

the doorbell rings, pulling you back to reality. your heart skips a beat as you take a deep breath, walking toward the door. you hesitate for a moment before pulling it open, the sight of him standing there in a navy sweater and baggy jeans, his dark curls slightly disheveled, still somehow perfect in his own way—makes everything inside you ache.

"hey," he says softly, his voice carrying that familiar warmth, but there's something different now. he doesn’t know it yet, but things are about to change forever.

you open the door wider, stepping aside to let him in. "come on in."

as he steps over the threshold, you brace yourself. this is it.

before you can open your mouth, his hand finds its way beneath your chin, slightly tilting your head upwards as he plants his lips onto yours. you melt into the kiss, placing your hands against his chest as he pulls you closer, and for a moment, you forget everything. the warmth of his touch, the familiar scent of his cologne, the way his body fits perfectly against yours—it all comes rushing back, threatening to sweep away your resolve.

but then you remember why he's here, why you called him over. with a sharp intake of breath, you pull away, gently pushing against his chest. luigi looks at you, confused.

"what's wrong?" he asks, his hand still lingering on your waist.

you step back, creating some distance between you. the space feels charged, heavy with unspoken words.

"lu, we need to talk," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

his thick eyebrows furrow, and you can see the concern etched across his face. "okay," he says slowly, following you as you lead him to the couch.

you sit down, leaving a little space between the two of you, and you just let it all out.

“i don't think this is gonna work for us anymore. i’ve been talking to someone else and i've kinda just had some realizations about us and i think we've outgrown this.”

its impossible to read his face as you continue speaking.

“i care a lot about you and i'd love to stay friends, maybe even-”

before you can finish he interrupts you with a soft chuckle.

“you think you're gonna sit me down and kick me to the curb? yea, that’s just not how tonight's gonna go.”

you feel a chill run down your spine at his words, his tone shifting from the warmth you're used to into something colder. your heart begins to race as you realize this isn't going the way you planned.

"luigi, please," you start, but he cuts you off again.

"no, you listen to me," he says, leaning in closer. his eyes, usually so soft and inviting, now hold a glint that makes you want to shrink away. "we've been through this before. you think you want to leave, but you always come back. always."

you shake your head, trying to find your voice. "this time is different. i've changed, we’ve changed"

"changed?" luigi scoffs, his hand suddenly gripping your arm. "you haven't changed. you're still the same person who needs me, who loves me. you're just confused right now. you know you fucking love me.”

your gaze shifts to his lips, pressed into a hard line, and then to his strong jawline.

you want so badly to tell him he's wrong, but he's not. you still love him, and as he's sitting on your couch next to you and as you look at his handsome face, you know exactly why you chose him.

you feel your resolve weakening, your carefully planned words crumbling under the intensity of his gaze. luigi's grip on your arm loosens slightly, his thumb now tracing small circles on your skin. the familiar touch sends shivers through you.

"i..." you start, but the words catch in your throat. you want to tell him he's wrong, that you've moved on, but the lie won't come.

luigi leans in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. "tell me you don't love me," he whispers, his lips barely grazing your ear. "look me in the eyes and tell me you don't want this."

you turn to face him, your noses almost touching. his brown eyes are full of anger, hurt, and desire. you open your mouth to speak, to end this once and for all, but no sound comes out.

instead, you find yourself leaning into him, your lips meeting his in a desperate, passionate kiss. your hands tangle in his curls as he pulls you closer, erasing any remaining space between you. the familiar electricity of his touch ignites something within you, and for a moment, all your doubts and reservations melt away.

but as quickly as it began, reality comes crashing back. you break away, gasping for air, your mind reeling. "no," you whisper, more to yourself than to him. "no, we can't do this."

luigi's eyes flash with a mix of triumph and frustration. "we already are," he says, his voice low and intense. "you can't deny what's between us. you never could."

he places his hand behind your neck and pulls you close again, his lips brushing yours. you melt into him. god, you missed him so much, his touch, his voice, his body. with every movement of his lips, every stroke of his hand, he was righting his wrongs. his hand trails up your thigh, pushing up your skirt.

the way he touches you feels so nice, and your body responds against your will. his fingers trace patterns on your skin, sending shivers through you. as his hand snakes higher up your leg, you feel an aching need for him.

he breaks the kiss as he gently pulls you onto his lap, his hands planted firmly on your thighs as he places kisses along your jawline and down your neck.

“you’re so perfect for me.” he says, barely a whisper.

“and i know i’m perfect for you too,” he continues, his eyes scanning your face as he says it. he looks so beautiful like this. the golden light of the sunset bathing him in an amber glow, shining through his curls and making his dark brown eyes shimmer.

he finds the hem of your sweater and slowly slips underneath. he runs his large hands across your bare skin skin.

as he begins to lift your sweater, the realization of what's happening hits you, and you place your hands on his chest, prepared to push away from him, but you can't. you hate that he feels so good. you hate that you want him so badly.

you lean forward and kiss him, hard. luigi moans against your lips, and you can feel his erection straining against his jeans.

you break the kiss and begin to lift his sweater, running your free hand over his abs, eager to feel his bare skin against yours. he helps you get his sweater off, and then reaches for your sweater. in one swift movement, he pulls it off, tossing it aside. he pauses, his gaze raking over your exposed skin, before leaning in and planting a kiss on your collarbone.

he cups your breast and starts sucking on it. you bite your lip, trying not to moan.

he stops and looks up at you, his eyes burning with desire.

"god, i've missed this," he breathes.

"i missed you" you admit breathlessly.

you run your fingers through his soft, dark curls, the smell of his cologne intoxicating you as you move yourself back and forth slowly, rubbing yourself along his leg. the thin fabric of your underwear begins to dampen, and the friction only heightens your desire.

you lean in and kiss him, the taste of his tongue in your mouth making you shudder with pleasure. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer, the feel of his skin against yours is unreal.

luigi slides his hands up and down your thighs as his mouth finds the delicate skin on the side of your neck.

"look at you, so fucking impatient. riding my leg to get yourself off" he says against your skin.

"he's not fucking you right, is he?" he whispers, his hand creeping under your skirt and finding the wet spot in your panties.

"no," you admit.

"that's too bad," he says, sliding his fingers under the edge of your panties and brushing them against your clit.

you gasp at his touch, grinding yourself against him.

your hips buck at the contact, and you let out a small moan.

"you're fucking soaked for me," he breathes, slipping a finger inside of you.

"luigi, please," you beg, grinding against his hand.

he adds a second finger, and you moan, arching your back and pressing yourself against him.

"god, look at you," he whispers, his voice thick with lust.

"i know he doesn't make you fuckin' sound like this" he says, more intensely this time.

"please luigi, just fuck me."

"not yet." he says, continuing to finger you and using his thumb to rub circles on your clit.

"lu," you whine, squirming and bucking your hips.

"so fuckin' needy," he says, a smirk spreading across his face.

you whimper, biting your lip and grabbing his shoulder, desperately clinging to him.

he keeps working his fingers, and you can feel your orgasm building. you can barely breathe, the feeling of his fingers inside you is so intense.

"fuck, lu," you pant, your nails digging into his skin.

he speeds up his pace, and you can feel your orgasm approaching.

"lu, i'm so fucking close," you say, the words slightly catching in your throat as he sends you over the edge.

you cry out, the sensation overwhelming you. he holds you close, kissing you as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

you rest your head on his shoulder, panting and trying to catch your breath.

"i'm not fuckin' done with you yet." luigi says, gently pushing you off his lap and back onto the couch.

he stands up, and you watch as he unbuckles his belt, pulls off his jeans and boxers, freeing his thick cock. you lick your lips, taking in the sight of him.

he sits back down, and you crawl onto his lap, straddling him. he takes himself in his hand, stroking his length and guiding himself inside of you.

"oh god," you moan, feeling him stretch you.

"that's right," he breathes, his voice low and husky.

he begins to thrust into you, and the feeling is incredible. you wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his hair and breathing in his scent.

"fuck," he groans, his hands gripping your hips as he pulls you onto him.

you feel the pressure building again, the heat in the pit of your stomach growing with each thrust.

"lu," you whimper, the sensation almost too much to bear.

"tell me," he says, his voice strained. "tell me how much you fucking miss this."

"i miss this so much," you say, your breath ragged.

"tell me," he pants, his rhythm getting faster and more erratic. "tell me you want this, tell me you need this."

"i need this, lu, fuck, i need you," you moan, the heat in your stomach growing.

"say it," he demands, his voice tight and strained.

"i'm yours, lu, i'm fucking yours," you cry, the pressure becoming unbearable.

he moves mercilessly, and with every thrust you feel him stretching you out, your slick spreading up and down his cock. he grabs your ass firmly with both hands, moving you up and down roughly, the lewd sound of skin on skin filling the room.

"where do you want it, baby?"

"fuck, please cum in me" you beg, your legs wrapping around his torso as he continues using you, roughly gripping your ass as he fucks you.

"good fuckin' girl. want me to fuck a baby into you, huh?" he says breathlessly. luigi groans deeply, his fingers digging into your hips as he thrusts up into you one final time. you feel him pulsing inside you as he finishes, filling you with his warmth. you come undone, the intensity of the orgasm tearing through you.

he buries his face in your neck, his breath hot on your skin as he releases inside you. you both sit there, breathing heavily, holding onto each other.

he lifts his head and gazes into your eyes, a smile playing at his lips.

"i guess this means i'm not getting rid of you, huh?"

#luigi mangione smut #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione #luigi mangione x yn #luigi mangione fanfic #free luigi #real person fiction #uhc shooter #uhc assassin #deny defend depose #free my baby daddy

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hiraethwrote · 20 hours ago

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contents : no pronouns but written with f!reader in mind, eating, established relationship, very self indulgent/selfship coded, insecure reader, a little hurt to comfort ig, sprinkle of angst, fluff, no use of y/n wc < 1k

you didn’t like how the question had just slipped out, your insecurities getting the best of you. it wasn’t a side of yourself you liked to give attention to, but once the spiral started it was hard to stop it.

and it caused your boyfriend to sit with the smuggest smirk of mockery smeared across his face, and an eyebrow quirked in amusement.

“don’t look at me like that,” you retaliate against his look, earning you a low mixture of a scoff and a chuckle. it causes you to shrink in your seat, simply picking at your food with your fork.

“it’s a dumb question,” he states simply, the sly curve of his lips never losing an ounce of smugness.

“it’s not,” you mumble mostly to yourself as you avert your gaze to ogle mindlessly at the meal in front of you. you know there isn’t any ill intent in satoru's witty comments — there rarely is — you just aren’t in a state of mind where his silly jokes do you any good, your insecurities quickly deafening any sense of reason.

there’s a moment of silence, where it seems like the conversation has come to an end as quickly as it sprouted, leaving you to wallow even more in your own self deprecating mind before satoru quickly resurrects it.

“of course we would find each other in every universe.”

without hesitation, you tilt your head back up to direct all your attention at him again, staring big eyed at him with your lips parted in delightful surprise.

“what?” he asks, pausing mid bite. you try to read his face, see if there’s any bit of that classic satoru joking tone snuck into his confession — you find none.

“you’re saying it as if it’s so obvious.”

“because it is?” he shrugs nonchalantly before letting his teeth sink into the food for another bite.

the insecurity has slowly turned into interrogation, narrowing your eyebrows and leaning back in your chair, folding your arms across your chest. with a deep exhale, he drops his fork, folds his arms and leans forward on the table, the subtlest smirk stamped at the corner of his lips again.

“i just feel it.”

“you just feel it?”

“uh huh.”

“how exactly do you feel it.”

“you’re so deeply ingrained in me, so i know our connections travels dimensions.”

with his beautiful blue eyes staring into the deepest parts of your soul, the parts only he has been able to reach, he takes your breath away.

and as easy as that, he sends your insecurities astray — just like he always does.

then you see it, all over him, the love he has for you that he always carries so proudly on his sleeve.

it’s in the softness in his eyes when they have the privilege of looking at you. it’s in the crinkles by his eyes from falling asleep with a smile on his face when you’re in his arms. it’s on his lips when they curve, no matter how wide or slanted, always caused by the thought of you. and it’s in his shoulders, when your presence allows him to relax, finding no sound more peaceful then the sound of your voice.

because what you deem to be your flaws, satoru views as gifts.

he has never thought that your laugh grows too loud or obnoxious. to him it’s a reminder of life, and a clear sign that happiness is running through you. never has it crossed his mind that you might talk too much, knowing he could simply sit until the end of time and listen to you ramble.

satoru's smile quickly falters when he sees a shy pool well up along your waterline. “no, hey-“ he stutters, a little confused as he rises from his chair. before you even have the chance to comprehend his actions, he’s already stood behind you in your chair, wrapping his strong arms around you, his face pressed up against the side of yours. “if i said anything wrong…” he trails off, and you feel his embrace tighten.

a sad, little chuckle escapes you. “you didn’t,” it comes out weak but you know he hears you. you let your hands grab ahold of his forearms and squeeze, the only thing you feel like you can physically do to show him you’re okay as the tears slowly roll down your cheeks. “quite the opposite, really,” you sniffle.

“oh,” then he’s quiet for a moment, before you feel that smile return to his face. “you’re quite dramatic, aren’t you?”

he manages to draw a brighter laugh from your lips. “learned from you.”

“aah, that’s why you’re so good at it.”

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, leaning into his comfort, feeling so small as he continues to hold you. his embrace is so secure it feels like he’ll never let go — and he knows he wouldn’t, if that’s what you needed.

“what are you sorry for?” he asks softly, his words of worry only able to be heard by you.

your shoulders rise in a restricted shrug. “being dramatic, as you said.” as the words travel past your tongue, you feel his arms flex tighter around you — if that’s even possible.

“stop that.” you feel his thumb slowly stroke you. “it’s okay. and i’ll always be here to calm you down.”

for a second you just take in his promise of devotion, and nod in agreement. “okay.”

“besides,” he breathes. “you’ll never be more dramatic than me, so i think we’ll be good.”

once again he manages to make you laugh, and his heart flutters.

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helen-with-an-a · 2 days ago

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Hello, I hope you’re fine! 🤗

I kind of have an request/idea. It’s not very detailed but I’ve read a lot of fics where it’s like: r is (best) friends with player and secretly in love with them, and the whole team is like „it’s so obvious she likes you back“. I always wonder how it would be if the players feelings aren’t obvious? Like from an outsider point of view it actually seems like the player doesn’t reciprocate r’s feelings and only wants to be friends? Even though that’s not true. More or less angst with a happy ending. Hope that makes sense 😅

Totally okay of your not into this „idea“ ofc!! Thanks :)

Something's Different

So I definitely changed this but I really like how it turned out and I hope you do too. I think this still kinda fits what you were after tho.

Georgia Stanway x Reader

Description: Something is definitely different with Georgia and Keira is trying to figure out what

Keira stared at her best friend, her brows furrowing. Something was different about Georgia today. She looked the same – her familiar smooth ponytail and bright smile, her laughter still rang with the same infectious energy. Yet there was something off, a subtle shift that Keira couldn't quite place.

“Kei?” Leah called, her concern growing for her ginger friend as she studied Georgia. “Keira?” she tried again.

“Something’s different,” Keira stated matter-of-factly.

“Huh?” Leah asked, confused. The blonde looked from Keira to Georgia and back, trying to see something that only Keira could spot.

“Something’s different with Gee,” Keira reiterated.

“Is there?” Leah turned her head, scrutinising Georgia.

Georgia stood in front of her cubby; one foot propped against the wooden bench as she reached to tie her shoelaces. You were next to her, of course, one leg drawn up to your chest, your hands busy fiddling with your boots while the two of you were deep in conversation, eyes locked on each other. The world around you faded into a blur as if nothing else mattered but Georgia.

“She looks the same to me,” Leah concluded, her tone dismissive.

“Something’s different,” Keira mumbled again, her eyes narrowing as she studied Georgia more intently. There was a lightness to her movements, a glow to her skin, as if she had discovered something that had shifted her perspective on the world.

You laughed loudly at something Georgia had said, the sound infectious and bright. Georgia joined in a moment later, her laughter harmonising perfectly with yours, both of you moving in sync as you gathered your belongings for training.

“Maybe it’s just me,” Keira murmured, unable to shake the feeling that something was different with her best friend.

-----

The canteen buzzed with the chatter. The Lionesses were always a noisy bunch, but Keira's focus was solely on you. You sat with the City players, Georgia sat right next to you like always.

“Keep frowning, and your face will stay like that,” Lucy teased, walking up to Keira, her playful tone cutting through Keira’s concentration.

“Something’s different,” Keira explained, her voice barely above a whisper as she kept her eyes trained on you, her eyebrows scrunching concern.

“About who?” Lucy asked, her expression shifting as her eyes darted around the room, searching for any sign of what might be out of the ordinary.

“Gee,” Keira replied.

“Not this again,” Leah chimed in, spinning around to face them with an exaggerated sigh, her own gaze following Keira’s to the table.

“What?” Lucy asked, clearly confused by the sudden shift from Leah

“She was banging on about this the other day,” Leah elaborated, rolling her eyes in frustration. “She’s convinced something’s different with Gee.”

“Nothing seems wrong,” Lucy commented, her head tilting to the side.

“That’s ‘cause you’re bloody blind,” Keira shot back, pursing her lips in irritation. “Something is definitely different with Gee.” The words hung in the air like a challenge, daring Lucy to say differently.

Leah and Lucy exchanged glances, unsure of how to respond. “What do you mean?” Leah pressed, trying to understand.

“It’s like… I don’t know, she’s just different. I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels like she’s–” Keira hesitated, searching for the right words. “Like she’s just come into her own or something.”

“You mean more confident?” Lucy suggested.

“Maybe, but it’s more than that. It’s like she’s … glowing. I don't know.” Keira’s gaze softened as she watched Georgia animatedly gesturing, the sunlight catching the strands of her hair, making them glimmer.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Lucy said. “What if she really has changed? People do grow, you know.”

“Yeah, but this feels different, like she’s been given permission to be whoever she wants to be,” Keira murmured, unable to shake the feeling that something monumental was unfolding right before her eyes.

You were leaning imperceptibly closer to Georgia, your body angled just enough to catch every word she was saying over the shouts of laughter. The bustling noise faded into a background hum as you focused entirely on her, tilting your head slightly to catch her voice. Your smile grew broad in response to something Georgia had whispered in your ear. Georgia’s own smile mirrored yours, lighting up her face in a way, her eyes shimmering.

In that moment, the two of you existed in a world of your own making, where shared jokes and whispers held a special kind of magic. Georgia opened her mouth as if to say something more, her eyes sparkling with excitement and mischief, but the moment was abruptly interrupted when someone called your name from across the room. Georgia looked up instinctively at your name. You waited a moment longer, letting your eyes scan over Georgia's face before turning to see who had called you. When you were suitably distracted, Georgia looked back to you, her eyes tracing lines over your face, as if checking everything was still ok.

Keira narrowed her eyes, determined to store this information away for later.

As you turned back to Georgia, your expression still bright from the conversation, Keira felt a twinge of something – protectiveness, maybe? She couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but it was clear that whatever was happening between you and Georgia was significant.

-----

Keira jumped as the door to her and Georgia’s shared bedroom slammed shut, the sudden noise reverberating through the small space like a thunderclap. Georgia stormed past her, anger radiating off her in waves, before launching herself onto her bed with a heavy thud. The mattress groaned under the sudden impact.

“Gee?” Keira ventured cautiously, not wanting to provoke her friend further.

“What?” Georgia huffed, her voice tight as she turned her back to Keira.

“You good?” Keira asked, her tone gentle.

“Yup,” Georgia replied. She popped the ‘p’ with emphasis, a gesture that conveyed more than her words ever could. It told Keira everything she needed to know about Georgia’s current mood – one that was anything but fine.

“Wanna talk about it?” Keira offered, her heart aching for her friend.

“Nope,” Georgia shot back, popping the 'p' again, her voice flat as she whipped out her phone, fingers flying over the screen.

Keira let out a small sigh. “I’ll be here if you want to,” she said softly, a sympathetic smile tugging at her lips.

For a moment, Keira sat in silence, watching Georgia scroll through her phone, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. As the seconds ticked by, the air in the room felt thick with unspoken tension, a stark contrast to the usually light-hearted atmosphere they shared. Keira’s mind raced, filled with questions. Was it something that happened at in training? A falling out with someone? Or perhaps something deeper, something that had been simmering for a while?

“Well, if you what to, I'm here,” Keira mumbled, turning to gather her bits for a shower.

-----

“Obi said he was nice,” you commented to Millie, looking up at her with an unsure smile, hoping she’d have some magic solution to your problem. Obi’s glowing recommendation had made the whole thing sound almost too good to pass up, but deep down, you felt uneasy.

“Yeh, but do you actually want to go on a date with him?” Millie countered, crossing her arms and giving you a knowing look. You winced at her tone.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair, your thoughts running a mile a minute. The truth was, you didn’t want to go. The idea of it made your heart sink. There was only one person you wanted to spend time with, to share a laugh or a quiet moment, to go on dates and kiss until your heart was content ... and that person certainly wasn’t interested in you.

Millie watched you, her eyes softening. “Look, the way I see it,” she began gently, “if you do go on a date with this dude, and you’re not really into it, that’s kind of leading him on, isn’t it? And that’s not fair to either of you.”

You sighed again, the weight of your dilemma pressing down on your shoulders. “Yeah, I know. I don’t want to hurt him or make things awkward. But…” You paused, struggling to put your feelings into words. “Going on a date with someone else is the only way I can think of getting over her.”

Millie’s face softened with a look of understanding, and she nodded. “Ahhh, mystery girl,” she said, her voice laced with amusement. She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, a grin spreading across her face.

“Oh, shut up,” you groaned, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks as you whined.

“I’m just saying!” Millie teased, nudging you with her elbow. “Whoever she is, she's got you down baaaad.” She chuckled, giving you a sympathetic look. “But honestly, have you ever thought about, oh, i don't know … telling her how you feel?”

You shook your head quickly, laughing a little too loudly. “No way. She’s way out of my league. Besides, I don’t want to mess things up and make it all awkward.” Your eyes drifted subconsciously over to the familiar sight of Georgia walking through the hallway, her brown-blonde ponytail swaying gently with each step. She walked in stride beside Leah and Lucy, her shoulders slumped slightly.

You felt a pang in your chest. Georgia had been pulling away from you since last night. You weren't sure why or what the cause was, but her answers were short, she refused to sit next to you at breakfast and lunch, and during training, she had all but run away from you when you turned to her for a partner.

Millie tilted her head, her expression softening. “You never know,” she said gently., pulling your attention back to her. “Sometimes, the things we think are impossible aren’t so impossible after all. Maybe she’d surprise you.”

You rolled your eyes, pretending not to consider her words, even though they tugged at something deep inside you. Part of you wished Millie was right, that a confession wouldn’t ruin everything. But the way Georgia was acting right now made you think differently. Maybe keeping it a secret was for the best.

Keira watched you from over her coffee. She was just close enough to hear the conversation if she concentrated hard enough. She had watched the way you bit your lip as you studied Georgia, a nervous expression on your face.

A date back in Germany? A mystery girl that had your heart?

Keira took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes narrowing slightly as she pieced things together. She had been observing you for a while now – your stolen glances toward Georgia, the way your shoulders tensed every time her name came up in conversation, and, of course, your slight blush whenever Georgia happened to walk by. This “mystery girl” wasn’t much of a mystery to Keira anymore.

Her mind flashed back to all the subtle hints: the way you perked up whenever Georgia entered a room, or how you seemed to find an excuse to be near her, no matter the situation. She knew you and Georgia were close. You lived together in Munich, Georgia had not-so-subtly followed you out to the Bundesliga, you were like Lessi and Tooney - always together, it was weird whenever you weren't together.

“Got something on your mind, Kei?” Mary asked, having noticed the far-off look in Keira’s eyes.

Keira snapped back to the present, offering Mary a nonchalant smile. “Just thinking … how some people are a bit oblivious.”

-----

“Gee, please,” you begged, feeling your heart twist painfully as Georgia stormed into the empty changing room, her face flushed with a mix of frustration and hurt. She wouldn’t even look at you as she strode over to her locker.

“If you want to go on a date so badly, just do it!” she shouted, yanking her locker open with such force it banged against the wall.

You stood frozen for a moment, her words echoing in your head, sharp and bitter. “But why are you angry?” you asked, your voice trembling as you tried to keep yourself from crying. Georgia’s silence was deafening, broken only by the sounds of her furious movements as she tossed items aside. She didn’t respond, just huffed in irritation.

“Please, Gee,” you tried again, voice barely above a whisper. But Georgia’s only response was to grab something from her locker with far too much force, her expression hardening as if she were putting up every wall she could muster.

“No! Just go on that bloody date, will you?” she snapped, refusing to meet your gaze.

You felt a tear roll down your cheek, the hurt of her dismissal cutting deep. “But you’re mad at me. Gee, please. I don’t understand.”

Georgia’s jaw clenched, her shoulders tense as if she were holding back a torrent of words she couldn’t control. “No, I’m not,” she replied tersely, but the lie was as see-through as a window.

“For fuck’s sake, Gee,” you said, the crack in your voice betraying the heartbreak you felt. “You’re my best friend. We live together, for Christ’s sake. I know when you’re mad at me.”

At that, Georgia whirled around, her gaze blazing as she finally locked eyes with you, her expression a mix of anger and raw vulnerability that you hadn’t seen before.

“You want to know why I’m mad? Huh?” she demanded, her voice strained, holding back something too big to contain. You nodded, feeling your own breath catch as you steadied yourself, bracing for whatever was coming.

“I’m mad because it should be me." Her voice broke as the words tumbled out in a rush, a wave of a confession she couldn’t take back. “I should be the one to take you on dates. I should be the one who gets to kiss you and hold your hand. I should be the one who brings you flowers just because and makes you your favourite meal after training.” Her voice wavered, but her eyes held steady, piercing into yours with a fierce intensity. “Me! Not him. Me!”

She took a shaky breath, her expression softening just enough for you to see the pain beneath her anger. “And I can’t do any of that because… because you’re not mine. You never have been.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

You stood there, her words crashing over you, and for a moment, you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe. You wanted to reach out, to touch her, to somehow convey that she’d been wrong all along – that she didn’t need permission, that she already had a hold on you far deeper than she realised.

Your voice finally returned, soft and trembling. “Gee… I ... I didn't know.”

“Well, now you do,” she murmured, barely able to meet your gaze as she shrugged. You stepped closer, closing the space between you, feeling your heart race as you reached for her hand, testing the waters.

“I've always been yours,” you whispered, lifting her chin so that she’d look at you. “I don’t want him, Gee. I've never wanted anyone else. I only want you.”

Georgia’s breath caught, her eyes widening as the reality of your words sank in. Slowly, her expression softened, the anger melting away, replaced by something gentler, something fragile and fresh.

"Y-you do?"

"Of course, I do. Ever since we rocked up to City on that first day and we were both batshit terrified. I ... I love y-"

Lips met yours in a frantic moment. As sweet as sugar, Georgia let her fingers glide into your hair as you gripped her shirt tightly.

"Can I take you for lunch when we get back to Munich?" Georgia whispered when you parted, her eyes still shut, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

"As long as I can take you for dinner," you smiled back, leaning up to kiss her again.

-----

The door to their shared bedroom slammed shut again, but this time the atmosphere was completely different. There was no angry huffing, no frustrated muttering under her breath. Instead, Georgia practically glided across the room, throwing herself onto her bed with an energy Keira could only describe as … gleeful.

Keira tilted her head, watching Georgia with mounting curiosity as her friend landed on the bed and rolled onto her back, phone in hand, her thumbs moving at lightning speed across the screen. A small, knowing smirk played on Keira’s lips as she took in the scene, noting the way Georgia’s eyes sparkled with a new kind of light, her cheeks flushed with something decidedly un-angry.

“Gee?” Keira asked, bewilderment and amusement lacing her tone.

“What?” Georgia replied absently, barely looking up from her phone.

“You good?” Keira pressed, raising an eyebrow, trying to hide the grin threatening to break through.

Georgia finally looked up, just enough to reveal the unmistakable giddiness etched into her features. “Yep,” she said with a huge smile, her gaze flicking back to her phone as she tapped out another message. A soft giggle escaped her, and she bit her lip to stifle it, but it was too late – Keira had noticed everything.

“Want to talk about it?” Keira asked, her voice deliberately casual as she perched on the edge of her bed across from Georgia, arms crossed in curiosity.

“Nope,” Georgia replied, her face lighting up again as she read the latest message, a quiet laugh bubbling from her lips. She seemed almost oblivious to Keira’s questioning gaze, too lost in whatever – or whoever – was on the other side of her screen.

Keira watched her with a mixture of fondness and amusement, unable to hold back a smile as Georgia’s laughter filled the room, soft but genuine. She knew better than to push; whatever Georgia was holding close, she’d share in her own time.

“I’ll be here if you want to,” Keira said softly, a knowing smile creeping across her face as she settled back against her pillows. Georgia didn’t respond, too lost in her world of giddy texting, but the slight blush on her cheeks told Keira all she needed to know.

Something was definitely different with Georgia.

234 notes · View notes

hisfavegirl · 3 days ago

Text

Burning Hearts - Daemon Targaryen x Niece!Reader.

Summary : Love is never simple, not in your family, and certainly not between you and Daemon. He is a man torn between his past and present, between family and desire, and you are the one caught in the middle. The fire he stirs in you burns bright and dangerous, a flame that only grows as you watch him with Rhaenyra, your sister, your confidante. The tension between you all thickens, and it’s clear that nothing can remain hidden for long.

Daemon Masterlist.

The soft glow of the fire casts flickering shadows across your chamber as you step inside, the warmth of the hearth doing little to ease the sudden chill that runs down your spine. Your feet falter when you see him—Daemon—standing by the fire, his figure tense, his face illuminated by the golden light.

In his hand, the glint of a dagger catches your eye, and your breath hitches. His silver hair falls across his face as he turns to you, his sharp features twisted in fury. His violet eyes, so often filled with mischief or quiet amusement, now burn with an intensity that freezes you in place.

“Uncle,” you greet, your voice measured, though your heart races. “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze sweeping over you, as if confirming your presence. When he speaks, his voice is low, simmering with restrained anger. “Do you think I’m blind?” he asks, his words cutting through the silence like the blade in his hand.

You take a steadying breath, willing yourself to remain calm. “I don’t know what you mean.”

His lips curl into a bitter smirk. “Don’t play innocent with me. I saw you today. With him. Laughing, smiling as if he were worthy of your attention.”

The memory of your conversation in the garden comes flooding back. It was harmless, a polite exchange of pleasantries, yet you should have known it would ignite Daemon’s temper. He’s always been possessive, his jealousy as sharp as any blade.

“You’re overreacting,” you say carefully, stepping further into the room. “It was nothing. Just a conversation.”

“Nothing?” His voice rises, and he takes a step toward you, the dagger glinting menacingly in his hand. “You think I can’t see the way they look at you? The way they all want you? Do you enjoy it? Watching them fall over themselves for a moment of your time?”

Your pulse quickens, but you refuse to back down. “It doesn’t matter how they look at me,” you say firmly. “It’s meaningless. You know that.”

“Do I?” He closes the distance between you in two swift strides, his presence overwhelming. “Because from where I stood, it looked like you were enjoying yourself. Like you wanted him to look at you that way.”

You meet his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

The room falls silent, the crackling of the fire the only sound. For a moment, neither of you move, the tension between you thick and suffocating. Then, without warning, Daemon raises the dagger, the sharp edge catching the light.

Your breath catches, but he doesn’t strike. Instead, he flips the blade in his hand and tosses it onto the table beside him with a clatter. “You drive me mad,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with frustration.

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your heart still pounding in your chest. “You’re being ridiculous,” you say, though your voice wavers slightly.

He steps closer, his gaze softening just enough to reveal the turmoil beneath his anger. “You don’t understand,” he says quietly, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Every time I see you with another man, it feels like I’m losing you. And I can’t—” He breaks off, his jaw tightening as he struggles to find the words.

You place a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. “You’re not losing me, Daemon,” you say gently. “But you can’t keep doing this. You can’t let your jealousy control you.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, he steps back, running a hand through his hair. “Perhaps not,” he says finally. “But don’t expect me to stop caring. That’s something I’ll never be able to do.”

And with that, he turns and leaves, the echo of his footsteps fading into the hall. You stand there, the fire casting flickering shadows around you, wondering how long you can keep walking this tightrope of his possessiveness and your own resolve.

The morning sun bathes the training yard in warm light, casting golden hues over the Red Keep. From the gallery, you watch Daemon sparring with a knight, his movements precise and lethal, a dance of skill and power that commands attention. His silver hair gleams in the sunlight, damp with sweat, and his focus is absolute.

But it’s not just you who is watching.

Rhaenyra stands at the edge of the yard, her hands clasped in front of her, her gaze fixed on Daemon. There’s something in her expression—admiration, perhaps even adoration—that tightens your chest.

Your fingers grip the stone balustrade as you force yourself to look away, but the scene pulls you back. It’s impossible not to notice the way Daemon turns to her between bouts, his usual smirk softening as he approaches. And then, as if the gods themselves wished to torment you, he lifts a hand to tuck a stray strand of Rhaenyra’s hair behind her ear.

The gesture is simple, fleeting, but it feels like a dagger to your heart.

Your stomach churns, a storm of emotions brewing inside you—anger, jealousy, hurt. The very sight of them, so effortlessly close, sets your blood on fire. You tell yourself it’s nothing. Rhaenyra is your sister, and Daemon is your uncle. Surely, there’s no reason to feel this way.

But you do.

You force yourself to remain composed, unwilling to show weakness in a place where every glance, every whispered word carries weight. Yet the ache in your chest grows, an unwelcome reminder of just how deeply Daemon’s presence has burrowed into your soul.

As if sensing your gaze, Daemon suddenly looks up. His violet eyes meet yours across the yard, and for a moment, everything else fades. His expression shifts, his smirk returning, though it’s laced with something unreadable. You feel the pull of his attention, the way it always manages to ensnare you no matter how hard you try to resist.

But then he turns back to Rhaenyra, his focus returning to her as if your shared moment meant nothing. And that hurts more than you’d care to admit.

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to push the feelings aside. The court is a place of masks and shadows, and you’ve learned to wear yours well. But as you watch Daemon and Rhaenyra together, you can’t help but wonder how much longer you can keep pretending that this doesn’t matter. That he doesn’t matter.

Your hands tremble as you grip the reins of your horse, your breath coming in sharp bursts. The whispers of court, the weight of your emotions, and the sight of Daemon and Rhaenyra together swirl in your mind like a storm you can’t control. You need to escape—just for a moment.

Without a second thought, you swing yourself onto your horse. The leather of the saddle creaks under your weight, and the stallion beneath you shifts restlessly, sensing your turmoil. With a sharp tug on the reins, you set off, ignoring the calls of Ser Criston from behind.

“Wait! Princess—please!” he shouts, but his voice fades as you push your horse into a gallop, your heart pounding in time with the thunder of hooves against the cobblestones.

You don’t stop as you pass the gates of the Red Keep, nor when the streets of King’s Landing open up before you. The bustling market stalls and narrow alleys blur as you ride through them, your vision focused on the distant outline of the Kingswood.

Once you reach the forest, the world shifts. The noise of the city falls away, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the calls of distant birds. The air here is cooler, scented with pine and earth, but it does little to calm the storm inside you.

You pull your horse to a halt near a small clearing, dismounting with hurried movements. Your legs feel unsteady as you pace, your hands clenching and unclenching as if trying to grasp onto something solid amidst the chaos of your thoughts.

“How dare he?” you mutter under your breath, your voice trembling with anger. “How dare they?”

Daemon’s actions replay in your mind—the way he looked at Rhaenyra, the way he touched her so casually, as if it meant nothing. And yet, to you, it meant everything. It was a betrayal, even if you had no right to claim him as your own.

You close your eyes, leaning against the trunk of a tree, your breathing heavy. The ache in your chest refuses to fade, the jealousy gnawing at you like a relentless beast.

The sound of approaching hooves startles you, pulling you from your thoughts. Turning sharply, you see Ser Criston riding toward you, his expression a mix of concern and frustration.

“Princess,” he says as he dismounts, his tone cautious. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. It’s not safe.”

“I don’t care,” you snap, your voice sharper than intended. “I needed to get away.”

He hesitates, studying you with a wary gaze. “I understand,” he says carefully. “But running into the woods won’t solve whatever troubles you. Let me escort you back.”

You shake your head, your anger flaring anew. “I’m not ready to go back, Ser Criston. Not yet.”

He steps closer, his armor glinting in the dappled sunlight. “Whatever it is, princess, you don’t have to face it alone.”

For a moment, his sincerity gives you pause, the warmth in his voice a stark contrast to the cold jealousy that still grips you. But the thought of returning to the Red Keep, to Daemon, to the suffocating weight of your emotions—it’s too much.

“Just give me some time,” you say softly, your voice trembling. “Please.”

Ser Criston hesitates but finally nods. “Very well,” he says, though his expression remains troubled. “I’ll wait here to ensure your safety.”

You turn away, your thoughts churning as you gaze into the depths of the forest. For now, the Kingswood offers a reprieve—a place to gather the shattered pieces of your heart before you’re forced to face the world again.

Your fingers grip the hilt of the sword tied to your saddle, the cool steel grounding you as you unsheathe it. The blade gleams in the dappled light of the Kingswood, reflecting the fire burning in your eyes.

“Ser Criston,” you call out sharply, your voice carrying an edge that leaves no room for argument. “Fight me.”

He blinks, startled by your demand. “Princess, I cannot—”

“Do not argue with me!” you snap, the force of your anger startling even yourself. “Pick up your sword and fight me. Or must I seek someone who will?”

He hesitates, his brow furrowed in concern. “This is not proper—”

“Now!” you shout, your voice echoing through the trees.

Reluctantly, he draws his sword, the ring of steel loud in the forest’s stillness. “If this is what you wish,” he says, his tone steady, though his eyes reflect his unease.

You waste no time, charging at him with all the fury you’ve been holding back. Your blade arcs through the air with raw power, and Ser Criston barely manages to parry the strike. The clash of metal reverberates, and you push forward, forcing him to step back.

Each swing of your sword is fueled by the anger and jealousy you’ve carried since the morning, the image of Daemon and Rhaenyra burning in your mind. Your strikes are wild but powerful, and though Ser Criston blocks each one, you can see the strain in his movements.

“Princess, control your anger!” he says, his voice tight as he counters another heavy blow. “This is not the way to—”

“Do not tell me what to do!” you shout, your voice breaking with emotion. You swing again, harder this time, and the force of your attack makes him stagger.

His expression shifts, the concern in his eyes giving way to determination. He steps forward, meeting your next attack with precision, his sword ringing against yours. “If you wish to fight, then fight properly!”

The words sting, but they ground you. Your movements become more deliberate, less driven by rage and more by purpose. The clash of your blades grows sharper, the rhythm of your sparring almost hypnotic as the Kingswood bears witness to your duel.

Sweat beads on your brow, and your arms ache from the effort, but you don’t stop. You swing again, and this time, your blade grazes his shoulder, though not deeply enough to draw blood. He grits his teeth, his stance shifting as he presses forward, forcing you to take a step back.

“You’re strong, princess,” he says between strikes, his tone almost admiring. “But strength without focus is dangerous.”

You glare at him, your breathing ragged as you push him back with another powerful strike. “And what would you know of danger?”

His eyes darken, and for a moment, the playful edge in his voice vanishes. “Enough to know that you’re running from something,” he says, his sword locking with yours. “And this won’t fix it.”

The words pierce through your anger, and your grip falters just slightly. He uses the opening to disarm you, his blade knocking yours from your hand. The sword clatters to the ground, and you stumble back, the fight leaving you as quickly as it came.

Chest heaving, you stand there, staring at him as the weight of your emotions crashes over you. Without a word, you turn away, walking to the edge of the clearing.

“Princess,” Ser Criston calls after you, his voice softer now.

“Leave me,” you say, your voice trembling. “Just leave me.”

You hear him sheathe his sword, the faint sound of his footsteps retreating. Alone once more, you sink to your knees, the cool earth beneath you grounding you as tears spill from your eyes. In the stillness of the Kingswood, you let yourself feel the pain you’ve been running from, the ache of a heart torn between love and despair.

Your chest still heaves as you walk toward your horse, the adrenaline from the sparring match slowly draining away. You reach out, your fingers brushing against the warm, muscular neck of your steed. It shifts slightly under your touch, sensing the storm of emotions within you.

You rest your forehead against the horse’s mane, your breathing uneven. The quiet of the Kingswood surrounds you, the chirping of crickets and the rustling of leaves a stark contrast to the chaos in your mind.

Daemon. His name echoes in your thoughts, sharp and cutting. You know why he acted as he did, why he sought Rhaenyra’s attention so blatantly. It was a game to him, a way to provoke you, to remind you of the power he holds over your heart. And it worked.

A bitter laugh escapes your lips as you stroke the horse’s neck. “He always wins,” you murmur, the words laced with frustration and resignation.

You tilt your head back, your gaze lifting to the sky. The sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of orange and purple across the darkening expanse. Night is falling, and with it comes the reality that you cannot stay here forever.

Your father must be searching for you by now, and the thought of facing him—or worse, Daemon—fills you with a sense of dread. Yet there’s no escaping it. The Red Keep awaits, with all its secrets, shadows, and unspoken words.

With a deep breath, you mount your horse, the familiar weight of the saddle grounding you. You nudge the steed forward, the slow rhythm of its steps matching the heaviness in your chest.

The ride back feels longer than it should, the path winding through the trees like a labyrinth. Each step takes you closer to the Red Keep, closer to the storm you left behind.

As the walls of King’s Landing come into view, you steel yourself. The night may bring questions, accusations, and the ever-present weight of Daemon’s gaze, but you are determined to face it.

For now, the ride is yours, a brief moment of solitude before the world intrudes once more.

The courtyard is quiet as you ride in, the sound of your horse’s hooves against the stone breaking the stillness. Dismounting with practiced ease, you pat the horse’s neck briefly before turning to walk away.

One of your father’s guards steps forward, his expression unreadable. “The king awaits you in his chambers, princess,” he says, his tone formal but laced with something you can’t quite place—pity, perhaps.

Your heart sinks. You nod in acknowledgment, brushing past him as you make your way toward the castle. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of your father’s looming anger pressing down on you.

When you reach his chambers, you hesitate for a moment outside the door. You know what awaits you—Viserys’s fury is not easily quelled, and this time, you’ve truly tested his patience. Steeling yourself, you push the door open and step inside.

Viserys stands in the center of the room, his posture rigid and his face dark with anger. His hands are clasped behind his back, but his body radiates barely restrained fury.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he demands, his voice sharp and booming. “Anything could have happened to you!”

“I wasn’t alone,” you say quickly, your voice steady but soft. “Ser Criston followed me—”

“And what good is one knight against a band of brigands?” he snaps, cutting you off. “Do you think his presence would have stopped them from taking you? From killing you?”

You flinch at his words, but you hold your ground. “I needed time to think,” you say quietly. “I needed space.”

“Space?” Viserys repeats, his tone incredulous. “You think the Kingswood is the place for such folly? Do you understand the risks you took? What if you hadn’t come back? What if something had happened to you?”

His voice cracks slightly, and you see the fear behind his anger. The realization makes your own frustration waver, guilt creeping in.

“I’m sorry, Father,” you say, lowering your gaze. “It won’t happen again.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. For a moment, the room is silent except for the crackling of the fire.

“I have already lost too much,” he says finally, his voice softer but no less firm. “I cannot bear to lose you as well. Do not test me again, child.”

You nod, the weight of his words settling over you. Without another word, he gestures for you to leave, and you obey, retreating to your chambers with a heavy heart.

As you walk through the halls, the sting of his reprimand lingers, but so does the knowledge that his anger came from a place of love and fear. Even so, the tension between you feels like another wound—one that will take time to heal.

Your footsteps echo through the dimly lit corridor as you make your way to your chambers. The tension from your father’s anger still lingers, but now, a new unease creeps over you. You can feel it—a presence behind you, following at a measured pace.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. Daemon.

Your heart quickens, and you instinctively quicken your pace. The sound of his boots on the stone floor matches yours, steady and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey.

Reaching your chamber door, you barely have time to grasp the handle before you feel a firm hand push against your back, propelling you inside. The door slams shut behind you, and the click of the lock sends a shiver down your spine.

You whirl around to face him. Daemon stands before you, his chest rising and falling with barely contained fury. His silver hair catches the faint glow of the firelight, and his dark eyes burn into yours.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he growls, his voice low but laced with menace.

You cross your arms over your chest, meeting his glare with defiance. “I could ask you the same question,” you retort, your tone sharp.

His eyes narrow, and he takes a step closer. “You went into the Kingswood alone, with Criston Cole of all people. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t alone,” you snap, lifting your chin. “And Ser Criston is more than capable of protecting me. Or do you doubt his abilities as a knight?”

Daemon’s lips curl into a sneer, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “It’s not his abilities I doubt,” he spits. “It’s his intentions. Do you think I didn’t see the way he looks at you?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “And I suppose you’re the only man allowed to look at me, is that it?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, with a quiet intensity that sends a shiver down your spine, he says, “Yes.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the tense air. “That’s rich, coming from you,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Shall we talk about the way you look at Rhaenyra? Or perhaps the way you touch her, as if I don’t exist?”

Daemon’s face darkens, his expression shifting from anger to something more dangerous. He closes the distance between you in a single stride, his hand gripping your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze.

“You think this is about her?” he hisses, his voice low and venomous. “You think I care about anyone else when you’re the one who drives me mad?”

Your breath catches in your throat, your heart pounding as his words sink in. His grip on your chin softens, his thumb brushing against your skin in a gesture that feels both tender and possessive.

“I don’t care what my brother or anyone else thinks,” he murmurs, his tone softer now but no less intense. “But you… you belong to me.”

The room feels stifling, the air thick with tension and unspoken emotions. You want to argue, to push him away, but the fire in his eyes holds you captive.

“Daemon—” you start, your voice faltering.

He leans closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “No more games,” he whispers. “No more pretending.”

You close your eyes, torn between the pull of his words and the chaos of your own feelings. Whatever comes next, you know there’s no turning back.

You push Daemon away from you, the force of your hands against his chest causing him to stumble back a step. The space between you feels electrified, the tension thick enough to choke. You stand tall, meeting his gaze with a cold resolve, the anger and confusion swirling inside you.

He doesn’t try to close the distance again, but the fire in his eyes burns hotter. You take a breath, trying to steady your racing heart, and let out a small, almost bitter laugh.

“You think you can control me, Daemon?” you say, your voice steady but laced with sarcasm. “You think you can just waltz into my room and claim me whenever it suits you?”

Daemon watches you with a mixture of frustration and something darker. His eyes flicker with an unreadable emotion, but he doesn’t speak.

“I know what you’ve been doing behind my back,” you continue, your words sharp, slicing through the space between you. “You’ve been pampering Rhaenyra, playing the same game you always do—pretending to be everything she wants, just like you did with me. But I’m not a fool.”

Daemon’s jaw tightens, his silence a testament to the fact that he knows you’re right. He’s been treating you both the same, giving you both pieces of his attention, gifts, and promises, but none of it is enough. Not anymore.

“I’m not your puppet, Daemon,” you add, your voice a little softer now but no less firm. “I won’t stand for you controlling me. Not like this. Not when you do the same thing to her.”

His hands flex at his sides, and for a moment, you think he might lash out, but instead, his lips curl into a tight smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” he mutters, his tone low, dangerous. “But you need to understand, the rules are different when it comes to us. You think you can walk away from this, but you can’t.”

You stand your ground, your voice unwavering. “You don’t get to decide that, Daemon. I’ve had enough of your games, and I’m asking you to leave. Now.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his face. He steps forward once more, but this time, you don’t flinch. You hold his gaze with a strength you didn’t know you had.

“You think you can make me leave?” he asks, his tone a challenge.

“I do,” you say simply, every word sharp.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The air is thick with tension, the room seeming to hold its breath. Then, slowly, Daemon sighs, as though the fight has drained from him. His expression softens, but the fire in his eyes never dies.

“You’ll regret this,” he mutters, his voice quiet but still intense. He steps back, moving toward the door.

But just before he leaves, he pauses. “I’ll leave, for now. But know this, the things I feel for you… they’re not so easily dismissed.”

You don’t respond. You simply watch as he leaves your room, the door closing quietly behind him.

And in the silence that follows, the weight of his words hangs in the air like an unresolved storm, leaving you to wonder how much longer you can keep resisting the force that is Daemon Targaryen.

The morning light filters through the windows of your father’s chambers as you stand before him, your heart pounding with anticipation. Today is the day you will make your request, one that you’ve considered carefully, weighed with both the weight of its importance and the consequences it might bring.

“Father,” you begin, your voice steady but tinged with determination, “I wish for Ser Criston to be appointed as my personal guard.”

Viserys looks up from the parchment in front of him, his expression skeptical. “Ser Criston is already sworn to protect Rhaenyra,” he says, his tone measured but firm. “You know the importance of his duty to her.”

You nod, but the resolve in your chest only strengthens. “I understand that, Father. But I need him. The situation is… complicated. I trust him, and I believe he’s the best person to ensure my safety.”

Viserys lets out a sigh, clearly not pleased with the idea. “You are asking a lot, daughter. Ser Criston has pledged his loyalty to Rhaenyra, and his place is with her. This is not a decision I take lightly.”

But you are persistent. “Please, Father. I won’t ask for anything more, but I need him close. You know how dangerous things are becoming in the Red Keep, and I… I can’t take any chances.”

After a long pause, Viserys relents, his gaze softening. “Very well, you have made your point. I will agree to this, but know that it will come with consequences.”

You bow your head slightly in gratitude, though your heart remains heavy with the understanding of what this request might cost. Viserys, with a resigned sigh, calls for his guards.

“Fetch Ser Criston,” he orders. “We need to discuss this matter.”

Minutes later, the door opens, and Ser Criston steps into the room, his armor gleaming under the light. His eyes immediately find yours, and there is a brief, subtle hesitation before he turns to Viserys, waiting for his orders.

Viserys regards him carefully before speaking. “Ser Criston, my daughter has made a request. She wishes for you to become her personal guard. As you are already sworn to protect Rhaenyra, this may cause… complications.”

Ser Criston’s gaze flickers between you and your father, uncertainty playing across his features. He remains silent for a moment before responding, his voice respectful but firm. “Your Grace, I have sworn to Princess Rhaenyra. My duty to her is unwavering.”

Viserys nods, acknowledging the depth of Ser Criston’s loyalty. “I understand that. But, for the safety of my daughter, this arrangement must be made.” He turns to you briefly, as if seeking your confirmation. “You are right to seek his protection, but I will also find a new guard to swear to Rhaenyra in his place.”

You feel a knot in your stomach at the mention of Rhaenyra, but you nod. “I understand, Father.”

Turning back to Ser Criston, Viserys gestures toward you. “Ser Criston, you will serve my daughter now, just as you have served me. And once this matter is settled, I will arrange for a replacement to stand by Rhaenyra.”

There is a long, almost awkward silence between you and Ser Criston. His gaze remains steady, but you can’t read the emotions flickering in his eyes. He finally speaks, his voice low but steady. “As you command, Your Grace. I will serve the princess, as I have sworn to do.”

Viserys nods approvingly. “Good. The matter is settled, then.” He gives you a glance that seems to contain both approval and concern. “You are dismissed, Ser Criston.”

As Ser Criston leaves, his gaze lingers on you for a brief moment longer, and you can’t help but wonder what is going through his mind. There is something in the way he looks at you that feels different, but you can’t quite place it.

When the door closes behind him, your father lets out a breath, turning to face you once more. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says quietly. “This decision will have consequences, both here and with Rhaenyra.”

“I understand, Father,” you reply, trying to steady your own emotions. “But I can’t ignore what’s happening around me anymore.”

Viserys says nothing more, his expression unreadable. Instead, he turns back to the papers on his desk, the matter closed for now.

But as you leave the room, you feel the weight of the choices you’ve made, and you wonder just how much things will change after this.

As you leave your father’s chambers, the weight of the decision still heavy in your chest, you feel Ser Criston walking silently behind you. His presence is a constant reminder of the arrangement that has just been made. You don’t speak, your mind swirling with the events of the past few days.

As you step into the hallway, you glance toward the gardens. From a distance, you see Daemon and Rhaenyra conversing, their figures standing under the shade of the trees. The sight of them together makes something in your chest tighten, a familiar, unwelcome feeling of jealousy creeping up.

Daemon’s gaze flickers toward you for just a moment, but he quickly returns his focus to Rhaenyra. Your heart pounds in your chest, and before you can stop yourself, your steps quicken. There’s an intense, burning anger that surges within you — you can’t stand the way he looks at her, the way his attention shifts so easily.

“Ser Criston,” you say sharply, your voice cold. He looks at you, his expression unreadable. “Walk with me through the gardens.”

He nods in silence, his footsteps matching yours as you make your way toward the outdoor space, your pace brisk, almost impatient. With each step, the anger inside you grows, the tension in your chest tightening like a coil.

When you finally reach the gardens, you can’t help but stop for a moment, your eyes fixated on Daemon and Rhaenyra. Their conversation seems so intimate, and the distance between you and them feels more like a chasm than just a few steps. The sight of Daemon’s familiar, relaxed posture as he leans in to listen to Rhaenyra only fuels the fire within you.

With a sharp breath, you look away, forcing yourself to move forward. “I need to get away from this,” you mutter to no one in particular.

Ser Criston, ever the stoic presence behind you, says nothing. He merely follows at your side as you walk aimlessly through the lush gardens, the weight of your emotions pressing on your shoulders.

You feel like you’re on the edge, balancing between keeping your composure and breaking down entirely. The mixture of jealousy, betrayal, and confusion leaves you feeling restless, lost in your own thoughts. Daemon, the man you once trusted, the man who once made you feel seen, is now a stranger to you in ways you can’t quite understand. And Rhaenyra, your sister, your closest confidante, seems to have an easy closeness with him that cuts deeper than you’re willing to admit.

“Why does he always do this?” you finally whisper, more to yourself than to Ser Criston, though you know he’s listening. “Why does he make me feel like this?”

Ser Criston stays silent for a moment before responding, his tone measured but calm. “Daemon is not an easy man to understand, Princess. His actions are often unpredictable, but you should not let them define you.”

You glance at him, but there’s a faraway look in his eyes. His loyalty to Rhaenyra is still evident, despite the fact that he now stands by your side. You wonder what it must be like, being caught between two sisters, both of whom require his protection, both of whom are so different in their needs and desires.

“I’m not going to let him control me,” you say, more resolute now. You need to stop letting Daemon’s behavior dictate your emotions. But the ache in your chest refuses to fade.

As you continue walking, you can’t shake the feeling that things between you and Daemon have irrevocably changed. The quiet war between you both, the tension in the air every time you’re in the same room, seems to be pushing you further apart. It stings, more than you care to admit.

You’re not sure what comes next, but one thing is certain: this is far from over.

The anger within you still simmers as you walk purposefully toward the training grounds. Each step feels heavy, as though the weight of your emotions is physically pulling you down. You need to channel it, to turn the frustration inside you into something more manageable. The sight of Daemon and Rhaenyra from earlier continues to haunt you, the image of them together, speaking in such a familiar, intimate way, only adds to the fire building in your chest.

“Ser Criston,” you say, your voice steady but cold, “let’s spar again.”

Ser Criston, ever the dutiful knight, nods without hesitation. “As you wish, princess,” he replies, but there’s something different in his gaze. He knows this isn’t the same sparring as last time. The raw anger that had fueled your movements before isn’t there now; instead, there’s something more calculated — something colder.

The training ground feels open and spacious, the air thick with the tension between you and the knight as you face off. You grip your sword, feeling the weight in your hands, but there’s no burning rage to guide you this time. You have to keep your emotions in check. This time, it’s all about control.

You begin the spar, your movements precise but deliberate. Ser Criston is quick to counter each strike, his form perfect, his every move a reflection of years of experience. You parry his blows with skill, though a part of you is aware of the eyes watching from the sidelines.

Daemon.

Though you focus on the sparring, you can feel his presence in the distance. You don’t need to look to know he’s there, watching you. His gaze is always heavy, always intense. You can almost hear his breath in the air as he observes, but you refuse to let him distract you.

“Focus,” Ser Criston reminds you as you momentarily falter in your movements, his blade grazing your side just enough to make you snap back to attention.

Your heart pounds, and though you try to push the thoughts of Daemon away, they linger. The tension between you both, the unresolved conflict, the unspoken feelings — they won’t leave you, not while he’s around.

The sparring continues, but your thoughts start to drift again. Daemon’s presence, his eyes on you, makes everything feel charged, electric. It’s as if he’s just waiting for you to slip, to fall, to make a mistake.

But you can’t afford that. Not now.

You push yourself harder, every move more precise, more calculated. Ser Criston, seeing the shift in your focus, steps back for a moment, sensing the change in the air.

“You’re holding back,” he says, his voice low. “What’s really going on in your mind?”

You don’t answer immediately. Your breath is steady, and you keep your gaze fixed ahead. There’s a part of you that wants to confront Daemon, to demand answers, to make him see the hurt and the jealousy that’s been festering within you. But another part of you knows that this fight — the one with him — won’t be won on the training field. It’s far more complicated than that.

With a sharp exhale, you continue your movements, refusing to let your emotions control you any longer. You won’t let him see you falter. Not now. Not ever again.

The warm water of the bath soothes your body, but your mind is still a whirlwind. With every moment, the images of Daemon and Rhaenyra flood back into your thoughts. The ache in your chest seems to deepen, and the helplessness builds as you try to push away the feelings of jealousy and frustration.

As the quiet of the room settles around you, a reckless idea begins to form in your mind. A desire to feel something else, something beyond the turmoil in your heart. With your resolve hardening, you call for Ser Criston.

When he enters, you can see the surprise in his eyes as he takes in the sight of you still in the bath. His expression falters, and he takes a step back, clearly startled by the unexpected situation. "Princess,” he begins, his voice unsure, “I—I did not mean to intrude. I can leave if you wish.”

But you stop him before he can retreat, your voice firm but with an undercurrent of something else. “No, stay. I asked for you to come.”

Ser Criston hesitates, his eyes darting nervously to the side. His chivalry, his sense of duty, wars with the discomfort he clearly feels in this situation. But there’s an unspoken command in your tone, and he stands his ground, though you can see him trying to control his emotions, his gaze never meeting yours directly.

“I… I am at your service, princess,” he says cautiously, his voice respectful yet laced with a quiet tension.

For a moment, the room falls into an uncomfortable silence. You can feel the weight of your own decision pressing on you, but the desire to reclaim some sense of control over the chaos inside you is stronger. The water continues to lap softly at the sides of the tub, a gentle reminder of the storm brewing within.

You lean back against the side of the tub, trying to clear your thoughts. The presence of Ser Criston, the tension in the room, all of it creates an atmosphere that is both charged and uneasy. But in this moment, you find yourself uncertain of what you truly want from this encounter.

A small voice in your mind tells you that this may not be the solution, that you are only running from your emotions. But right now, it feels like the only escape, the only way to numb the ache, even if just for a little while.

“Stay,” you repeat, this time with a more deliberate tone.

The air between you both is thick, heavy with the unspoken understanding of the situation, as Ser Criston stands there, still unsure but unwilling to break his oath to protect you. His presence, silent and unwavering, does nothing to ease the storm inside you, but it brings a strange sort of clarity, like the calm before a new, inevitable conflict.

And in that moment, you realize that you’re not simply avoiding the pain with distractions—you’re using them to face it, in a way you never have before.

As you step out of the bath, you notice Ser Criston quickly turning his back, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. A soft laugh escapes your lips at the sight of his bashfulness, the tension in the air momentarily easing. You walk toward your wardrobe, your footsteps light, but there’s a lingering feeling that something is shifting in the room.

You select a nightgown, its delicate fabric soft to the touch, and slip it on with quiet grace. As you finish dressing, you glance toward the door, noticing Ser Criston still standing by the entrance, his posture stiff and hesitant. His eyes avoid yours, but his presence is undeniable, the quiet weight of his discomfort hanging between you.

With a firm but gentle tone, you call out, “Ser Criston, please… sit. Stay with me tonight.”

He hesitates, his gaze flickering toward you briefly before quickly looking away. He’s clearly uncomfortable with the closeness, the situation far more personal than what he’s accustomed to. He walks toward the sofa, sitting down, but his body remains tense, his eyes focused on the floor rather than meeting yours.

You can feel the silence pressing between you both, and a strange sense of control rises in you. You decide to close the space between you. You walk toward him, your movements deliberate, and kneel down to his level, reaching up to gently grasp his chin. With a light touch, you turn his face toward yours.

“Look at me,” you say softly, your voice carrying an undeniable weight of command, though you’re not sure if it’s the authority of your position or the confusion you’re feeling that makes your tone so firm.

Ser Criston’s eyes meet yours, filled with uncertainty, his lips slightly parted as if he’s struggling to find the right words. There’s a flicker of something deeper in his gaze, but it’s quickly masked by his knightly demeanor. His jaw clenches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away from your touch.

In this moment, the tension between you both is palpable, a strange mix of power and vulnerability. You hold his gaze, and the air feels charged, thick with unspoken emotions. You realize that you’ve brought him to this point, and now you need to decide what it is you truly want from him—whether it’s comfort, companionship, or something more complicated that neither of you is ready to confront.

As your fingers gently tug to his helm, you can sense Ser Criston’s hesitation, the unease that still lingers in his eyes. He doesn’t move, his body tense, yet he doesn’t stop you either. You slowly lift the helm from his head, the cool metal leaving a faint impression of his presence. The moment it’s removed, you finally see his face fully—no longer hidden behind the armor that defines him as a knight, but just a man.

His eyes flicker, the vulnerability in them palpable, but you remain steady, your hands now resting lightly on his jaw, guiding him to face you. You study his features, the way his brow furrows in uncertainty, his lips parted as though he’s unsure what to do or say next.

You lean in slightly, close enough that your breath mingles, but not quite touching. You whisper softly, the words barely audible, “This is our little secret. No one has to know.”

For a brief moment, you see the faintest flicker of something deeper in his gaze—a quiet storm of emotions swirling behind the knight’s shield he’s built around himself. He’s fighting it, but he doesn’t pull away, and that, in itself, says more than words could.

The room feels heavy, as if the world beyond this moment has faded away. There’s only the two of you here, caught in a strange, unspoken agreement. He doesn’t respond immediately, but the quiet acceptance in his posture is enough.

You both know that what’s unfolding between you is far from simple. It’s tangled with your history, your roles, and the consequences that come with both, but for now, it’s just you and him, and the unspoken understanding that this moment—this secret—is yours alone to share.

You feel his presence before you see him, the weight of Daemon’s gaze cutting through the air like a blade. From the shadows at the far end of your chamber, he watches, his figure obscured but unmistakable. The tension radiating from him is almost suffocating, a storm brewing in the dimly lit room.

You don’t look directly at him, not yet. Instead, you focus on Ser Criston, who remains seated on the sofa, unaware of the predator lurking in the darkness. His presence is a deliberate choice, and you revel in the irony of it. You let your hand brush against Criston’s shoulder as you move to stand beside him, casting a sideways glance toward the shadows where you know Daemon hides.

A smirk curls at the corner of your lips. So, you feel it too, don’t you? The sting of jealousy, the bitter taste of being disregarded. The thought sends a rush of satisfaction through you.

You don’t need to confront Daemon now; you know his temper won’t allow him to let this go. By tomorrow, he’ll demand an explanation, his anger as sharp and relentless as his tongue. And when that moment comes, you’ll be ready. You’ve already played this game in your mind, the chess pieces moving exactly where you want them.

For now, you let the silence speak for itself. You bid Ser Criston a good night, your voice soft yet pointed, as if you know Daemon is listening to every word. As Criston steps out, your eyes finally flicker to the corner where Daemon stands, his face partially illuminated by the moonlight streaming through your window.

His jaw is set, his eyes dark and burning with unspoken fury. You don’t need words to know what he’s feeling—it’s written in every tense line of his body. You meet his gaze, unflinching, and let your smirk grow wider.

“Good night, Uncle,” you say, your tone laced with defiance, before turning away and walking to your bed. You can hear his sharp intake of breath, his restraint barely holding him back.

This is your game now, and you’re determined to win.

As you sleep, the quiet of the night is abruptly interrupted. A hand—firm, insistent—grips your arm and pulls you from the warmth of your bed. You stir, groggy at first, barely able to register what’s happening before your body is dragged from the covers. The cold air bites at your skin, sending a shiver down your spine as Daemon’s presence looms behind you, his grip never loosening.

“Daemon, what are you doing?” you protest, but he doesn’t answer, his silence more deafening than words. His hold on you is strong, determined, as he leads you through the darkened corridors, your footsteps echoing on the stone floors. The rhythmic sound of your footfalls matches the steady beat of your heart, thudding with a mixture of confusion and anticipation.

Your protests are ignored as he pulls you down a hidden path—the secret passage that leads to the outside. The cool night air greets you the moment you step beyond the threshold of his chambers, and you can feel the chill of the evening settling into your bones. You’re dressed only in a thin nightgown, the fabric offering little protection against the night’s cold embrace.

You shiver involuntarily, but Daemon doesn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he simply doesn’t care. He keeps walking, dragging you along with him, the wind picking up and rustling the loose strands of your hair. The sensation of being exposed, vulnerable, only adds to the confusion of your thoughts. What is he doing? Why is he taking you outside at this hour?

You glance at him, but his expression is unreadable—intense, focused. He’s not angry, but there’s a storm behind his eyes, a storm that’s as unpredictable as the man himself. You know there’s something more to this, something he’s not telling you.

“Daemon…” you whisper again, your voice trembling not just from the cold, but from the tension that crackles in the air between you. He doesn’t answer, his grip tightening slightly as he continues leading you into the unknown.

You have no idea where this path will lead, but one thing is certain: tonight, you’re at his mercy.

Daemon's grip tightens on your face as he shoves you into the confines of his chambers, the door slamming shut behind you. The cold, harsh walls seem to close in, but it's his fiery gaze that burns through you. His fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing you to meet his eyes, those eyes that you know so well, but tonight, they're filled with something darker-something far from the warmth you once sought in him.

"You make me crazy," his voice is low, but the intensity is unmistakable. Each word cuts through the room like a blade. His anger, barely contained, fills the space between you, thick and suffocating. You can feel the heat of his fury as he stands inches away, eyes never leaving yours.

The room is silent except for the sound of your breathing, but Daemon's rage fills the air like a storm, making it impossible for you to look anywhere but at him. "Since that night," he continues, his voice dangerously calm, "since you brought me into your bed, I haven't looked at another woman. I haven't wanted anyone else, and yet here you are... with him."

His words hit you like a slap, a sharp sting that lingers. You know exactly what he's talking about-what you did with Ser Criston. It was a deliberate choice, a choice that now seems to haunt you both. You can see the battle in his eyes: the love, the jealousy, the possessiveness. He's torn, and he's not sure if he wants to pull you closer or push you away.

"You think you can just walk away from me?" he demands, his voice rising, but still under control. His thumb traces the outline of your jaw, sending a shiver through you. "Do you think you can turn your back on me without consequences?"

You feel trapped, not just by his hold, but by the weight of the choices you've made. You can't deny the pull that Daemon has on you, the way he's always had a hold on your heart.

But you also can't ignore the truth of what you've done, the space that's been created between you and him because of it.

"You... you don't understand," you whisper, trying to break free of his grip, but he doesn't release you. His eyes never leave yours, and you can feel the tension in every inch of your body. "I don't belong to you."

At those words, his expression darkens, the storm in his eyes growing fiercer. Without a word, he pulls you closer, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that is both fierce and desperate. His anger is palpable in the way his lips move against yours, and you can feel it, taste it.

He pulls away just enough to speak, his voice ragged. "You belong to me, whether you want to or not."

In that moment, you realize that the line between love and obsession, between passion and possession, is dangerously thin-and Daemon Targaryen has crossed it.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice full of raw, possessive certainty. “And you will never belong to anyone else.”

Daemon’s grip on your face tightens as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. The fire in his eyes is all-consuming, a mix of fury and possession that leaves you breathless. He towers over you as you sit on the edge of the bed, his presence both commanding and suffocating.

“Using Ser Criston to make me jealous,” he spits out, his voice low and dangerous. “That was bold. But hear me, and hear me well—you are mine. Not his. Not anyone else’s. You belong to me.”

You reach up to grasp his wrist, your fingers wrapping around the arm that holds your face so firmly. “Daemon,” you whisper, trying to calm the storm raging within him, but your words only seem to fuel his intensity.

“You think you can defy me?” he continues, his tone almost mocking but laced with raw emotion. “You think I’d stand by and watch you with someone else? No.” His lips curl into a dangerous smile. “Tomorrow, the first thing I’ll do is speak to your father. I’ll end my farce of a marriage with Rhea. And you… you will be my wife.”

Your heart races at his declaration, torn between shock and something you can’t quite name. His words, though possessive, carry a gravity that shakes you to your core. You search his eyes for any hint of hesitation, but there is none—only certainty.

“Daemon, this is madness,” you manage to say, your voice trembling.

“Madness?” He leans closer, his face mere inches from yours. “Perhaps. But it’s the kind of madness I’d embrace for you. You are all I want, all I’ve ever wanted.”

His grip softens slightly, his thumb brushing against your cheek in a moment of surprising tenderness. For a brief moment, the fire in his gaze dims, replaced by something deeper, something almost vulnerable.

“You can fight me, try to push me away, but it won’t change anything,” he says, his voice softer now but no less resolute. “Tomorrow, you’ll be mine. Completely.”

As his words sink in, you’re left grappling with the weight of his promise, knowing that Daemon Targaryen always gets what he wants.

You lie beside Daemon, the tension from your earlier confrontation still lingering in the air. His breath is warm against the top of your head, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you a constant reminder of his presence. His arm, possessive and firm, wraps around your waist, holding you close as though marking you as his own.

In this moment, the love you feel for him battles against the resentment that simmers within you. You can’t deny the pull between you both, the undeniable chemistry that has always existed. But there’s an ache that runs deep—every time you see him with Rhaenyra, that knot of jealousy tightens in your chest. You hate how he can switch so easily from being yours to being hers, how he doesn’t seem to understand the pain that it causes you.

“You should sleep,” Daemon whispers, his voice soft but commanding, as if he can sense the turmoil within you. “It’s late, and you’ve been through enough tonight.”

His fingers trail along your side, soothing but possessive. You could let yourself melt into his touch, into the comfort of being close to him. But every time you do, a part of you feels betrayed. How could he be so gentle with you now, when just hours ago, he was tearing through your emotions with his jealousy?

“You think I don’t see you?” he continues, his lips brushing against your hair. “Every glance you throw at Rhaenyra, every little sigh when I spend time with her… I see it. I know what you feel, but you need to understand—she is not you. She will never be you.”

You want to love him, you do. But every time you see him with Rhaenyra, a pang of resentment rises in your chest, and the love you feel for him becomes twisted with anger and confusion.

“Daemon,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you turn to face him, your chest tight. “Why do you always make me feel like this? Why can’t you just be mine, without… without her?”

He doesn’t immediately answer, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even heard you. But then, his hand gently strokes your back, the warmth of his touch a strange comfort, even as your heart battles with itself.

“You know I want you,” he says quietly, his voice filled with a possessive softness that contradicts the tension of the past moments. “But you need to understand, Rhaenyra is my family too. I can’t just cut her out.” His voice lowers as he adds, “I’m not asking you to share me with her. I’m asking you to trust me.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, the weight of his honesty taking you by surprise. It’s not easy for him either, but he doesn’t fully understand the depths of your jealousy, of how it eats away at you every time he gives her that look, that care that you want for yourself.

“I don’t know how to trust you, Daemon,” you say, the bitterness clear in your voice now. “Every time I do, you push me away again. You always go back to her.”

He stays silent for a moment, the weight of your words settling between you both. Then, he pulls you closer, his fingers threading through your hair as he rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice full of regret. “I never meant to hurt you. But you need to know… there’s only you in my heart.”

His words are both comforting and unsettling, and you feel the truth of them, but also the lingering doubt. How can you trust him when your heart is torn between love, jealousy, and frustration?

As you lie there in his arms, with the warmth of his body against yours and his whispered apologies, you know this won’t be the last time you feel this way. But for tonight, you let yourself be held, even as your mind fights with the emotions that swirl within you.

“I love you,” you whisper, though the words are laced with both longing and pain.

Daemon’s hand tightens around you, as if trying to reassure you, but deep down, you both know that the fight for your heart isn’t over yet. The warmth of his body against yours offers comfort, but the doubt in your heart remains. How much of this love is real, and how much of it is driven by the fire of possession?

But for tonight, you don’t want to think about that. Tonight, you simply close your eyes and let yourself drift into a sleep filled with the tangled emotions that tie you both together.

Tag list : @danytar @zaldritzosrose @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @callsignwidow @giirlinblack

#hotd #hotd imagine #hotd x reader #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x y/n #daemon x you #daemon targeryan #hotd daemon #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #hotd one shot #hotd headcanon #hotd fanfic

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rafeysdeer · 13 hours ago

Text

bad time (aka crampy reader and worried jason)

civil! reader x jason todd

prompt: reader has really bad cramps and is used to deal with it alone, that's until a very worried jason shows up at her front door.

a/n: that's my first time writing, i don't really like it, I feel like I failed to capture jason's essence, but, we got to start somewhere, right? also, english is not my first language, so i apologize for any mistakes, hope you guys enjoy it. 💗

Jason has a special way of taking care of the people he loves. As if, even if it didn't seem like it, he was always paying attention to everyone around him, a natural observer. So it didn't take long for him to realize that something was off when you stopped answering to his texts and just, disappeared. It wasn't like you to not answer his texts, not to mention not answering calls, knowing how his mind always went to the worst-case scenarios and he gets filled with worry.

At 10pm, too early for him to show up, since he always comes after patrol, he was knocking on your apartment door, waiting, hopefully, that you were okay.

When the girl, who was usually a sunshine, opened the door, wearing a sweatshirt, her hair in a messy bun and wiping tears from her eyes, he was sure something was very wrong. You notice the confusion on his face as his head tilts slightly to the side in pure doubt and concern at seeing how you looked.

"Honey? What happened? Are you hurt?" While he immediately checked on you, looking for any injuries or bruises, the tears intensified as she buried her face in his chest, wetting his shirt with her tears, not that he cares at this point.

Confusion hit him even harder, but he didn't question it when she pulled him inside, still wrapped around him. "Hey, Are you okay? What happened? Talk to me." He says, the worried tone not escaping his voice.

"Cramps," he heard her mumble against his chest, and with a quick glance around the small apartment he could see the hot water bottle on the couch, along with blankets and a plush Red Hood she had ordered after searching all over Gotham for one, without success. She proudly named it 'Teddy Wood'. "Sweetheart, why didn't you call me?"

He asked as he gently guided her to the couch "I didn't mean to bother you, you already do so much for me and then there was patrol, I just figured you were busy" Her hushed tone sounded sad as she looked away, looking at the floor.

His brow furrows as they both sit on the couch, her huddled in the opposite side, sniffling and wiping away the tears that stained her pretty face. On the way to her apartment, he had all sorts of thoughts about why she wasn't answering, that something had happened, or even that thought in the back of his mind, that she didn't want to talk to him, but never once, the thought that she felt like a burden crossed his mind.

"No matter what I'm doing, you won't bother me, i promise you, and i will always do my best to be here for you" 'just like you did for me', but he kept the last words to himself.

She sniffles, looking up at him with her eyes shining with tears, her hands on her stomach, pressing down, hoping to ease the pain. "I just figured that-, I don't know what i was thinking, I just didn't want to be a burden to you." She says, looking up at him, finally really looking at him, and he can see all the unspoken words behind her bright eyes.

"Hey, it's okay, I just want you to know that you don't have to worry about that, that I'll be here for you, that it's okay to call me, that you won't bother me anyway." he says, and she smiles slightly at him, pulling his larger body closer to hers, laying his head on her stomach, enjoying the welcome pressure.

"Do you want to watch that stupid reality show with me?" A comfortable smile forms on his face as he hears her words, he settles closer to her, feeling her hand stroking his hair, finally feeling at home.

"Whatever you want, darling."

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x you #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #red hood x reader #red hood #period cramps

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cherryxbooo · 6 hours ago

Text

I’ll do anything to make you happy

Summary: You were excited for winter break to start because it meant one thing: spending more time with Lando. But little did you know, that was the one thing you wouldn't be getting.

Reader x Lando Norris

Genre: fluff/angst

Winter always held a special kind of charm for me.

The frosty mornings, cozy blankets, and steaming cups of cocoa had always made this season my favorite.

But this year, it held a different promise: Lando finally had a break from racing.

After months of hectic schedules, jet-setting across the globe, and stolen moments in between races, I was looking forward to having him all to myself.

At first, it was everything I’d imagined and more.

We spent lazy mornings tangled in bed, with me teasing him about his messy hair while he pulled me closer, claiming I was his personal heater.

Breakfasts turned into brunches because we couldn’t stop talking or joking around.

We watched movies, baked cookies that turned out terrible, and played endless rounds of Mario Kart, which I always managed to win.

“You’re only winning because I’m letting you,” Lando said one evening, his grin teasing as he tossed the controller onto the couch.

“Sure you are,” I replied, laughing as I grabbed my victory snack from the table.

Those first few days felt like we were in our own little world, where nothing else mattered but us.

But soon, reality began creeping in.

It started innocently enough.

“Babe, Max just called,” Lando said one morning, leaning against the counter with his coffee mug in hand.

“He’s organizing a karting session. Shouldn’t take long.”

I smiled, my heart swelling with pride.

Racing was his passion, and I loved seeing him happy. “Go have fun. Just don’t let him beat you.”

“Never,” he said with a wink, kissing my temple quickly before heading out.

That day, I didn’t mind the quiet. I worked on some projects, caught up with friends, and even took a long bath.

By the time he got home, his cheeks were flushed with cold, and he couldn’t stop talking about how much fun he’d had.

But karting soon turned into golf.

Golf turned into poker nights. And poker nights turned into outings that stretched late into the night.

“I’ll be back soon,” he’d text, always with a heart emoji. But “soon” became later and later each time.

I told myself it was fine. He deserved this break.

He’d worked so hard all year, and if spending time with his friends helped him unwind, who was I to complain?

But as the days wore on, the house began to feel emptier, and so did I.

One evening, I decided to surprise him with his favorite dinner.

I spent hours in the kitchen, setting the table with candles and dimming the lights for a cozy atmosphere.

When Lando walked through the door, his expression softened as he took in the setup.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.

“I wanted to,” I replied, smiling up at him.

“You’ve been so busy, and I thought it’d be nice to have a quiet night together.”

“That’s so sweet,” he said, leaning down to kiss me.

“But the guys are waiting for me. I promised I’d meet them for drinks tonight. Let’s rain check this?”

My smile faltered, but I nodded. “Of course.”

He kissed me again and was out the door before I could say anything more.

I sat down at the table, staring at the empty chair across from me.

The candles flickered, their light reflecting off the untouched plates. I took a deep breath, telling myself it was okay.

But deep down, a tiny crack had formed in my heart.

Days turned into weeks, and the cracks only deepened.

Lando’s absence became more noticeable, and I began to feel like a ghost in our own home.

One evening, after scrolling through endless photos of him with his friends on Instagram, I called Mia, my best friend.

“What’s wrong?” she asked the moment she picked up.

I sighed, the weight of my emotions pressing down on me.

“It’s Lando. He’s been spending so much time with his friends lately, and I feel like I’m… invisible.”

Mia was quiet for a moment before saying, “Y/N, you’re not invisible. But you need to talk to him. He’s not a mind reader.”

“I don’t want to seem clingy,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re not clingy. You’re his girlfriend. He should want to spend time with you. Talk to him.”

Her words gave me the push I needed. That night, when Lando came home, I gathered my courage.

“Can we talk?” I asked, my heart pounding in my chest.

“Of course,” he said, sitting down next to me.

I took a deep breath.

“I’ve been feeling… neglected lately. I know you’re enjoying your break, and I want you to have fun, but I miss us. I miss you.”

He frowned, reaching for my hand.

“Babe, I’m sorry if it feels that way. But I’m here now, aren’t I?”

I nodded, but his words didn’t ease the ache in my chest. Before I could say more, he kissed me and stood up.

“Max needs help with something,” he said, grabbing his keys. “Love you!”

And just like that, he was gone. Again.

I tried my best to push away all negative thoughts until I thought about the positive ones.

Our second anniversary was just days away, and I held onto the hope that he’d make it special.

I told myself the late nights didn’t matter. He was probably planning something incredible for our anniversary.

The next day,

The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft golden hues.

I stretched lazily, a content smile curling my lips as I reached across the bed.

My fingers met cold sheets. The space beside me was empty.

I frowned, the giddy excitement I had woken up with faltering.

Today was our second anniversary.

I had imagined waking up wrapped in Lando’s arms, whispering sleepy “Happy anniversary” wishes before sharing breakfast together.

Instead, he was gone.

I also realized that I hadn't heard him come back last night.

He told me he was just helping Max out with something, but he probably went out partying with his friends afterward, again.

I tried to shake off the disappointment as I climbed out of bed, brushing my hair out of my face.

Maybe he had planned a surprise and needed to step out early.

A flutter of hope lifted my spirits as I grabbed my robe and headed toward the kitchen.

The scent of coffee greeted me, but there was no sign of Lando.

Instead, on the counter, I found a note written in his familiar scrawl:

“Gone golfing with the guys. Be back later. Love you.”

My heart sank. Golfing? On our anniversary?

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat, trying to focus on the fact that he had said he’d be back later.

He wouldn’t forget our dinner, right?

We’d planned this evening together weeks ago, and I’d been looking forward to it ever since.

I folded the note and placed it aside, telling myself not to overthink it. He would be back in time.

He promised.

After a quick breakfast, I set to work preparing for the evening.

My heart thudded with a mix of excitement and nervousness as I laid out my plans.

Lando had been so busy lately, and this was my chance to remind him how much I loved him, despite everything.

I spent hours in the kitchen, cooking all his favorite dishes: his go-to pasta, a roasted chicken dish he always requested, and even the dessert I’d failed at three times before finally perfecting.

The smells of herbs, garlic, and chocolate filled the apartment, making it feel warm and inviting.

Between stirring pots and chopping vegetables, I took breaks to set up the dining table.

I draped it with a soft cream tablecloth, adding candles and a scattering of rose petals for a romantic touch.

Fairy lights hung along the walls, casting a cozy glow that made the space feel magical.

On the counter, I carefully placed his gift, a sleek watch he had admired months ago but never bought for himself.

Not forgetting to attach a handwritten note to the box.

With everything ready, I checked the clock.

It was almost evening. So I had to hurry up to get ready.

I slipped into the dress I had chosen weeks ago, a soft, fitted number I knew he loved on me.

My makeup was simple yet elegant, and I added the finishing touch, a spritz of the perfume Lando had gifted me for my last birthday.

I felt beautiful, excited, and nervous all at once as I sat on the couch, watching the clock.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

By the time twenty minutes had gone by, I grabbed my phone, texting him a quick, “Hey, are you on your way?”

No response.

An hour later, I texted again. Then called. Still nothing.

My excitement turned into a gnawing worry that sat heavy in my chest.

Where was he? Had he forgotten?

Two hours passed.

The candles on the table had burned down halfway, their flickering flames reflecting off the now-cold plates of food.

The fairy lights, once magical, now felt like mockery.

Finally, three hours later, I gave up.

Tears stung my eyes as I blew out the candles, packed away the food, and removed my dress, exchanging it for soft pajamas.

My makeup was smeared with tears by the time I climbed into bed.

I grabbed my phone one last time, and my heart shattered when I saw the Instagram story.

It was one of Lando’s friends, showing a clip of him laughing, drink in hand, surrounded by his friends.

He looked happy. Carefree.

And completely oblivious that tonight was our anniversary.

The tears came faster, hot and uncontrollable. I buried my face in the pillow, the ache in my chest overwhelming.

I had been so sure he’d come back, that he’d remember. But I was wrong.

Later that night,

The apartment was cloaked in silence when Lando opened the front door, the click of the lock echoing faintly in the stillness.

He stumbled inside the weight of exhaustion and faint traces of guilt tugging at his chest.

The soft glow of the streetlights outside illuminated the darkened space just enough for him to make out his surroundings.

Something felt… off.

He reached for the light switch, and as the room was bathed in warm light, his eyes landed on the dining table across from him.

He froze.

The table was beautifully decorated, candles placed strategically, now melted into small stubs, surrounded by rose petals that had been artfully scattered.

Plates of food were neatly covered with lids to keep them from going bad, but even from a distance, Lando could tell they were his favorites.

He took a tentative step forward, his stomach sinking further with each movement.

Resting near the center of the table was a small, wrapped box with a note attached to it.

The sight made his chest tighten, a creeping realization clawing at the edges of his mind.

His fingers trembled as he picked up the note. Unfolding it carefully, he read the words in her familiar handwriting:

"To my Lando, the best thing that ever happened to me. Thank you for being my partner, my love, my everything. Happy anniversary, baby. Love, Y/N."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His heart sank as the full weight of the evening’s significance crashed over him.

Anniversary. He’d forgotten their second anniversary.

Lando stood there, the note still clutched in his hand, his throat tightening as shame washed over him.

He thought back to the past few weeks, to the times he’d brushed you off or come home late without so much as an explanation.

He couldn’t even recall the last time you two spent real, quality time together.

You had tried to talk to him about it, about how you felt neglected, and he had dismissed your concerns every single time.

Now, standing there amidst the evidence of your effort and love, he felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.

Lando exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair as regret threatened to overwhelm him.

He couldn’t blame anyone but himself.

He glanced around the room, noticing how quiet it was. He knew you were asleep.

His eyes landed on his phone, dead from the night’s events.

With a heavy sigh, he plugged it into the charger, pacing nervously as he waited for it to turn back on.

When it finally lit up, the screen was flooded with notifications, missed calls and unread messages from Y/N.

The time stamps told the story of your evening:

“Hey, are you on your way?” - 8 p.m. “I’m waiting for you… everything’s ready.” -8:30 p.m. “Lando, please call me.” -9 p.m. “Are you okay? I’m starting to worry.” -10 p.m.

The last message was hours old, her tone shifting from hopeful to concerned.

Each notification felt like another jab to his heart, the guilt almost unbearable.

He dropped his phone onto the counter and made his way toward their shared bedroom.

Pushing the door open quietly, he stepped into the dimly lit room.

His gaze immediately found her curled up under the covers, her face half-buried in the pillow.

His breath hitched when he noticed the faint streaks on her cheeks, traces of tears she hadn’t been able to hide.

The sight made his heart clench painfully. She’d cried herself to sleep, and it was his fault.

Lando approached the bed slowly, kneeling beside her as he took in her tear-streaked face.

She looked so peaceful yet so vulnerable, her chest rising and falling softly with each breath.

Guilt swirled in his chest as he reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, thick with regret.

Leaning down, he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, lingering for a moment as if hoping it could somehow convey all the apologies he couldn’t say while she was awake.

His thumb grazed her cheek, and he sighed deeply.

“You didn’t deserve this,” he murmured, his voice breaking.

“I’ve been such an ass… the worst boyfriend. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I love you so much.”

She stirred slightly at his touch but didn’t wake.

Lando watched her for a moment longer before standing, his mind racing with plans to fix what he’d broken.

Tomorrow, he vowed, would be all about her.

The next morning, I woke up with a dull ache in my chest, my body heavy from the night before.

My eyes were sore and puffy from crying myself to sleep.

I glanced at the empty side of the bed, already prepared for the familiar sting of disappointment.

Figured he’d leave again before I woke up, I thought bitterly.

Dragging myself out of bed, I moved to the bathroom to freshen up.

The cold water on my face didn’t do much to wash away the exhaustion or the emotional weight from the previous night.

With a sigh, I tied my hair back and made my way downstairs, expecting another day of hurt to unfold.

Halfway down the stairs, though, something unusual stopped me in my tracks.

The smell of coffee, rich and inviting, wafted through the air.

There was another scent too, pancakes? My brow furrowed in confusion.

"That can’t be right. Lando doesn’t cook... does he? Who am i kidding he can't even boil eggs."

I cautiously descended the rest of the stairs, each step filling me with equal parts curiosity and hesitation.

As I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I froze at the sight before me.

There he was, standing by the stove, flipping a pancake with a focused but slightly clumsy determination.

Plates of food lined the table, croissants, fresh fruit, juice, and what looked like store-bought pastries.

It didn’t take long to figure out most of the spread wasn’t homemade, but the effort was unmistakably his.

“Morning, love,” Lando greeted me, his tone soft and tentative, his lips curling into a nervous smile.

I raised an eyebrow, my arms crossing instinctively. “What’s all this?”

He put the spatula down and stepped closer, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

“It’s breakfast... and an apology,” he said, his voice earnest.

My eyes flickered between him and the spread on the table.

I could see he was trying, but the hurt from last night still lingered like a heavy cloud over my chest.

“Come sit,” he said gently, pulling a chair out for me.

I hesitated for a moment before sitting down, my arms still crossed defensively.

Lando grabbed a plate, placing a pancake in front of me before adding a small pile of fruit and a croissant on the side.

I eyed him suspiciously as he poured me a cup of coffee, then sat across from me.

“What are you doing, Lando?” I asked, my voice tinged with a mix of confusion and frustration.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he met my gaze.

“I messed up, Y/N. Big time. And I need you to know how sorry I am.” His voice was steady but filled with regret.

I stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

“Last night,” he began, his brows furrowing,

“I forgot our anniversary. I forgot the one day I should’ve been making you feel like the most important person in the world. And it’s not just last night, I’ve been neglecting you for weeks. You told me how you felt, and I brushed it off like an idiot.”

His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, and I could see the weight of his guilt etched into every line on his face.

“I’ve been selfish, caught up in my own world, and I didn’t see how much I was hurting you. You deserve so much better than that, Y/N. Better than me.”

I felt my throat tighten as his words sank in. The sincerity in his tone chipped away at the walls I’d put up.

“I was so hurt, Lando,” I said, my voice trembling.

“I waited for you all night. I planned everything because I thought… I thought you’d come home and we’d celebrate together. I stayed up, hoping you’d walk through that door with a smile, ready to tell me how much you love me. But you didn’t.”

Tears pricked my eyes as I continued.

“I saw that video of you and your friends. You were laughing and having fun while I sat here, alone, on what was supposed to be our night.”

Lando’s face fell, his hands gripping the edge of the table as if grounding himself from the weight of my words.

“I know,” he whispered.

“And I hate myself for it. Seeing what you did for me last night, the decorations, the food, the note. I realized just how much I’ve been taking you for granted. I never want you to feel that way again, Y/N. You’re the most important thing in my life. I need you to believe that.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, sliding it across the table to me.

“What’s this?” I asked, my voice softer now, though my heart still carried the sting of last night.

“Open it,” he urged.

I carefully lifted the lid, revealing a delicate necklace with a sparkling pendant.

The intricate design caught the morning light, making it shimmer.

“Lando…” I trailed off, overwhelmed.

“It’s not enough to make up for what I’ve done,” he said quickly,

“but it’s a start. And today, it’s all about you. Whatever you want to do, wherever you want to go, we’ll do it.”

I stared at the necklace for a moment before meeting his eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

“But,” I added, my tone firm, “this doesn’t mean I’ve fully forgiven you yet.”

“I know,” he said, nodding.

“And I don’t expect you to. But I’ll spend every day proving to you how much I care, how much I love you. I won’t stop until you believe me again.”

The determination in his voice made my chest tighten.

I wanted to hold onto my anger, to make him feel the depth of my hurt, but seeing him now, vulnerable, regretful, and desperate to make things right.

I couldn’t help but feel the smallest crack in my resolve.

As the morning unfolded, Lando’s sincerity shone through.

He insisted on clearing the table and cleaning up, stealing small glances at me as if trying to gauge my mood.

I wasn’t ready to let go of all the hurt just yet, but for the first time in weeks, I felt a glimmer of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other.

The morning's heartfelt apology set the tone for what became one of the most memorable days Lando and I had spent together in weeks.

While I was still guarded, I couldn’t deny that he was trying, really trying, to make things right.

As I got ready to leave the house, he was already by my side, holding my hand, his other arm slung casually around my shoulder.

“I promised today would be all about you,” he said, giving me that signature soft smile.

“So, where to first?”

We started with a trip to the mall. At first, I felt a little awkward, hesitant to fully enjoy the experience.

But Lando was like a lovesick puppy, following me from store to store, holding my bags, and insisting I buy anything that caught my eye.

“Do you like this dress?” I asked, holding up a flowy sundress against myself.

“I love it,” he said without hesitation. “But I’d probably love anything on you.”

I rolled my eyes at his smooth comment but couldn’t help the blush creeping up my cheeks. “You’re just saying that.”

“Nope,” he replied, grabbing the dress and adding it to the pile of things he’d insisted on buying.

From clothes to accessories, he didn’t say no to anything.

When I protested, saying he was spending too much, he brushed it off.

“I’d spend everything on you, Y/N,” he said with such sincerity it made my heart ache.

Afterward, he took me to my favorite café for lunch.

The cozy little place was one we often went to in the early days of our relationship, and the nostalgia hit me hard as we sat down.

“I missed this,” I admitted as I sipped my coffee.

“Me too,” Lando said, reaching across the table to hold my hand.

“And I’m going to make sure we never lose this again.”

Next, he surprised me with a visit to a local pottery studio.

I couldn’t help but laugh when Lando struggled to shape a vase, the clay slipping through his fingers.

“Okay, you’re supposed to keep your hands steady,” I teased, leaning over to guide him.

“Oh, so now you’re an expert?” he joked, though his grin softened as I showed him how to shape the clay.

It was messy, chaotic, and perfect.

By the end, we both had clay smudged on our faces, and we were laughing like we hadn’t in weeks.

From there, we stopped at a flower shop.

Lando picked out the biggest bouquet of my favorite flowers, holding it out to me with a boyish grin.

“For you,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re really pulling out all the stops today, aren’t you?” I teased, though my heart swelled as I buried my nose in the fragrant blooms.

“Only the best for my girl,” he replied, his tone playful but his eyes serious.

For the rest of the day, he didn’t leave my side.

He held my hand as we walked through the streets, his arm draped protectively around me whenever we stopped to rest.

He peppered me with kisses at every opportunity; on my cheek, my forehead, my temple.

“You’re being extra clingy today,” I said with a small laugh as he pulled me into another hug.

“Making up for lost time,” he murmured, his chin resting on the top of my head.

Bit by bit, the walls I’d built around my heart began to crumble.

His efforts felt genuine, and I found myself smiling more easily, the hurt from the night before slowly fading into the background.

By the time we got home, the sun was setting, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange.

We were both tired but happy as we curled up on the couch together.

Lando tucked me under his arm, his fingers gently tracing patterns on my shoulder.

“Y/N,” he said after a long moment of silence.

His tone was serious, and I looked up at him curiously.

“Yeah?”

“I need to say this again because you deserve to hear it,” he began, his voice steady but filled with emotion.

“I’m so sorry for everything, for neglecting you, for forgetting our anniversary, for making you feel like you weren’t my priority. You are my priority, Y/N. You’re the best thing in my life, and I hate that I made you feel otherwise.”

His words hit me straight in the chest, and I felt tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

“I know I hurt you,” he continued, his hand cupping my cheek as he looked into my eyes.

“But I swear, I’ll spend every day proving how much I love you. I’ll never let you feel like that again.”

My heart felt full as I reached up to hold his hand.

“You’ve done a lot for me today, Lando,” I said softly.

“And it’s helped. I can see how much you mean it.”

“So... does that mean you forgive me?” he asked, his tone hopeful but cautious.

I smiled, leaning up to kiss him. “Yeah, I forgive you.”

The relief on his face was almost comical, and he immediately began peppering my face with kisses, my cheeks, my forehead, my nose, even the corners of my lips.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he murmured between kisses, his joy infectious.

Just when I thought the day was over, Lando suddenly sat up.

“Wait, I have one last thing,” he said, standing and disappearing into the other room.

I frowned, confused, as he returned with a small envelope in hand.

“What is this?” I asked as he handed it to me.

“Open it,” he urged, a playful but nervous glint in his eyes.

I carefully tore open the envelope, and my breath caught as I pulled out two plane tickets.

My eyes widened as I read the destination: Maldives.

“Lando… are you serious?” I asked, my voice trembling with disbelief.

He grinned. “You’ve always said you wanted to go. So, I booked us a two-week stay. Just you and me. No distractions.”

Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at him, overwhelmed.

“You didn’t have to do this…”

“Yes, I did,” he said firmly, pulling me into his arms.

“I’ll do anything to make you happy, Y/N. Anything.”

I hugged him tightly, burying my face in his chest.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“I love you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.

“I love you too,” I replied, my voice muffled but sincere.

We settled back into the couch, cuddled up together, the weight of the past few weeks finally lifting.

After a long silence, I broke it with a playful smile.

“If you ever neglect me like that again, I’m breaking up with your ass,” I teased.

Lando laughed, his arms tightening around me. “Fair enough. But don’t worry, I won’t. Not ever again.”

And for the first time in weeks, I believed him.

The end

205 notes · View notes

planetsnakes · 3 days ago

Text

I get this y'all right. I've never used AI to write an essay and never will

why the hell am i only given three months to write four different essays tho? Like sure some of the problem is my poor time management because I literally just became an adult.

For my dissertation I had to submit 3000 words (all jam pa ked full of fucking research) I had a couple of months to write this essay so what they did was wait until we had two months to show us how to write the essay, on a retreat which I couldn't go to thanks to getting sick. I asked if i could see the example essays another time and this just never happened due to copyright bullshit.

Now I didn't just get sick. I got really sick. 3 days in A&E just to be kicked out because they didn't find the problem. Literally everyone in my life is worried about me im so brave. The uni assured me this would be taken into consideration as long as I could get a doctors note.

I could not get a doctors note. They wont even pick up the phone it's been a month since I submitted this request.

So I spent ages setting up meetings to discuss with people in the uni my problems so they could write me a note. They didn't.

Now it's too far into the year to defer. I will lose so much fucking money if I give up now so here I go!

I completed the essay in like two weeks and I think i got something wrong on the timescale but ive been sick since november on and off getting better and worse.

I cant even remember writing a single essay for my university im fairly certain I'll never use these skills again because the only people who write academic papers are academics and I don't want to be an academic.

I can hear you saying "this isn't the norm"! Everyone goes through this at least once.

I know a lot abt uni life, I know a degree can be taken away if they found out someone cheated to get it no matter how long it's been since they got the degree. I know I didn't work this hard to never know if I could make it on my own merit

Yet there are places where the university could have supported me better. Students are expected to do so much and im gonna be so real the you're only cheating yourself narrative is just annoying. I could do this much better if every time I wasn't rushed because they gave me the resources last minute or constantly told me to check back later.

I'm fortunate enough to always get an extension when I ask thanks to my DID diagnosis & I actually considered myself lucky when I caught covid (yeah I also caught fucking covid I was sick for so long I missed so many lectures that I can't catch up on at all) but like seriously?

I haven't even mentioned the poverty, living conditions, the fact most of us have to work through uni, ow the internet changed the way unis talk to students, covid messing students up or international students and how unfair the system is to them.

I feel this could be a chance at a brilliant conversation about how much stress students are put under because even when we have the skills we don't get the opportunity to use them

#I mean my hair is literally turning grey and no one in my family started greying this young #idk i agree but also like #there's a reason people turn to ai and it's not just being lazy

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yaniluvs · 13 hours ago

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lingering touches and stolen kisses 日 ── ot8 [maknae line] skz ; how is pda with your boyfriend?

click to be directed to the hyung-line version !!

𓍯 maknae-line idol!skz ʚଓ fem!reader ：（ 𝒾 ）0.7k ── ༯ HEADCANONS, tooth rotting fluff, kisses, hugs, established relationship, req. by anon . ⸝⸝𓂃 LiBRARY. /ᐠ.ꞈ.ᐟ\ྀིྀི

yani's note ˖˙ ᰋ maknae line ver. !! as we are iii is in works and might be posted by today >< thanks to anon for the request, hope you like it! comments, requests, asks, likes and reblogs are always appreciated ! comment/ask if you want to be added to my mastertag ! happy reading <3

jisung ୨୧ this man dgaf. honestly, if anything, he's going to be yapping to you 24-7. belting random love songs while in the dressing room, for you. wants to be holding your hand, definitely.. (see what i did there?) giving you a lot of pecks. mostly on your lips or chin. idk why, i just feel like he'd do that. randomly starts spinning you and laughing in between practices. desperate of your attention. during lunch breaks, he definitely wants to feed you a bit, even with you complaining. the jeekies being so full of food, random winks thrown at your direction with dramatic flying kisses; no matter the complaints shot by his members, and a certain glare by a certain someone. i'd say not even two minutes later he's being chased minho.

felix ୨୧ my baby !!!!! he's definitely a little shy because of the constant teasing of his members. i feel like he'd also not only love holding your hand like all the others, but also be comparing the sizes of your palms, his being tiny but still bigger than your tinier ones, both wearing the couple rings he bought for you two. he'd also be absentmindedly tracing shapes, and anything on your skin, tickling you a bit. he loves to see you giggle or laugh, joining you. he's stay really close to you, when you're counting his freckles. he's so giving you pecks all over your face, and even little head pats. he's absolutely adorable and a bigggggg cuddle bear >< (you saw it coming.) loves loves loves having you on his lap ! you cannot prove me wrong; it can be when you're alone, or with the members; sometimes during breaks between his practice, or when he's in the dorm, trying to go back to silver from bronze, with the rest of the younger maknae line (seungmo, iyen). with the controller in his hands, arms circling around your waist, trapping you as you watched them play, possible trying to count the freckles on his face when you're distracted by him. it doesn't matter, he neeeedssss you close !!

seungmin ୨୧ a literal menacing pup of a boyfriend. he'll be treating you more like a kid than a girlfriend. playing soooo hard to get even if you're in a relationship for a year (it's normal !! he loves pushing your buttons. but there definitely is a very soft side of him.) / being nonchalant, as if he's not tempted to keep you on his lap every single minute. holding hands. he will not be very loud about it, but he will keep it subtle and cutesy. caressing your thumb. caressing your cheek when you lean in too close. heating up like a cherry when you give him a peck, shocking him; he's embarrassed asf. the member's presence is not helping. he will not admit it but he clearly is flustered and wants more of the kisses. but usually won't initiate it in public. feel like subtle grips on your waist or thigh; protectively. some days, he'll be initiating hugs in public though. keeping you close, in a louder way, ykwim? probably also likes braiding your hair or putting it in a bun (and almost failing to do so), when your hair is down or he's just bored.

jeongin ୨୧ he's as red as a tomato, at first though !! the hyungs just can't believe seeing their maknae having a lover; they do love you; but they love love love teasing the hell out of him. though it grows on him. at first, he used to only hold you close or give brief cheek-pecks, but as you both got used to it, he doesn't mind it anymore but he's not as loud as in private. it's not a big deal, he's just very private about his love life !! when with the members, he's comfortable. back-hugs, forehead kisses, tiny pecks, holding hands, all of that. very protective though. needs you around him at all times. he'd also be having have an arm around your shoulders !! if you're cold, either wrapping his arms around you works or draping his jacket on your shoulders does too.

mastertag ୨୧ @cosmicalily

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faithsotherhouseofchaos · 19 hours ago

Note

Hey, I was anon on the old blog so I’m really excited to find you again and I hope this one is better environment for you ❤️❤️

Since you’re doing autistic reader could you do one with an autistic Räikkönen reader dating a Leclerc, maybe Kimi is suspicious of Arthur/Charles because she’s had some bad experiences before

Also for future reference do you write for Dennis Hauger?

thank you ❤️

Do you trust him|| Arthur Leclerc x Raikkonen!Autistic!reader

Word count —449

A/n I don’t know much about Dennis Hauger to write for him but if someone were to give me a rundown about him I could try

Trust has always been a fragile thing for you. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to open up to people—it was just that past experiences, particularly with an ex-boyfriend, had left you wary. You preferred your routines, your safe spaces, and most of all, the unwavering presence of your older brother, Kimi Räikkönen.

Kimi has always been your shield against the chaos of the world. So when Arthur Leclerc came into your life, with his bright laugh and unyielding patience, you knew it was only a matter of time before Kimi would scrutinize him under his icy, protective gaze.

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when Kimi finally brought it up. You were sitting across from him at the kitchen table, absentmindedly sorting through puzzle pieces while he sipped his coffee.

“This Arthur,” Kimi said suddenly, his tone as neutral as always. “You trust him?”

You looked up, startled by the question but not entirely surprised. “I do,” you said softly, your fingers stilling on the puzzle piece you were holding.

Kimi narrowed his eyes slightly, leaning back in his chair. “Why?”

“He… he listens,” you replied, trying to articulate what you felt. “He doesn’t rush me or get annoyed when I need time to myself. He’s patient, Kimi. And he never makes me feel… wrong for the way I am.”

Kimi didn’t say anything for a long moment, his gaze fixed on you in that unreadable way of his. Finally, he gave a small nod. “If he ever hurts you—”

“He won’t,” you interrupted, though your voice was soft. “But I know. You’ll take care of it.”

Kimi smirked faintly. “Of course.”

When Arthur arrived later that evening to take you out for dinner, Kimi was waiting in the doorway like a silent sentry. You sighed, tugging at your sleeve as Arthur stepped forward with his usual easy smile, though there was a flicker of nervousness in his eyes.

“Good evening, Mr. Räikkönen,” Arthur greeted, his voice polite but steady.

Kimi gave him a long, piercing look before speaking. “Take care of her. That’s all I’m asking.”

Arthur nodded without hesitation. “I will. I care about her more than anything.”

For a moment, it was silent, the weight of Kimi’s scrutiny palpable. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, Kimi stepped aside, letting Arthur through.

As you grabbed your coat, Arthur leaned closer, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “Your brother is terrifying, by the way.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the tension in your chest easing. “He just wants to make sure you’re good for me.”

Arthur’s hand brushed yours as you headed out the door. “I’ll prove it to him. I promise.”

#arthur leclerc #arthur leclerc x reader #arthur leclerc x y/n #arthur leclerc x female reader #arthur leclerc imagine #arthur leclerc fluff #faiths inbox #formula one imagine #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #formula one x you #formula one x y/n #f1 x autistic!reader

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transmandrake · 2 days ago

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Actually adding on to my tags cuz (unsurprisingly) this post got hate and I gotta say

'Don't hate men' doesnt mean you blindly trust every single man you meet. It doesnt mean you have to be nice to men who are creeps and assholes. If every man you've ever met has been a creep or asshole then go ahead don't give them your time or patience.

I can count on one hand the amount of men who I consider kind people. I struggled with hating men my whole life.

But yknow what? That hatred was still irrational. It did not matter how 'proven right' my 'intuitions' were, every time you assume the worst, you fail yourself and others.

If you assume the worst, you will always be proven correct. Because good men don't want interact with people who obviously want nothing to do with them. Bad men don't care how hostile you are if they think they can get away with something.

You always lose when you hate.

And for the record... If you're always going on about misogynistic trans men, but get mad at this post... You are transphobic. Either hatred is a trans issue or both insinuations are wrong. Yeah yeah patriarchy yeah yeah misogyny... Guess what. Plenty of trans men and women have been systemically harmed by women and 'womens spaces'.

If its rational for women to hate men because men have systemic power over them, then its rational for trans men to hate cis women because cis people have systemic power over them.

But it's not, is it? If you understand that that's still misogyny and not justified, then you must understand hating men is still not justified.

You can't go about your life assuming half the population is evil.

transgender women who have an irrational hatred of men you GOTTA get over that. Come on now

#drakepost #original tags ->#its hard to talk about and discuss but #one of the most difficult parts of being trans #is learning to separate your dysphoria from gender itself #people already rag on misogynistic trans men but hating men is a poison no one is immune to #you dont need a societal oppression to develop an unfair distaste for a gender #this is also critical to unravelling intracommunity issues #how can trans men and women get along without first healing our pain of being seen as women and men?#it clouds our judgement #it has taken immense work to clear my mind of any kind of gendered baggage #it is no small task #and its not just a trans thing #but its harder to accept that the anger isnt righteous when youve been hurt so much more

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zablife · 3 days ago

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Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwiches

Summary: Even though you've promised to marry him, you still feel as though you might not be what Elvis needs. An argument over dinner proves the perfect time for him to set you straight.

A/N: I've never written for Elvis before, but something came to me I couldn't resist!

"Get up 'ere and tell me whatsa matter with you!" Elvis demanded, obviously displeased by the way you'd stormed away to the kitchen.

You pursed your lips into a defiant pout, arms crossed over your chest as you heaved for breath. He'd knocked the wind out of you when he picked you up and slammed you down onto the counter. The gasp you'd stifled was proof of it.

"I don't got anything to say to you," you retorted, averting your gaze and staring down at his dark suede shoes.

He was a gentleman at heart, but his temper often got the best of him. You heard him huff, watching him stuff his hands in his pockets to keep from manhandling you further. It was clear he only wanted to know what was wrong and he paced silently as he waited for an answer.

You were stubborn too though and often tested his patience by being deliberately willful. If he didn't know what he'd done this time, you certainly weren't going to tell him. He could figure that out for himself, you thought as you let him stew.

A moment more of shoes squeaking against the linoleum and Elvis snapped. Charging back toward you, he captured your jaw in one enormous palm forcing your eyes to meet his penetrating stare.

"Said I was sorry, didn't I?" he demanded and you could only gulp in reply. He hadn't been kind about your efforts cooking dinner and the jokes he made to the mafia eroded what little confidence you had left.

Your lip quivered despite your best efforts and hot tears welled at your lash line. Of course he noticed the change in you instantly, reaching up to catch the first tear as it fell.

“Don’t do that darlin’,” he pleaded, voice dripping in honeyed concern.

You sniffed back emotion so as not to show weakness and he chuckled slightly. "Always a brave little soldier, ain't ya?" he teased.

"M not, tho," you admitted. "I don't think I can do this," you whispered, pitching forward to press your foreheads together. You breathed in his comforting scent, allowing the waves of calm to wash over you before you continued. "I'm sorry, but I can't be your wife," you confessed. You knew it to be true, unable to keep house or cook meals for him perfectly the way his mama did for him when she was alive. You didn't have the same experience and it was killing you to know how you were failing him.

Elvis breathed deeply as his large hand came to cradle the back of your head, making you feel safe and secure as only he knew how. You could feel him smirking against you and you held your breath waiting for whatever reply he'd give to dismiss your concerns.

However, he surprised you when his voice rumbled low and sincere from deep within his chest. "You're gonna make the most wonderful wife, sweetheart. I know it cause you're kind and gentle..." He paused to gather his thoughts, fingers twisting in your hair as he added softly, "but most of all cause you love me like I love you."

Your heart nearly skipped a beat as he spoke the words of affirmation you'd longed to hear so many months now living with him at Graceland. However, your old insecurities ate at you faster than he could banish them. Your head shook softly against his broad shoulder, tears dripping down his shirt front as you proclaimed, "Tonight you said I couldn't do nothin' right. Maybe it's true." Then you gave in to the melancholy, hiccuped sobs leaving your parted lips.

You felt his chest puff out against you, ready to deny the accusation before he thought better of it. He looked back toward the dining room where a dozen witnesses could easily corroborate his sharp criticism. With you tugging at his heart strings now, he realized his mistake.

"Look, baby, I don't care you can't cook," he swore to you. As you looked up into his sapphire eyes, you knew he was telling the truth. Searching your tear stained face for forgiveness he added, "I'll hire us a chef and you don't ever have to worry again, alright?"

"You won't think less of me?" you asked, wiping at your ruined mascara.

A wide grin spread over his face as he thought for a moment, the devilish glint returning to his eyes as he answered, "Not as long as you learn to make me a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I can't go on a two week honeymoon with no help and nobody to make it f'me," he chuckled.

You hit his chest playfully, a giggle escaping your lips. "And how am I gonna do that?" you teased back, biting your cheek in anticipation.

Elvis' broad hands came to rest at your waist, raising you from your perch with ease. With controlled precision he placed you onto the ground beside him, pulling you into his side. "What if I teach ya?" he asked in complete seriousness.

Hands resting against his firm chest, you looked up at him expectantly, wanting to please him more than anything in the world. "I reckon I could learn."

"Yeah?" he asked, lips twitching into a tentative smile at your willingness.

"Mm-hmm," you confirmed with a quick nod.

Elvis took you by the hand and drug you toward the pantry as you furrowed your brow in confusion. "R-right now?" you stuttered, unable to believe he'd forsake his guests waiting for a proper meal in the next room.

"Ain't no time like the present, sweetheart," he declared, shutting them all out to spend time with you.

#elvis presley #Elvis fanfcition #Elvis x reader #Elvis x you #Elvis x y/n

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 day ago

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To Those Who Wait

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as non/dubcon, virginity loss, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are tired of being the safe one so you decide to pay for some excitement.

Characters: escort!Ransom Drysdale, Curtis Everett

Note: this is intended as a one shot but you also know I'm easy to influence.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Tony loves himself. Take care. 💖

“Happy birthday!” Vivica shoves the plastic teeth of the dollar store tiara into your hair.

You try not to glower as the rest of the table roars with laughter. It’s a happy night. You can’t spoil it just because you hate gimmicks. They mean well, you’re just a downer. Like always.

You force a smile, “thanks, guys.”

“Don’t thank us, it’s your night,” Jerrod chirps. “Which means you drink for free!”

Big whoop. You barely drink. You’ll have one or two for the occasion but you don’t like the way it makes your stomach feel. Ugh, stop being such a tight ass. It’s about you but it isn’t. They went to all this trouble planning the night. For you. Your friends. You can at least be thankful for them.

Yeah, you have friends but how much do they really know you? For as long as you’ve known them, they should know that this isn’t you. They are the ones that want to go out, that want to drink, that want to wade into the unpredictability of the general public. That’s not you.

“So, what are we having?” Mila asks.

“Hm, I don’t know. You know I’m not picky.” It all just tastes like alcohol.

“Ooh, cucumber gimlet. That sounds nice,” Jerrod says.

“Oh, it really does,” Vivica agrees.

“I’m going to try the gummy bear. I’m in the mood for something sweet,” Mila says.

“Sure, I’ll try that,” you shrug.

Jerrod flags down a server and puts in the order. As he does, Vivica stirs around under the table. Mila claps as she reveals the gift bag from beneath.

“My favourite part,” Mila wiggles with excitement.

“Oh, you didn’t have to--”

“It’s only one part of our gift,” Jerrod laughs knowingly.

You give him a wary look. You don’t like his tone. You accept the gift bag and look inside. You can’t tell what it is. You pull out the tissue paper and a small box wiggles inside. Slowly, you slip it out and just as quickly shove it back in.

“That’s it. You wanna do it just like that,” Jerrod guffaws.

Your mouth drops open as you look around the table. The bright pink dildo has your cheeks on fire. You can’t believe they’d bring that out in public.

“What is wrong with you guys?”

“Oh, come on, everyone can use a good six inches or so,” Jerrod snickers. “That’s our backup gift. Our real gift is somewhere around here.”

“Huh?” You peek around the bar. “Like a scavenger hunt?”

“Oh, it’s a hunt,” Vivica juts out her chin. “You set the target and we’ll take him down for you.”

“What?” You scoff.

“Come on, honey, you’re thirty. You need to get one last hurrah in,” Jerrod insists. “When it’s my turn, I want three beefy boys. One in each flavour, blond, brunette, and even a redhead.”

“I’ll have the same,” Mila smirks.

You’re embarrassed. Uncertain two. You can’t tell if they’re mocking you. Out of the four of you, you’ve always been the boring one. The sober one. All these years, and you were the one saving them from regrettable drunken mistakes and making sure they don’t leave the bar with creeps. It wouldn’t be hard for them to guess, would it?

“Don’t worry, we’ll be your wingmen. Wingwomen. Wingfriends!” Vivica says. “How about him?” She points as the server lays out the drinks. “He’s cute. Oh, look at his eyes.”

“Wow,” Mila preens. “A bad boy. That would be adorable.”

You want to disappear. You want to dissolve into the cushioned bench. Become a part of it. Life as a piece of a furniture must surely be nicer.

“And his friends, not bad, huh?”

You’re speechless. It’s a joke. Even if they don’t mean it as one, it is. All these years and you’ve never been the one approached first. You’re the straggler. You get the odd one out and they get stuck with you. Maybe, all this time, your friends had been too self-absorbed or too drunk to notice that.

You don’t mean to be bitter. You shouldn’t be. It isn’t their fault you’re so lame. That you’ve gone another year without a single thing to be proud of. Without any change.

“Right, well, they look busy.”

“Booooo,” Vivica hovers her glass in front of her mouth. “Who wants to break the ice?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Mila stands.

“Wait.” You blurt out but she ignores you.

Some birthday. You get to spend it awkwardly making small talk with another disinterested stranger. You try not to show your discomfort. You grab the skewer with gummy bears impaled on it and stir the vibrant red drink. You sip through the thin straw. It makes your cheek pinch painfully. The sugar will do worse to your stomach than the vodka.

You keep your head down as Mila’s fluttery giggle wafts over. Vivica giggles as she watches and Jerrod cranes to see. You stare at the table and distance yourself from the moment, detaching from your body as the bar hazes around you.

“Hey, you guys, come on,” Mila calls over, “lots of room.”

Her waving hand brings you back to the present. Vivica nudges you with her elbow as Jerrod jumps up. He grabs Mila’s drink and you shuffle along behind them. The group of men sit at one of the tall tables. They rearrange themselves and you stand back as the others claim their seats.

You climb up on the last, balancing your drink and the gift bag, unable to bring yourself to look at the men on either side of you. You fixate on your drink and taste it again, even as the sickly flavour curdles in your mouth. Your friends introduce themselves and you choke on your name before Mila says it for you.

The men take their turns. Your eyes dart around evasively. A sweltering heat forms a sheen across your face. The one with the frosted tips and glasses is Jensen, the broader brunette in the button-up and blazer is Nick, the biggest with his bushy beard is Sy, and the last one, beside you, with the buzz cut, is Curtis.

“Nice crown,” Jensen says. “Happy birthday.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” you reach up and take of the tiara. “Thanks.”

“You from here or visiting?” Jerrod asks the men.

“We work at Stacks.”

“Programmers?” Vivica snorts. “You might know my ex. Two of them actually.”

They laugh. You don’t know what’s funny. This is weird. You hate that invisible barrier between you and them, that makes you feel like you’re on a completely different planet. You don’t get this part of the script. The prologue is as far as you ever get.

“How old are you?” Curtis’ deep timbre startles you as it rolls beneath the chatter of the others. You shift in your seat and twist the glass around.

“Thirty,” you pick up the Tiara, the 3 and 0 nearly hidden by the feathers.

“Ah, the big one,” he comments.

“Yeah, just another year,” you put the plastic crown down.

“What do you do?”

You sniff and tap your fingers on the cup. You lift it and drain the last of the fruity juice and stringent vodka. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” He asks.

“My friends are just being goofy. You don’t have to act like you’re into me.”

“Well, I’m not much of an actor. Never was into theatre,” he says. “I wouldn’t know, would I? Just trying to get to know you, figure that out.”

“Really,” you give him a sideways look. “Ah,” you hiss in false disappointment, “hate to break the seal but I gotta go the ladies. Excuse me.”

“Right,” he accepts dully. “How about I get you a refill, for your birthday?”

“You don’t have to but if you really want to, I could use a ginger ale. Thanks.” You accept as you climb off the stool.

You cross the bar and stop just at the threshold of the hallway that reads Girls and Boys above. You glance back. Mila has her charming smile on, Vivica is leaning into Sy, and Jerrod and Nick are watching something on his phone. Why can’t you be normal, like them?

You flinch as you catch Curtis’ eye. His eyes flick to you as he talks to the server. You quickly spin away. You’ll wait until the third round when they’re too tipsy to care. Then you’ll make your exit.

🍹

The hotel clerk hands you the key card. You don’t make eye contact. If you do, she might see right through you. You shove it in your pocket before the tremour is noticeable. You hurry away to the elevator and tap the button three times.

You’re not impatient because your eager. You just want to get this over with. Finally. It only took you thirty years.

The doors open and you step in, relieved that no one else gets on with you. When you’re shut in, you shudder. You’re disgusted. With this. With yourself. But you’re tired. You just want to pull of the bandage. You want to know what all the fuss is about so you can say you’re not missing out on anything.

Ever since your birthday, since that pathetic deja vu of going home alone, of your friends stealing the attention on what the claim was your night, you haven’t been able to stop those thought. You’re pathetic. A loser. No wonder it’s hasn’t happened yet. Who would want to touch you? They barely want to talk to you. They wouldn’t if you weren’t a leech on your friends’ ankles.

The doors open and jar you. You stagger then march out. You slide the card out and check the room number again. Your hands shake so bad it takes you five tries to get the green light.

Inside the room, the nausea swells in your stomach. Your teeth chatter. You go into the bathroom and put the bag on the counter. You dig out the anti-nausea medicine and read the insert; take one or two. Do not take with alcohol.

You pop the pink pill in your mouth and swallow. You look at your reflection. You look as scared as you feel. No time to waste, you’ve done enough of that.

You start with the shower. You wash every crook and crevice. You check your legs and under your arms. You only shaved yesterday night but you don’t need any pricklies. And your pelvis. You did a decent enough job trimming that down.

You get out and moisturise. You don’t want to smell. For once in your life, you don’t want to feel repugnant. You’re not some romantic. You thought of buying lingerie but that only seemed sadder. So you put on a pair of grey jersey pajamas, just a tank top and shorts.

You don’t want to look like this is a big deal. That you tried too hard. You do your hair and a little bit of makeup. Too much would just get messy anyway. Deodorant, perfume, and mouthwash. You’re as fresh as can be.

And anxious!

You take out the box of condoms. You don’t think the pills are working. You want to vomit, even though you haven’t eaten. You grab your phone and check the messages. Shoot, it’s a lot later than you thought.

‘Cashapp?’

Fuck, you forgot. You quickly flip over to your menu and sign in. You send the money and your chest drops. This is it. That’s a hefty wad of cash. You hope it’s worth it.

You reply to the text; ‘sent’ then the room number. There. Done deal. It’s going to happen. Then you can say, yeah, did it, no big deal.

You go into the suite and put your phone on the night table. You sit on the bed for a whole second before you bounce off. No, you can’t stay there. No, no, no. You pace and wring your hands as you wait.

The knock trips you up. You turn to stare at the door and like a horror movie, your eyes widen and your ears ring. He’s here.

You near the door and stop to look through the key hole. There’s a trickle of relief. He looks like the pictures her sent. That’s good.

You open the door a crack and look out. He looks annoyed as he checks his watch then tugs on the lapels of his jacket. It looks like a designer; the lining has little emblems on it. He says your name, “that’s you, right?”

“Hugh? Right?” You blink and he nods as he cheek ticks, “er, come in.”

You pull back the door and press yourself to the wall. He struts in and clicks his tongue in his cheek. He examines the room as he shrugs out of his jacket and slings it over the small bench against the wall. You close the door and he whistles. You face him as he tilts his head, looking you up and down.

“Smells good in here,” he grins and smooths his tidy hair.

Despite who and what he is, he’s handsome. Well, that probably helps. It’s why you paid half your savings for one night. You sway slightly then swallow down the despair. You’re doing it. You’re really going to do it.

A fucking prostitute. That’s as good as you can do.

“How about some music,” he approaches the speaker under the television, “think these things have bluetooth now.”

“Sure,” you croak, watching him as you cross your arms. It’s not too late. No, you don’t think you’ll get a refund now.

He takes out his phone and swipes around. He holds a button on the sound bar and it chimes. Soft R&B drawls from the speaker. You bite your thumb as you stare at him.

“So...” he looks at you.

You nod and clear your throat. You don’t know what to do. You don’t think the whole foreplay thing is going to happen.

He drags his hands down his cream sweater. He doesn’t really dress like an escort. Or maybe you just put too much trust in movies. He lifts the hem as you stay as you are. Your feet are glued to the floor.

He strips off the sweater and reveals a muscled torso and a thicket of dark hair across his chest. You don’t expect it as he sports a clean shave on his jaw. You clamp down on your arms as you keep them folded across your chest.

“Like what you see?” He winks and bites his lips.

He’s good. You almost believe him. If you weren’t missing a chunk from your bank account, you might.

“Come on, baby, why don’t you get some wine going,” he purrs.

A distraction. Thank god. You go to the bar fridge and take out one of the mini bottles of white wine. You peel off the foil over the cap but can’t break the seal. You struggle, trying to hide your effort, but sense him coming close.

“I just need to find some glass,” you say.

He chuckles and takes the bottle. His blue eyes devour you as he cracks the seal and flicks the cap away. He drinks directly from the bottle and smirks.

“No need. Go on,” he offers it up.

Your lips twitch and you take the bottle. You drink, nearly gagging. You swallow and hand it back. He swigs as he watches you.

He is so good looking. You wonder how he even got into this. He’s built like a god. No, a gladiator. You’re such a frigging dweeb.

“Hey, you don’t gotta be uptight,” he gives the wine back to you, “relax, enjoy the wine. You paid for the night. No hurry.”

You nod and drink again. It goes down easier. You return the bottle to him and he strides to the bed. He sits and pats the other side of the mattress.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

You quiver and lock your arms straight. You are conscious of every single part of you as you near him. You sit stiffly and stare ahead. The music drones as he gulps again. He bends forward to set the empty bottle on the floor.

You wince as he drapes his arm over your shoulders. He traces the strap of your tank top and pulls you against him. You shiver as he brushes up your neck.

“This your first time?”

You twitch then make yourself nod. You wait for him to laugh. He doesn’t.

“Well, let’s go slow, then.”

“No,” you erupt. “I mean--” you grip your knees and steady yourself. “I want to just do it. Get it over with.” You grit your teeth and force a breath out your nose. “There’s condoms in the bathroom.”

Now he laughs. “Huh, you know what you want.”

You don’t reply. You can’t. That was the last of your courage or whatever you want to call it.

He goes into the bathroom and you list as he opens the box. He emerges and examines the square wrapper. It looks even smaller in his large hand. He rests his other on the top of his pants.

“How do you want it?” He asks.

You stare at him. How do you want it? You don’t know. You raise your brows helplessly.

“Wanna get naked?” He suggests.

You look at the bed. You blink long and hard. Your head feels fuzzy. Must be the wine.

“Right,” he sighs and undoes his zipper. You peek up long enough to see the top of his boxers. You back away and crawl up the bed.

You face away from him as you strip off your shirt, then your shorts. You jitter as you lay down flat like a plank. You stare at the ceiling as the wrapper crinkles. He groans as he comes closer to the bed.

“I like these ones,” he puts a knee on the bed.

Your breath is like thunder. You feel like your suffocating. He touches your leg and you squeak.

“Gonna have to open up, baby,” he pets your knee.

You let him drag your legs apart. You can’t do it yourself. You wipe your face with a shaky hand.

“Don’t worry, I got you.”

Your eyes snap to him as something clicks. He holds a small bottle with a black label. He squirts the clear oil onto his fingers then reaches between your legs. You return your gaze to the ceiling before he makes contact.

He rubs the cool lube between your folds. Your thighs quake as he glides up and down. Over and over until the moisture is more than just from the bottle.

He tickles your entrance and you tense. He rasps as he circles around, “relax.” He pokes a finger into you and you clench. He wiggles it and hushes you as you whimper. “Look, you’re not gonna like it if you don’t chill.”

He sinks his finger further in then pulls it out again. You blow your breath out and suck it back in as he dips inside once more. You clasp the duvet beneath you as he fingers you rhythmically. Your pussy trembles around him.

“That’s it, baby,” he pushes a second finger into you. “You wanna be ready, huh? I mean... it’s your first time, you gotta be ready.”

The comment is like a slap across the face. Still, you can’t focus on his words. Your eyes feel fuzzy and your body is alight with a spectrum of tingles.

He rocks his hand and you lift your pelvis slightly. He presses his thumb against your clit and you gasp. The mix of pressure and motion is intense. You’re not completely clueless. That toy your friends gave you isn’t the only one you have, you just never used one inside of you.

You push your head down into the pillows and moan. He hums in approval and brushes his other hand up your stomach. He rolls his thumb around your nipple.

“Yeah, like that, relax,” he pushes deeper and you whine, little pouts coming as you dig your heels into the mattress. “Oh, my god, baby, you’re going to cum, aren’t you?”

You squeal as you spasm. It’s not your first orgasm but it’s the best one you’ve ever had. It’s wild how different it is with someone, anyone, else. You shake as your voice unfurl and your cunt squelches around his fingers. He cooes at you as he eases you through your climax.

“Was that so bad?” He wiggles his fingers before he pulls them free. “Huh? Think you liked that.” He gets up on his knees and moves between your legs. He strokes his dick, swollen inside the rubber sheath. “Think you’ll like this a whole lot better.”

You lift your head dozily and stare at him. He’s big. Long and thick. That dildo was probably smaller than him and you left it in the package.

He moves closer and you let out a surprised chitter. He caresses your thigh and hushes you as he grips your hip. He pumps himself with his other hand and angles his tip along your lips.

“You said you wanted to get it done,” he pushes his blunt tip along your entrance. “Don’t hold your breath, baby.”

He pushes into you and you cry put. Oh. That’s not good. The blinding pain ripples through you. This is different too. Not like his fingers. He’s...

“Too big,” you rasp. “Please-- ah, ah, ah.”

“Come on, baby, you can take it,” he growls as he inches into you. “Once it’s in, it’ll feel better.” He impales you down to his base and snarls as he leans his head back. He rolls his shoulders and shudders. “Fuck, it’s been a while since I had a virgin cunt.”

Flames of humiliation lick at you. This man who fucks for a living is taking your virginity like it’s a prize. Another deposit in the bank. Why did you do this?

“Hugh,” you eke out his name and reach down, pressing your fingertips to his stomach. “I don’t want--”

He thrusts and you shriek. Your lips form and O as your head falls back down. You whimper as your body shakes uncontrollably. Your fingers furl into fists and your toes curl.

“Baby, you said you wanted this. You paid for it,” he grabs your wrists and moves your hands above your head, locking them there as he holds himself above you. “Ah, fuck.” He rams into you again and your tears spill over. “Ah, ah, ah,” he continues to thrust, “you are fucking tight. Ah.”

He closes his eyes as his nostrils flair and he groans, “the way you’re squeezing me--”

“Please,” you snivel and he snaps his pelvis into yours. You push your legs wider, trying to ease the pressure. “Ow. You’re hurt—ing me.”

“Argh, yes, oh,” he ruts into you harder and harder.

The springs of the bed bounce you against him as his pace turns furious. He puffs like an animal as his eyes blare down at you. You writhe and sob, your face wet with horror and humiliation. Your flesh claps together slickly as he raises himself only to drop down with all his weight. Again and again and again.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Baby, you hear that. Your first time and you got about to blow,” he sneers. “Tell me you want me to cum.”

You gurgle helplessly and he slams into you, “tell me.”

“Please--” You squeal. “Please just cum. Just...”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he grunts as he batters you.

“Please cum--”

He bucks wildly and lets out a bellowing roar. He pushes his head up and drones through his climax as he fucks you into the bed. You close your eyes and turn your head away. He slows as your heart pounds in your temples and your skin scalds. What did you do?

He lets go of your wrists and pulls out of you all at once. He leaves you splayed on the bed. His footfalls slap away to the bathroom and the faucet runs. You don’t dare move, hoping that if you don’t, this will all just turn out to be a nightmare.

🛏️

You touch your wrist and rip your hand away as if you’ve been burned. The bruises are tender. All of you is, but especially... that part of you.

You have a pillow under you as you sit on your couch. You can barely put your weight on your pelvis. Each time a pang strikes, you remember that horrible mistake. Now you can really say that it isn’t all it’s made out to be. It’s not worth it.

You lean on the armrest and stare at the television. You don’t see the faces or hear the words. Like the rest of the world, it’s now a fog. Like that night. The box for the pills said not to mix with alcohol.

You lean your head in your hand. You don’t want to think about it. That’s worse than what happened. The memory. That never ends.

Your phone buzzes. You ignore it. Vivica called several times. Jerrod once, and all Mila sent was some Tiktok you don’t care about.

The table continues to vibrate. It agitates you. You get up and stumble. You cup between your legs. You wear only a sleep shirt. You don’t want anything to chafe. You grab your phone and check the ID. Who the heck?

You answer, “hello?”

“Hi, is this...” the timbre asks. Do you know them.

“Uh, yeah, is this the pharmacy?”

There’s a silence, “uh, no, it’s Curtis.”

“Curtis,” you repeat.

“From the bar?” He says uncertainly.

You already know that. You just don’t believe it. You frown.

“How did you get my number?”

“Your friend. Viv. Sorry, I... I guess I shoulda asked you but you left so early.”

“Why?” You ask then cringe at your own stupidity.

“Why... because... I want to ask you out. I’m not good at beating around the bush, you know, but you don’t really give a guy a chance.”

“Asking me out?”

“Trying.”

You’re quiet again. It’s like sledge hammer shattering your reality. A couple days ago, you’d be giddy. Not it’s ironic. After what you did. Another laugh in the face.

“So, did I... just embarrass myself here or...” he huffs. You feel bad.

You never gave him a chance. You never gave yourself a chance. And now you spoiled it all. You can’t bring yourself to take out your self-hatred on him again. You can humour him for one date. Then you can say, at least, that you’ve done that too.

“Um, alright,” you agree, wishing it was happier, wishing that it could be different. You’ll have to figure out how to let him down easy. Although Mila says ghosting is even easier. “Sure.”

“Sure,” he echoes you. “Don’t sound so excited.”

“Ha, sorry,” you turn and rub your neck. “Yes. Let me know what works for you.”

“I can do that,” he sounds relieved. “I’ll text you in a minute.”

“Alright,” you hold back a scoff. “Thanks for calling, Curtis.”

“No, thank you.”

He hangs up and you turn the phone to silent. Your eyes sting as you lay it face down on the table and walk away. Things could have been so much different if you weren’t so damn stupid. He’ll figure that out and maybe you won’t have to be the one to break it off.

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