#but still has so far refused to sleep with him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bi-writes · 1 month ago

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an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k)

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…” You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…” You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived?

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays.

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

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blkkizzat · 13 days ago

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PU$$Y GOT MORE M⛧RDERS THAN SHIBUYA.ᐟ 𝐌⛧𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑#𝟑 — 𝐅𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨, 𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢

⛧ 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: nov 8th, 8:48 am ⛧ 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞: tshirt with no panties + dubcon + edging + cunnalingus + squirting + backshots + brat!reader ⛧ 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐬: 3548

𝐧𝐧𝐧 𝐦.𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

A week into ‘No Nut November’ Toji already is feeling fidgety—not that he’d ever admit it. No, he was going to win and prove to you he wasn’t like those other chumps you dated in the past, pussy couldn’t control a man like him.

Yet a part of Toji has to know he is lying to himself.

Otherwise why the hell did he get out of bed last night at 3 am, dick stiff as fuck, while your ass was still asleep?

The job Shiu gave him could have waited a few more hours for daylight to break at least. But laying in bed, wide-awake and fully bricked, Toji's cock nearly jumped out of his sweats when he swore you softly moaned his name in your sleep.

Fuck he could practically smell your pussy too! Toji couldn’t get the fuck outta that bed fast enough.

Speaking of jobs, he’d been taking more of them—anything to get him out of the house. Although he told you it was so you'd stop nagging him about bills—a big ol' lie.

Now, hours later after returning home, Toji steps out of the shower. Scoffing at his reflection, the grumpy look on his face is all thanks to his twitching hard-on practically waving back at him in the mirror.

Annoyance simmered in his chest. Toji wanted to call the whole fuckin' thing off but his pride had taken a hit the moment you goaded him into this ridiculous challenge. Your smug, off-hand comment about how he’d 'fold like an omelet' if he attempted 'No Nut November' had sealed it.

He couldn’t let that remark just slide.

It had only been a week so far but a chore from the start. A foolish experiment neither of you were built for. Restraint had never been either of your strong suits—not when you could barely keep your hands off each other for a single day, let alone thirty.

Even three years into the relationship, that much hadn’t changed. He’d fucked you so often, so thoroughly, he knew your body as well as his own—a truth that made this self-imposed abstinence feel less like a challenge and more like torture.

Toji knew you were struggling through all of this too. The way your thighs pressed together when he casually manspread on the sofa the other day had been proof of it. You tried to play it cool but your eyes betrayed you, locked on his cock like you could melt the fabric of his pants with sheer willpower alone. Squirming in your seat, you made it painfully apparent how badly you wanted him buried inside you, stretching you open like only he could—yet you also refused to give in.

Unfortunately, you were both as stubborn as all hell. Neither of you willing to bend first, even if it was driving you both insane.

*CRASH*

Hearing the shattering of glass, a sound Toji recognizes far too well by now, he makes his way to the kitchen.

Tsk—he’s told you over and over to just call for him when you want to reach the top shelf.

“Mamas, that lil’ short stack ass of y'ers better not be up on that counter again. I told ya—”

Toji grins widely upon entering the kitchen.

“....heh, ya fucking slutty ass minx.”

Caught red-handed, you’re balancing on your tippy toes on the edge of the kitchen counter, with one leg hiked up on a spice shelf for extra leverage. However, Toji was far less concerned with the fact you disobeyed him now that he’s seen your state of undress.

Like a starved predator his eyes rake ravenously over your exposed flesh—your entire ass and pussy poking out of one of his old t-shirts you often slept in. Toji licks his lips as he hones in on how even your puckered rear hole seems to clench tighter, sheepishly even, under his scrutiny.

“And just what do ya think y’er doing, slut?”

Frozen mid-stretch, you’d whip your head back to see Toji.

His arms are crossed over his broad, bare chest, still glistening with water droplets, giving him the appearance of a Greek god. The morning rays stream through the kitchen, casting a warm glow that highlights every chiseled inch of his body. The towel around Toji's waist hangs low, giving you a peek of the sleek black hairs leading down to—his completely bricked up erection aggressively poking through his towel.

“Nah, eyes up here slut.”

Toji snaps his fingers and you manage to rip your eyes away in order to roll them back, not letting him get away with any sass.

“I’m hardly a slut for trying to cook breakfast, Toji.”

Finally getting your mixing bowl at the sacrifice of 3 others, you safely plant both feet on the countertop.

“Nuh-uh, ya know what I fuckin’ mean, ma—heh, ain’t a slut but y’er tooting that fat ass up f’er me bare, knowing you shouldn’t even be up there in the first fuckin’ place." Toji's grin widens deviously. "I know y'er tyna tempt me lil' girl—so just give in. Just say ya want me t’ fuck ya mamas and I’ll do it.”

You bristle at his words—he had some nerve!

“As if! You’re the one who's been walking around with a loaded gun in your pants all week!”

“Yeah mama n’ ya been lookin’ at my dick like ya wanted me to bust this gun in ya for just as long.”

You fluster, caught. Thinking your drooling over the heavy cock in his pants had gone unnoticed, yet you were sorely mistaken.

“Now y’er walkin’ around without panties and in my shirts knownin’ what that fuckin’ does t’me—y'er not slick at all, ma”

Unfortunately, you don’t realize just how close to snapping Toji actually is as you stand your ground throwing more sass back at him.

“Get over yourself Toj! I’ll have you know I didn’t even have any last night either—you know the saying—gotta let her ‘breathe’.”

And that was the final straw.

Your heart races seeing the darkened look in his eyes, not to mention the smirk on Toji's face is absolutely diabolical now.

He’d woken up so early thinking he was going mad with arousal that he was manifesting you moaning for him and the smell of your sweet wet pussy only to realize you’d be practically advertising yourself to him all night—fuckin' taunting him to take a peek. “Oh? She’s having trouble breathing, my favorite girl? Well then, looks like that stuffy lil’ cunt needs some mouth-to-mouth then, mamas.”

Before you can blink, your vision blurs as Toji moves with blinding speed, his Heavenly Restriction amplifying every motion to an imperceptible degree. Manhandling you roughly, Toji splays you out on your stomach across the marble counter of the kitchen island, sending whatever are on it crashing to the ground with the others you'd broken.

You don’t have to ask Toji ‘what in the hell he thinks he’s doing?’ as you figure it out as soon as you feel the baggy t-shirt fabric bunching at your upper back and his breath ghosting over your bare cunt.

Toji isn't surprised that you are already moist and leaking just from him calling you a slut a few times, your slutty lil cunt would get soaked for far less.

Toji anticipated that though and he is pleased that he can see the slick glossing your pussy lips as he pulls back a bit to admire the view. You looked like a freshly prepared breakfast platter to Toji, he didn’t need you cookin’ anything else either—just heat up that tight pussy of yours for him and he'd take his fill.

Placing a tender kiss on your ass cheek the gesture is almost an appology for whats to come as Toji quickly follows it up with a searing bite into you squishy flesh. Not leaving the other lonely, Toji graces gracing your other ass cheek with an open palmed spank. You're trying not to squeal as he kneads your supple skin between his fingers, squeezing the fat of your ass posessively. However, Toji is displeased at you trying to hold back your cries and for that you're spanked harshly again. The force leaves a handprint burning in your skin as the sting pushes more gooey nectar out of your cunt.

“Nah, none of that holding back now slutty mamas, ya wanted this teasin’ me like that now I want ya to scream f'er me.”

Panting you attempt to resist him again, wanting to push yourself up off the counter but it's impossible when your feet aren’t even touching the floor. Your toes ghosts over the ground as you try to wiggle free. Yet your flimsy protests didn’t last long as your limbs go rigid once Toji peels back your sopping folds exposing your runny, twitchy pussy hole to him.

“Tsk, see that ,mama? Only a week without my mouth on ‘er and this silly slut of a pussy forgot how to breathe. Look at her strugglin, beggin' to be resuscitated.”

Keening lustfully at his lewd accusation, you chew on your plump bottom lip as his large rough tongue takes the first slow n’ savory swipe over your soaking pussy lips.

You couldn’t hold back any longer.

“C’mon, p-please eat me daddy, To—JIIIIIIAHH!”

Your begging is cut short as Toji latches his mouth to your fat cunt, tongue diving into your pretty peach like a man starved.

Oh okay, fuck! Why were you holding yourself back from this again?!

Real nasty with it, Toji is literally gargling on the juices seeping steadily from your creamy cunt. Slurping up your arousal like a man parched, Toji is unhinged and feral as he spits your fluids it back into your pussy before lapping it all up again with a deep swirl of his tongue.

Achring instinctively, your hands flail in an attempt to push Toji's head away, but all you manage to do is tangle up your fingers in his damp raven locks. Instead of dislodging him, your efforts have him burrowing his face deeper between your thighs, smothering himself in your creamy core. Toji's thick tongue continues its prodding, flicking and stroking—mapping every inch of you as if to make sure your pussy hadn't changed in the week he'd gone without her. Releasing a deep guttural hum inside you, vibrations course through your body as his own sloppy groans of pleasure mix with your gasping cries for mercy. The sensation is overwhelming, and just as you think you can’t take any more, his fingers find your swollen clit, strumming on it in a pace too cruel that only intensifies the pleasurable ache within.

“Fahh-HAHH!”

As white edges your vision and you begin falling into the throws of ecstasy—the first orgasm you had in a week—however, you wouldn't experience the sweet nirvana you crave just yet thanks to Toji cruelly ripping it away.

Smacking his lips with a satisfied sigh like he finally had his fill from a water fountain, Toji dislodges his face from your puffy and drenching pussy. You don’t even need to see Toji's face as you can practically hear the smirk plastered across his lips, still dripping with your juices messily stained all around his mouth and flowing down his neck.

“Admit it—”

Standing, Toji taps his cock on your sticky pussy lips, hypersensitive now from the way he’d just been aggressively munching on her like full-course meal. The knob of his cockhead, flushes red and angry as it pokes into your slippery entrance. The ring of muscle slowly opening wider to accommodate the large girth that threatened to impale your pretty lil' pussy fully at any moment.

“—admit you got that short slutty as of y’ers up on that counter to test me—and I’ll put it in.”

The fact is Toji was near his limit anyway and likely would have snapped later on that night if you didn’t try to tempt him like this. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if it was intentional—but he didn’t care at this point because truth be told he’d been looking for any little excuse to bend you over like this for the past 2 days.

“NNNGHH—not fair! TojiiiiiiEEEE!”

You pout, tears on the edges of your eyes as he delivers more smack to your jiggly cheeks, enjoying the way they ripple under his hand.

“Say what I wanna hear slutty mamas… n’ m’gonna give fat ma here what she's been craving all week…”

Toji exhales sharply, his breaths uneven as he watches globs of his pearlescent pre-cum ooze indiscriminately from his tip. Toji strokes the base of his shaft tightly, a calculated effort to control himself as the mere sensations and sounds of his tip only gliding against your soft squelchy pussy lips threatens to undo him entirely.

You could almost feel the desperation radiating off of him. He wanted this just as much as you did—asshole.

Although if anything, the truth is Toji broke first. However, while a part of you wanted to fight him on that, a bigger part of you couldn’t care less. Laid up on the counter with no leverage you knew he'd turn you out into his pretty lil’ cocksleeve if you did as he asked—and you did miss him fucking you like his personal pocket pussy.

“Hnnnn—FINE!”

You glance back over your shoulder at Toji, sweat beading on your furrowed brow, your bottom lip jutting out as you say the words that you know will have him pureeing your guts as soon as you do.

“Daddy, *sniff* m’sorwy m’just a bratty slut who just wants her tiny pussy fucked—m’so horny n’ I want you s’bad… n’thats why I got on the counter to show you how much she m-missed you!”

Like the little temptress you are, you wiggle your ass up towards him as best you can with your feet dangling. Toji barks with laughter at the site.

“Heh, now was that so hard slutty mamas?”

Yet Toji couldn't delay andy longer, the little composure Toji had in the moment is lost as he thrusts himself deeply into you with a fierce snap of his hips.

The weight of him leaning into you and stretching your greedy hole that hadn’t been fucked in a week knocked all the air out of you—you couldn’t even scream. A paralyzing shiver jolts down your spine that reaches all the way down to your pussy, tightening enough it threatens to break Toji's dick in two.

“Fuuuck, mama. You’re s’tight, relax. Ngnnh—never doing this cuck ass shit again though baby….I’ll fuckin’ kill someone first.”

Toji’s voice carried a rare, almost whiny edge as he grits his teeth—muttering something along the lines of, ‘pussy gon’ kill me’.

You’re not able to think about that too hard though as Toji doesn’t remain still inside you for long. Jerking back, Toji pistons his hips into you, growling like an animal in heat.

Toji feels like a fuckin teenager again the way he's leaking precum into you. Gritting his teeth, Toji couldn't have imagained before this that a lack of pussy for 7 days would have his knees threatening to buckle.

Fuckin' hell, he wanted to cum already.

Lifting your hips up off the counter with his massive hands, your body ragdolls as Toji's sharp bullying hips completely turn your pelvis into mush. Toji's eyes dim to a dangerous forest green as he watches his cock be consumed by the thick supple lips of your pussy, disappearing deeply in your runny cunny over and over.

He'd gladly die like this if given the choice.

And you aren't fairing much better.

“HUUU, F—”

Words fail you as drool seeps from your slackened jaw, your brain being fucked completely smooth under the relentless onslaught. You can’t hold onto anything to ground you, even if the slippery marble countertop offered any kind of leverage. Toji’s thick, veined shaft scrapes mercilessly over that tender, spongy spot that has you seeing stars. When he bottoms out, slamming against your cervix, his balls slap against your swollen clit, sending bolts of white-hot electricity up your spine—like Toji’s sole intent is to shatter it and you entirely.

Your broken cries intermingle with Toji’s throaty growls, each one more primal than the last, mirroring the raw hunger driving his movements. His broad, muscular hands lift your hips effortlessly, spreading your soft flesh wide as his thumbs press insistently against the taut rim of your asshole, teasing and massaging it open.

A strangled raspy moan escapes your lips nearly choking you when his thumbs plunge inside your ass to hook and stretch it wide.

“P-Pweasee, n-not there D-Daddy—SHIIIIIIIT!”

You sob, your body trembling under the overwhelming sensations. The mix of burning desire and the relentless pressure makes you feel as though he might actually break you. It had been a while since Toji fucked you there, and you weren’t sure you’d survive the intensity of pleasure now after being dry a whole week.

Toji doesn’t answer immediately, his silence heavy and deliberate. When you finally muster the strength to glance back, your breath catches as you see him spit a thick loogie directly into your asshole. “NNNN, Tojiiiish!” Your voice pitches higher as his thumbs toy with your puckered rim, stretching it an indecent amount as he pushes it open before guiding it close again, only to repeat the process with more spit dripping into the tight opening. Before long, your ass is doused and full of his spit, just as your pussy is stuffed with his cock and pre.

Toji's other hand clamps down on your hip, gripping tightly as he uses it to drive you onto his cock, hitting your devastatingly sensitive spots with unrelenting precision. The wet, obscene squelch of your cum mixes with the sharp, rhythmic slap of skin against skin, the room filled with the sinful symphony of your high-pitched moans and his raw, gravelly grunts.

On the brink, your body coils tighter with every thrust, every teasing stretch of his thumbs violating your puckered hole. The tension builds unbearably, pushing you closer and closer to that euphoric edge.

Toji is close too—you can feel it in the erratic, almost feral rhythm of his thrusts, his desperation mounting as he hurtles toward the edge. His grip tightens, nails digging half-moons into your sweaty skin as he pounds into you with rough, unrelenting force. A frenzied energy drives Toji, as if the only release that could satisfy him lies buried deep in your slobbering cunt. His balls draw up tight, his blood boiling in his veins as his body ruts into you on pure, unthinking instinct.

A helpless groan escapes his lips, raw and unrestrained, followed by a soft, unexpected whimper—so quiet it's almost undetectable by your ears but you must have heard it because your pussy pulses at the sound. Intoxicating, Toji's desperation laid bare, every ounce of control unraveling as he chases his release.

For the first time in ages, Toji feels disconnected from himself, his body reacting before his mind. Therefore, he doesn’t even register his release until he hears you scream, your walls clamping around him like a vice as his hot seed floods into you.

Your orgasm washes over you shortly after, your squirt gushing around making more of a mess of your kitchen island as the euphoric tension boils over.

Toji lowers your hips gently onto the counter removing his thumbs from you, bracing himself on his forearms to keep from crushing you. His breath is thick and swampy against your neck as he languidly rocks into you, until he pumps every drop of cum into your slutty lil pussy.

Stilling in you, Toji closes his eyes.

Fuck, he’d not cum that hard since the first time he fucked you.

Yet it's you who eventually breaks the silence.

“Y-You came before me, ‘ol man..”

Wearing a lopsided smirk, you lay exhausted and completely spent on the counter, appreciating how cool marble always stayed in this moment basking in your victory. You moan softly as Toji grumbles, getting up and pulling out of you causing your still sensitive walls to push out his plug of cum from your pussy— and you can feel it flowing down your shapely thighs.

“...so what I said earlier means fuck all, you know you technically lost No Nut November first huh, Daddy?”

You're radiantly smug, yet your victory was short-lived.

“Heh, you think we’re done? Don’t ya think I’m owed a lil’ more?”

Toji's voice, low and gravelly, sprouts goosebumps racing across your sticky skin. His cock, drowned in the mingled evidence of your arousals, swipes along the curve of your ass. His tip feels even more engorged than before as it presses insistently against your rear hole—that's still fluttering helplessly in the absence of his fingers.

Yet not leaving for long, his thumbs return to trail possessively over the taut ring of muscle, spreading it open a lil' wider to stuff his girthy fat cockhead in.

“Now mamas, ya know I’m a gamblin’ man. Best two outta, three..."

A smirk curls on Toji’s lips, as he can feel the shudder convulse all the way down your spine, puckering your ass tigher around his cockhead.

"...I didn’t spend all that time spreadin' this cute lil’ stink hole back here for my own amusement, eh?”

𝐚/𝐧: next 12/14, 6:00 a.m. PST queued ryomen sukuna toji daddy is a big pushover for your holes<3 lmk what you think! reblogs and comments make my ass tingle all nice <3

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foreverdolly · 9 months ago

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ೃ࿔ SAVAGE BONDS part 2 『 feyd rautha x atreides!reader 』

summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.

warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking.

word count: 4.5k

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Legs tangled in gray sheets. The lightning-quick flash of a silver dagger, held by a pale hand.

The images in the dream are more like fragments- impossible to discern and decipher. On the bed, asleep and vulnerable. . .

There’s you.

And then Feyd wakes up, heart hammering in his chest so hard he can feel it in his throat. Slowly his fingers crawl up, up, up the expanse of the bed in search of something. In search of warmth, of you. Nothing. He’s just as alone in his room as he was when he drifted off into sleep. He lays awake the rest of the night, tossing and turning with worry.

This dream felt more like a warning than just another disjointed nightmare. It felt real. He was used to having dreams every now and again which clearly depicted a future outcome. He saw you in his dreams quite often, more so once he was no longer a boy-child.

If someone thought to hurt you… he’d just have to hurt them first.

The customs you and your people practiced were completely different to those that were normal on Geidi Prime. You watched one of your ladies-in-waiting as she brought over another small bowl of sweet smelling bath salts, dumping it in and using her hand to properly dissolve them. For a moment you felt self conscious, running your fingers through your hair as you looked at their perfect complexions and shaved heads. What did they see when they looked at you? Someone beautiful and strange. . . or an alien?

Still, you would eventually have to disrobe and bathe. Pressing your luck and refusing their help would only solidify your place as an outsider. You were sure that whispers of your arrival were already spreading like wildfire, and it was almost guaranteed that no one was happy about it. An Atreides amongst Harkonnen’s? You were nothing more than a pariah on their industrial wasteland of a planet.

The air was even more acrid in your lungs than it had been the night before, and while the smell of the rose body oils and salts were thick and hazy in your room, you could still catch the scent of pollution. Already you missed the cool, crisp air of Caladan. You missed your horses, your parents and your brother to the point of pain. This was not where you belonged. Not here in Geidi Prime. Not here with Feyd-Rautha.

The urge to cry yourself hoarse was practically undeniable, and yet you somehow managed to resist. You were late to breakfast already, and surely the Baron was making some unsavory comments about your family and their taught “manners”. So you untied the front of your nightdress and shimmied out of it, letting the soft cotton pool at the ground beneath your feet. The women couldn’t help but gawk at the tiny imperfections they saw there- a beauty mark you’d had since you were a child, a scar you’d received while training with Gurney. You weren’t used to feeling so self conscious, and so you were quick to grab one of the women’s extended hands so that you could sit down in the murky bath water.

They rubbed floral smelling soaps into your hair and on your skin, making sure to handle you as though you were as fragile as porcelain. You wished they would scrub you raw. Even then they wouldn’t be able to cleanse you of your fears. You were in the hands of the Harkonnen’s now.

No one could save you.

“We are not very used to styling hair, my lady. It might not be to your liking.” One of the women said anxiously. The way that her hands shook as she gripped the hairbrush was not lost on you.

How cruelly were they treated here? Or even worse- what did she think of the Atreides family? What lies had they poisoned these people’s impressionable minds with? You didn’t care to dwell too much on such thoughts. Reaching out you gently removed the brush from her hands, flashing her the kindest smile you could muster before shaking your head.

“Leave this to me then. Why don’t you pick something for me to wear from my things?” Your bags were still packed, lying exactly where a few servants had laid them last night. You had denied every offer to have them unpacked for you.

Denial. You refused to believe that you were actually stuck here. This would never be your home. It couldn’t be.

“He’s not here,” Feyd was sitting at a long, slate-gray table by himself. The food on his plate had barely been touched, but he had busied himself with chopping the meat up into miniscule pieces, too small to even fit on the prongs of his fork. “If you were planning on trying to make a good impression, you can forget about it. He always has his food sent to his quarters.”

You thanked the two ladies that had shown you through the colorless halls under your breath, moving to sit on the other side of the table. At least eight chairs separated you from the Na-baron and it still wasn’t enough. You wished you were on an entirely different planet, lightyears away from the Harkonnen scum.

The room was practically empty aside from the large dining room table. No art decorated the walls or rugs to cover the floor. It was all cold, black marble with white accents.

“I don’t care, actually.” And you were being truthful. You didn’t care about getting on the Baron’s good side any more than you cared about getting on Feyd’s.

He smiled then, staring at you long and hard before licking one of his black painted canines. He was amused by the blase way you brushed off his uncle so easily. Indifference wasn’t something he was used to, especially not when everyone in the galaxy had tried so hard to get on their good sides. People tended to tread lightly as far as the Harkonnens were concerned. They were as wealthy as they were cunning.

“Be careful, little Atreides. Saying things like that might get you hurt around here.” His gruff voice was but a whisper now, and suddenly you felt as though there weren’t twelve feet of dead-air separating the two of you.

You had picked up your fork, ready to eat whatever bland food had been prepared for you, but froze at his words. Heat rose to your cheeks and you were quick to lean back in the ornate high-backed chair, the cool iron seeping into your back through your clothes.

“Do you mean to threaten me?” Your words were icy, tongue sharp and ready to give him a proper lashing.

“It’s not a threat, darling.” He was practically purring, reveling in the joy of referring to you whilst using a pet name. It suddenly looked as though a switch had been turned on, his eyes narrowing on you. “I know him far better than you do. He’s killed people for far less. Be careful.” There seemed to be something he wasn’t telling you. There was genuine warning in his tone.

A pause.

“Please.” And then he went back to eating.

So were you supposed to act gutted at his uncle’s absence? You picked up the fork and took a bite of whatever had been put on your plate. It wasn’t at all what you were used to. Even the food tasted. . . fake. The meat tasted like it had been pumped full of chemicals and was mealy in your mouth, like sand. Still, you swallowed despite your distaste and shoved the plate away from you.

“Who have you assigned to be my sparring partner? I’m sure that my father made your uncle aware that I train daily, correct?” If you didn’t physically exert yourself and blow off some steam then you were bound to get no sleep tonight.

Last night you had tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep when your body was constantly alerting you to possible dangers. Even now you were on high alert, eyes locked on the knife that sat on the right side of Feyd’s plate. Your own fingers danced towards yours it you watched. Waited. Worried.

“Training?” He tilted his head again, eyes narrowed in disbelief. You could almost see the cogs turning as he mulled over your words. “What good would training do you now? If there are any threats then I am here to protect you- that’s my duty as your husband.”

Ah, yes. Why would a woman train when she could just sit back and play the part of a perfect little wife instead? You could spit.

“Would you rather I just hunt down one of your servants and kill him for sport?” You hated that he was so good at getting a reaction out of you. Maybe you were acting too much like a brat, but you wanted to see him squirm. Seeing him mad must be better than seeing him. . . like this.

For a second he sat there, arms perched nonchalantly over the armrests of his chair, staring at you with a crooked smile. You jumped in surprise when a chuckle escaped him, the act itself so out of place, so surprising that all you could do was stare in horror. The chuckles soon morphed into frenzied laughter, and he was quick to lean back in his seat so that he could place a hand on his chest.

“Was that funny to you?” You spoke through gritted teeth.

He watched the muscle in your jaw clench and unclench with wild eyes, sucking in a deep breath in the hopes of calming himself. Still, to hear such a beautiful woman speak such hideous words. . . it was wonderful, bordering on perverted.

“If you do kill a servant, please make sure I’m there to watch.”

He was too busy watching your face to notice the knife that you slid into the sleeve of your dress. With a huff you stood up, your skirts dryly brushing along the ground as you started to make your way out of the large room.

“I require a trainer.” You tried to mimic your mother’s tone, straightening your shoulders as you turned to look at him.

Lady Jessica always had a way of commanding a room. She was powerful, your mother. You needed to channel that same power now.

“You’ll train with me then,” He stood up from the table, the height and build of him alone nearly causing you to take a step back. You’d forgotten how large he was. How formidable. “Consider it a wedding gift.”

This had you balking, mouth opening and closing as you tried to think of some way to refuse. He was already stalking past you though, ignoring whatever retorts you were bound to make.

“I recommend getting changed. . . Unless you want me to tear that dress to shreds.”

That awful, ugly, no good-

“Bastard!” You whispered under your breath, wadding up your dress just to angrily toss it onto your bed.

You sank to your knees, braiding your fingers into your hair so that you could give it a few good yanks. He was doing this to fuck with your head. All of this was calculated on his part, it had to be. Was it all just to get a rise out of you? Or did he truly want to try and hurt you? You couldn’t figure him out, and that boiled your blood. All Harkonnens were cunning, blood thirsty schemers. You wouldn’t put it past him to be unhappy with the marriage arrangement, choosing to resort to violence in order to end things.

‘Now. Now is the time to strike.’

You’d already hidden the blade under the mattress of the bed. The Baron wouldn’t allow you to live if you killed his precious nephew, but you’d much rather put up some sort of a fight than be put down like a dog. After taking a few steadying breaths you somehow managed to pull on your trousers and shirt, your mind plagued with dangerous, dangerous thoughts. If the moment called for it you were certain that you could not kill Feyd in hand to hand combat. His skills with a blade was well known across the galaxy, and while you were more than able to defend yourself, you weren’t delusional enough to think that you could manage to beat him without using underhanded tactics.

You’d have to wait until his guard was lowered.

“Do all women take this long to get ready?”

You hadn’t heard the door open, nor his footsteps approaching. Who knew how long he had been watching you. The intrusion was an unwelcome one. You looked up to glare at him, trying hard not to balk at his appearance. The clothes he wore were skin tight, a black material that caught the dim lighting- like it was made of pitch black oil. His pants were tucked into big black boots, laced up high on his calf.

He stretched his arms up, leaning against the doorframe so that he could continue his awkward staring.

He did a lot of that it would seem. Any time you turned your head to face him you found that he was already looking in your direction. It was odd. . . off putting to say the least. Of course you couldn’t know that he was currently tracing the lines of your face with his eyes, committing every detail to memory. You were so different when he compared you to the females that he was used to seeing. You were all soft lines, long lashes and doe eyes. He found it impossible not to look at you. Gorgeous… you were gorgeous.

“It took me a while to get out of my dress on my own.”You shoved your way past him in the doorway, his chest warm under your palms.

You were quick to jerk away, startled by the fact that this was the first time that you’d touched him since the two of you had reunited.

You didn’t hate the feel of him, but you should have.

“Then you should have asked for some help.” He said, reaching out to grab you by the back of your shirt when you started to walk off in the wrong direction.

Feyd pulled you along like he would a pet on a leash through the triangular halls, ignoring your mumbled curses as you tried swatting him away.

The shield vibrated in your ears as you switched on the button, enveloping you in its warmth.

You used to find it uncomfortable as a child, the tight, foreign warmth triggering a mild case of claustrophobia. You were used to it now, wearing it like a second skin. You waited for Feyd to turn his on as well, the blade clutched tight in your palm.

You waited. And waited. And waited.

“Where’s your shield?” You asked him, motioning towards his hip with your free hand.

There it was, that crooked smile again. He was laughing at you. Was he trying to infer that you were weak? Was he so confident in his skills that he didn’t even see you as a threat?

“I don’t see the nee-” He didn’t get very far.

You kicked your leg out, catching the back of his right knee. His legs buckled, and he was quick to adjust himself, his left arm flying up to catch your wrist before you could sink the blade home. For a split second the two of you just stared at each other. Mild shock in his eyes, your own alight with an anger so consuming that you feared you might be burnt up with it. He gave your arm a sharp tug, hard enough that the joint rolled uncomfortably in its socket.

You kicked your leg out before he could throw you over his shoulder, landing a sharp blow to his ribs. You heard him let out a pained moan before you hit the ground. Using your weight to your advantage, you tucked your body in, rolling to the side so that you could easily stand up to your knees, blade poised at your side and ready for an attack.

“You fight well, Atreides.” Feyd purred, spinning his blade between two fingers before letting it fall back into his pale palm.

“Turn on your shield.” You growled, rising to your full height so that you could begin circling him, a panther ready to pounce.

“Was it Duke Leto that trained you?” Still, he was ignoring your statement.

“No.”

“No, of course it wasn’t him,” He took a step closer to you, eyeing you down. No one had looked at you like that before. . . and it made your skin crawl. You didn’t want to be desired by this man, the thought alone was miserable enough to have bile rising in your throat. “Your father is too weak-spirited to ever train you himself, lest he accidentally harm you.”

Your heart was beginning to pound in your ears now, vision tunneling. All you could see was Feyd. All you could imagine was the blade that you were currently white-knuckling sunk hilt deep into his chest.

“How horrible it must be for Caladan to have a Duke so. . . spineless.”

You bared your teeth, and for a second you were sure that you would snap the hilt in half with how hard you were gripping your blade. You demanded blood for such an insult. How dare he. How dare he.

“I should cut out your tongue!” You screamed, pointed the blade at him.

‘Don’t come any closer’ you urged with your eyes, feeling the angry tears causing your vision to fog. A Harkonnen was insulting your father. He was insulting your family and now he was smiling at you. The bastard had the gall to smile and this time all of his teeth were showing. Wide, unabashed in his joy. He was terrifying. So much so that you felt your legs begin to shake underneath you.

“But you’ll want to put this tongue to good use eventually.” His gravelly voice purred.

“Silence!” And before you could even control yourself you were using the Voice.

You might not be as talented as your brother when it came to hand to hand combat, but your mother had taken the time to teach you well. Feyd’s mouth snapped shut so hard that you heard his teeth clatter together.

“One more word and I will gut you.” Your voice shook and before you could rethink your actions you were lunging forward, the blade cutting through the air. . .

Aimed at his throat.

He was quick to push your arm away with his forearm, and even with the shield up you could feel the bone shattering pressure he put behind the movement. He was stronger than Paul- stronger than even Gurney. He took advantage of the fact that you were put off balance and grabbed a fist full of hair, the shield around you flashing red as he pressed his blade as close as he could to the base of your throat. Your scalp exploded in pain, eyes watering as he gripped harder to yank your head back so that you were staring directly into his eyes. They held no malice towards you, even despite the fact that you were obviously trying to maim him.

And then he leaned in closer. And closer.

“If I didn’t know any better then I would think that you were actually trying to kill me.” He whispered against the shell of your ear. You could practically feel the warmth of his lips against your skin as he spoke, your heart roaring in your ribcage. With your chests practically touching like this you could smell him.

You’d only caught the scent of spice once in your life- and it was akin to bitter cinnamon. There was something else though, something more complex to it. Aromatic spices you couldn’t quite put your fingers on and. . . the natural musk of his skin.

“So you can speak again?” You managed to tease him through your pain, wincing as he brought you even closer against his chest. The blade that you clutched in your hand was now pressing against his side, the pointed edge digging into his skin.

He didn’t wince, even when you put more pressure against it.

“You think it wise to use the Voice on me in my own home, little girl?” He hissed as he pulled away from your ear, and the fire that was in your eyes was now mirrored in his own.

Slowly you moved the blade away from him, the metallic clanging echoing around the room as you let it fall to the floor. Your palm hurt from the vice-like grip you had been holding it in.

“Release me now.” You didn’t shy away from staring into his eyes, unwavering even when he pressed the blade even tighter, the shield vibrating louder and louder around you.

He leaned in, even when your hands moved to press against his chest, willing him to give you space. You could barely breathe with him this close to you. His own knife clattered to the ground, and using his free hand he ripped the shield from off of your hip. The gasp that escaped your lips was uncontrollable. You could feel his breath on your lips as his eyes continued to swallow you up whole.

They looked even bluer when you were up close like this, framed by long black lashes. For a split second you wondered what had become of that beautiful little boy you had met. Had Baron Vladmir beaten the beauty out of him? Or perhaps it had never truly been there to begin with.

When Feyd looked at you, up close like this, all he saw was the object of his ever-present affections. Something yawned to life in his chest- the need to protect. All at once he felt wrong, disgusting and horrible for causing you any sort of pain.

But you looked so lovely with those tears in your eyes. So much so that he gave your hair another small yank, a shuddered breath escaping his lips as you yelped in pain. He saw the hate in your eyes and he detested it.

‘Fear me’ he silently urged. ��Love me, do as I say and I will become your slave.’

His lips brushed against yours, achingly slow- painfully soft.

“I yield.” You were quick to say, pulling as far back as you could even with the grip he had on your hair.

Fire. Your scalp felt like it was on fire.

And then he released you, taking a step back with a heaving chest. The spell now broken, it felt like the world around you suddenly resumed its orbit. Wordlessly he pressed a hand to his side- the side that you had pressed the knife- and when he pulled it away you could see that it was stained with blood.

“Didn’t you say that you were going to gut me?” There was no hint of humor in his voice now.

“I wanted to.” You conceded.

“Then you should have tried harder.”

Again you lay in bed awake, unable to fall asleep. You told yourself that it was just homesickness that had you clinging to the blankets, but you knew better. What had happened today left you rattled and confused.

There were a hundred times today that Feyd could have killed you. Everything that Gurney had ever taught you had disappeared like smoke in the wind the second that your father was mentioned. You had acted on instinct alone.

And if it was an actual fight to the death then you would have lost. Miserably.

There was something strange about it though. It never once felt like an actual training session. He taught you nothing and gave you no feedback. Not only that but. . . it never felt like he actually wanted to damage your pride. He didn’t turn on his shield before and after taunting you, almost as though he actually wanted one of your attacks to land.

He had allowed you to get everything out of your system. You hated that it had worked. It wasn’t helping you to sleep tonight though. No, you had other things on your mind now.

Like the fact that he had almost kissed you.

Your knowledge was limited where men were concerned, but you were nearly positive that there was something sexual about the way that he had treated you. It was like he didn’t want to actually hurt you, but still went out of his way to touch you.

You’d be sure to ask for someone that might be willing to train you again tomorrow over breakfast. Someone who wasn’t Feyd, preferably. Lunch and dinner had been spent in silence on your part tonight. He had tried to strike up conversation a few times, even baiting you in ways that might warrant annoyance and anger. You didn’t budge. Why? Because you hated how nervous you felt in his presence now.

Was it because you were afraid of him? That had to be it. Hearing about his proficiency in fighting and seeing it first hand were two different things. He had practically swung you around like a ragdoll. It was absolutely humiliating.

Yes, that had to be it. . . well, you hoped.

“Atreides.”

The sound of your name had you bolting up into a sitting position, willing your eyes to adjust to the non-existent lighting in the room. The sound of footsteps had your heart jumping up into your throat, adrenaline flooding your system once you realized that it wasn’t a voice that you recognized.

No one had entered the room since you’d gotten back from dinner, which meant. . .

Whoever this was had been hiding, waiting until you completely lowered your guard. You were in danger. Horrible, horrible danger.

‘Be careful. Please.’ You remembered Feyd’s words from earlier.

He had been trying to warn you.

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ೃ࿔ savage bonds taglist:

@elf-punk @shitfuckeryclownverse @mydarlingelvis @heartarianagran @ohdearmaggie @chalametism @killingboredom @obsessedvibee @avidreader73 @softboo @tedcruzumakii @luminnara @narniansmagic @torchbearerkyle @ziggy-stardust-world @tian-monique @adoxra @zz-snow-zz @tiredsleepyhead @icontrolthespice @itsparksjoyhuh @verveta345 @shegatsby @zae5 @ertepla @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @lotus-888 @meetmeatyourworst @moonchild-artemisdaughter @abswifey @flower-frog @auroranodyssey @forgedfromthestars @moony-artemis @juliskopf @moonsoulk @serrendiipty @atrxidxs @the-ruler-of-death @mintoblobo @just-pure-trash @randominterwebthings @springholland @so-dramatic1 @ashy-kit @aslutforscarletwitch99 @sofia-013 @gamorxa @ricecakeslove @alexandrainlove @selfishlittlebeing @ceres27

the wonderful line “fear me, love me. do as i say and i will become your slave” is from the movie “the labyrinth”!

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd x you #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha x you #dune part 2 #dune #austin butler #austin butler x reader #smut #dune smut #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune x reader #dune x you #dune fanfiction #feyd rautha fic #austin butler fic

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runa-falls · 1 year ago

Note

size kink with miguel 👀

yes, nonnie, of course.

edit: bro, i'm sorry, this got away from me...

cw: smut (18+), size kink, somnophilia, oral (m-recieving), dry (wet?) humping, the big stretch™️, crying ;-;, finger riding, teasing/edging, free-use (miguel hehe), piv, tummy bulge, overstimulation, cockwarming, uhhh i think that's it???

miguel is so big, he could only slide against your pussy during the first few months of dating you 😵‍💫

you're barely able to take him into your mouth, let alone down your throat, but you still try your best, giving him sweet licks against the sensitive head and sucking him in with a soft moan.

he loves watching you. how everything about you is smaller -- and not because you're smaller, but bc he's just insanely big.

he needed to be the one to stop you from fucking him the first time. you were so desperate to get him inside of you, convincing him with breathy whines that you can take it, you'll be good for him + stretch out as much as he needed.

though he thoroughly prepped you, he could barely push himself into you and as soon as his tip breached your entrance, you cried out and he could barely move.

he had to grit his teeth when he felt how hot and tight you were, almost losing control when you fluttered around him from the intensity of stretch. he slowly pulled out with a heavy groan, eyes blazing red and claws ripping into the mattress next to your head.

he let you pout, whine, and beg for him to try again, but he wouldn't give in. he was too scared of hurting you.

you mewled and writhed in his arms, whining about how you crave being stretched and filled. the only way he could sate you was by plunging two fingers into your cunt, rubbing relentlessly against your g-spot until you're shaking in his hold.

of course, he makes up for his refusal to fuck you.

miguel is a sweet boyfriend: he'll let you grind your naked body over him at any time of the day until you're seeing white and cumming against him, completely soaking his sweatpants as tears spill from your eyes.

he lets you tease him as much as you want, sliding your dripping pussy over his cock until he's unbearably hard and spurting precum all over himself.

he even lets you ride his fingers, letting you take his arm away from whatever he's working on so you can comfortably roll your hips over him and grind your clit against the palm of his hand.

when he finally does fuck you, it's impossible to get him away from you (not that you mind). miguel is mesmerized by how well your smaller body can take him. how you squeeze around him so sweetly, gushing and trembling as he moves against you.

he loves seeing the outline of cock pressing against your tummy, how he can literally see himself move into you as your body struggles to make enough room. he pushes down on it and you get infinitely tighter. his scarlet eyes stares up at your euphoric expression, pretty lips shaped into an O for him as your eyes roll back with pleasure.

miguel, as spider-man, has no refractory period. usually, he'd stop after two or three rounds, but now that he's felt your molten heat over him, the way you shudder around his cock when you cum, he can't get enough.

even when you're filled to the brim with his cum, he still hard inside of you, fucking you harshly until you're dripping everything onto the sheets below you.

<cw: somnophilia>

sometimes you're so exhausted, so delirious with pleasure, that you pass out while he's still rutting into you. the first time it happened he freaked out a little, hoping he didn't push you to far. once you gave him the green light to continue, so turned on by the fact he can fuck you to sleep, he doesn't hesitate to take you all the way.

you regularly wake up with a pleasant soreness between your legs. miguel makes sure to show you extra soft loving in the mornings, cooing about how sweet and pliable you were the night before. sometimes you wake up and he's still inside of you, face cutely nuzzled against the back of your neck.

UM ANYWAY-- 🫠👀

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut

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sturnioz · 9 months ago

Text

‘THIS IS (NOT) EASY’ — MATTHEW STURNIOLO

pairing. matthew sturniolo x fem!reader genre. smut, fluff, angst

word count. 13.7k

❝being in this friends with benefits relationship with you was not as easy as i thought it would be...❞

content warnings. friends with benefits au, crack humour, explicit content, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, squirting, p in v, unprotected sex (creampies), big dick matt, doggy position, alcohol consumption and mentions of weed, flirty!chris,

—authors note. i've actually written this before but for a different person on another blog. so if you happen to stumble across that somehow and notice the similarities, its me lol. i just liked the plot so much and i wanted to use it for matt.

“Wait, you what?!”

You gasp out loud, not caring about the loudness of your tone, voice piercing throughout the library alongside the squeaking legs of your chair across the wooden flooring as you abruptly straight up in your seat.

Other students with their heads shoved in books and laptop screens peek over in curiosity while one irritated classmate leans over the table to shush you angrily, warning you about the volume of your voice but you pay them no mind, gaze fixed on Matt who sits across from you sheepishly.

Matthew Sturniolo—one of the heartthrobs on campus, the quiet and mysterious type that turns curious heads, and undoubtedly the kindest guy in class has been your best friend for the past few years. You met during a practice hockey game where fourteen-year-old Matt had tried to score a goal to impress his brothers and newfound friends, only for the hockey puck to come flying over the glass barrier, hurling straight towards your face and leaving you with a swollen eyeball and a busted up nose.

Matt was unbelievably apologetic, going to extreme lengths by buying candies and ripping up flowers from potted plants to give to you whenever you both crossed paths, begging for your forgiveness over and over again desperately until you socked him in the face, giving him a hefty nosebleed and a bruised cheek in return.

A toothy grin spread across your cheeks and you finally had accepted the gifts out of his hands, a happy ‘now we’re even!’ leaving your lips as you had ripped open the candies, offering him a treat, offering him your friendship.

The two of you became inseparable and if someone saw one of you, they knew that the other would be trailing along behind them. You were two peas in a pod—the dynamic duo. You were so joined at the hip that when you both enrolled for college, you tried signing up for a dorm on campus, wanting and hoping to be roommates.

It didn’t happen.

Matt ended up rooming with one of his friends, Tyler, while you got stuck with some girl you didn’t even know but had become acquainted with over a short period of time.

Still, you and Matt never strayed far from each other even with your roommates in the picture. He sleeps over at your place every now and then, and vice versa. You’re certain that he’s even claimed a whole drawer in your dresser, filled with his spare shirts, sweatpants and underwear.

A lot of your mutual friends, including his brothers, found it suspicious how you two could be so close without anything going on between you both, complaining how the two of you can’t be just friends. It was partially the truth.

You are not just friends, you’re best friends.

“I’m just saying, that you’re complaining about not hooking up with someone for a few days while I haven’t slept with someone for, like, a month,” Matt repeats to you with flushed cheeks, adjusting the black cap on his head with one hand while the other skilfully twirls a pen around his fingers, “Times are hard, kid. I got assignments up to my ass—”

“There’s no way you haven’t hooked up with someone lately,” You hiss through gritted teeth, refusing to believe a word that comes out of his mouth when he’s talking about such nonsense.

A nearby student from the table next to yours shifts around in their seat in annoyance to look at you, pressing their finger aggressively against their lips to tell you to quiet down and you scoff in response, throwing them the middle finger with your own irritancy and annoyance.

“Can you not?” Matt scolds as his hand firmly wraps around your own, squeezing in warning as he guides it back down to the table. He offers an apologetic smile to the student, and as always, it works like a charm as they shyly smile back and resume their work. Another scoff leaves your lips and Matt turns his attention back to you. “I’m telling you the truth, you know.”

“Bullshit,” You murmur, sending him a glare. “That girl from my study group was over at your dorm last weekend—I saw her Snapchat stories.”

“Dude, we’re both in the same study group. She came over for some of my notes and ended up staying longer because Tyler offered her an ounce of his ‘premium weed’,” Matt explains, adding a sarcastic emphasis around the word ‘premium weed’ which has you snorting, knowing that there was nothing premium about Tyler’s stash. “She eventually ended up staying over and hooking up with Chris anyways.”

Your face contorts into a look of confusion at that, “What? Chris? He isn’t even your roommate.”

“I know. Tyler’s sheets are still in the dryer,” Matt grimaces. “But Nick has had this ‘sex-free’ policy on his and Chris’ dorm ever since that guy screwed him over last weekend.”

“Oh…” You pause, amused at Nick’s new policy, but then the realisation finally hits you. “So that’s why Tyler didn’t have any sheets on his bed when I came over on Monday.”

“Y—wait, you came over Monday?” Matt snaps his head towards you, eyes narrowing as he jabs his pen in your direction. “Did you fuck in my bed?!”

“No. Of course not,” You gasp, deeply offended by his accusation and Matt lets out a sigh of relief, relaxing his shoulders as he leans back into his chair. “We actually fucked on the couch—”

“Are you fucking kidding me—”

“That’s besides the point!” You cut him off before he can grill you, silencing him by raising your hand in front of his face when he tries to retaliate again. “The fact remains, Matt, is that you haven’t fucked anyone in a whole month. And that’s like… I don’t know, it’s like blasphemy!”

Matt deadpans, his expression devoid of amusement. “I’m pretty sure that’s not blasphemy.”

“Whatever. You know what I mean,” You dismiss, shoving your books and pens as far away from you as you possibly could, no longer interested in studying the endless amount of words on that page now that you’ve discovered your best friend hasn't hooked up with anyone in so long. You sit comfortably in your chair as you fully give him your attention, tucking your legs beneath you. “I can’t believe it…”

“You’re telling me,” Matt huffs, deciding to set aside his own studies too. He rubs his face in frustration, groaning beneath his palms. You console him with a frown, reaching out to rub his shoulder in sympathy. Matt’s hands drop to his lap, and he shoots you a glare, “I can’t believe you didn’t believe me. Why would I lie about something like that?!”

You’re quick to defend yourself, “You fuck more than I do. Of course I'm not gonna believe a word you say when you tell me something like that!”

And it’s true, Matt does have a higher number of sexual encounters compared to you. His boyish charm and adorable face doesn’t hide the fact that his body count is probably in the twenties, and that his online bank statements are likely to reveal the frequent purchases of packs of condoms (and maybe a few Plan B pills for extra precaution). Matt has always been cautious and responsible, which doesn’t surprise you. He’s not one to take unnecessary risks or potentially impregnate someone, especially a stranger.

“You didn’t have to say it out loud like that…” Matt mutters under his breath, cheeks dusting a slight shade of pink as another student turns around in their seat to glare at the pair of you, but her eyes widen comically as she sees Matt. Shyly, she tucks her hair behind her ears with a kind smile that Matt reciprocates. You lean back in your seat with a roll of your eyes just as Matt brings his attention back to you, “Are we done with this conversation? I’d rather talk about something more interesting than my nonexistent sex life.”

“Fine,” You relent. “Are you going to Nate’s later?”

“No, kid’s got some important hockey meeting or something, so we’re hanging another time,” Matt sighs softly, removing his cap to run his fingers through his hair before readjusting it. “Would you be cool if I came over yours?”

“Sure,” You grin, already shoving your belongings into your bag, eager to leave the library as soon as possible. Matt’s lip curls up in amusement as he follows in suit, packing his own things into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.

As you glance over, you notice the girl still staring at Matt and a mischievous smirk forms on your face as you slam your hand on the desk in front of her, capturing her attention.

You jab your thumb in Matt’s direction and you teasingly offer, “If you want his number. I can give it to you. He’s been stuck in a dry spell recently, so—”

Before you can finish your sentence, Matt’s fingers curl around your elbow, yanking you away from the bewildered girl with a huff, “Move.”

“I’ve been thinking about something…” You break the comfortable silence between you both after a few hours of binge-watching a series and indulging in takeout, dropping your pizza crust into the cardboard box and pushing it aside. Matt sits beside you on the couch, his own pizza in hand, gaze fixed on the TV screen, listening to what the characters are saying.

Matt glances at you with a quick, pointed look as he chews, “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Wow. Funny.” You deadpan with a roll of your eyes and he chuckles under his breath, turning his attention back to the TV screen. “Anyway, and hear me out before you say some dumb shit. I’ve been thinking about something that relates to that little problem we both have, and I may have come up with a way to fix it.”

“Why are you still hung up on this?” Matt complains between mouthfuls. “I don’t want to be constantly reminded that I’m not having sex—”

You quickly raise your hand to hush him and he goes cross eyed to stare at your palm in confusion. “I said hear me out.”

“Fine.”

“Great!“ You exclaim with a grin, “Okay, so, you and I are the best of friends, right? We always help each other out and—”

“Where is this going?”

“Hear. Me. Out.” You warn once more, emphasising each word. Matt sighs, nodding his head for you to continue. “We always help each other out, correct? And there’s no awkwardness between us, which is what also makes us so close. Remember that time we had to make out in front of Jeremy so he would stop hitting on me? And that time I pretended to be your girlfriend so Gracie would get the hint that you didn’t want to sleep with her anymore?”

“Well, yeah, but that didn’t exactly work out because we ended up hooking up with them a few days after it happened—”

“That’s not the point,” You say as you frustratingly rub at your temples. “The point is that we always help each other, no matter what the situation is, because we’re best friends. So, as best friends, I think we should help each other out with our little situation.”

“And how can we help each other out?”

“By fucking each other.”

The second those words leave your mouth, Matt chokes on his food, banging his fist against his chest as he coughs, his eyes watering and face turning red. The sight of his reaction has you cackling, wishing you had your phone nearby to take a picture.

After a few moments, Matt manages to regain his breath, reaching down to grab his bottle of water from the side of the couch and gulping it down almost immediately.

You click your tongue against your teeth, a playful smirk on your face. “That was a little dramatic.”

“And you’re crazy,” Matt shoots back, water droplets trickling down his chin as he looks at you with wide eyes. “Do you realise what you just said?”

You nod your head, “Perfectly.”

“We are not fucking. It’ll be weird,” Matt says, you instantly find offence to that, your jaw dropping in disbelief. Matt rolls his eyes at your reaction. “We’re best friends. Best friends don’t do that type of shit—Stop looking at me like that!”

You huff, turning your head away from him childishly. “I’m just trying to help us out. I don’t think it’ll be weird… people have done weirder.”

“Are you aware of how many friendships have been ruined because they fucked?” Matt questions you and you take a moment to ponder, wincing as you can easily name a few from the top of your head. “Exactly. As much as I find you attractive, I’m not going to ruin our friendship. We’ve been best friends for too long.”

Your head slowly turns back to Matt, who’s already looking at you. A grin spreads across your face as you flirtatiously bat your eyelashes at him, “You think I’m attractive?”

“My god, you’ve un-fucking-believable, I swear…” Matt trails off, muttering under his breath as he rubs at his forehead in frustration. You beam at the thought of getting under his skin, but eventually you roll your eyes and reach over to press your foot into his side, playfully nudging him to bring his attention back to you.

Matt looks over at you with a deadpan expression and you continue to grin at him, tilting your head to the side as you admire the view.

Truthfully, you’ve always found Matt attractive even if it was in a friendly way and you’d be lying if you said that hooking up with him has never crossed your mind, but that’s mainly because you’re nosy and want to see what all the fuss is about when you constantly hear the girls fawn about what he’s like in bed.

Some say he’s extremely giving, tending to their needs in all ways possible. Some also say he’s demanding and rough, one hand curled into their hair as he’s fucking them from behind, spitting out degrading words into their ears. But you’ve also heard that he sometimes comes across as needy and desperate, begging for his cock to be sucked and to be made a mess out of.

It piques your interest a lot… maybe it’s wrong of you to think that way about someone you know so well, but you’re human after all, sometimes you can’t help the way you think about certain people.

“Look,” You speak up first, letting out a sigh. “What I said was just a suggestion, okay? If you don’t want to do it, then that’s fine—”

“How do you know that it won’t ruin our friendship?” Matt cuts you off and your eyebrows raise in surprise at the question. “We’ve been best friends for, like, six years or something right? I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to throw that all away because we messed up and decided to fuck each other just because we’re ‘sex deprived’.”

“We’re not going to get into anything super serious,” You reassure him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Sure, we’re probably going to end up in some type of friends with benefits situation, but we’re not going to include any of that official or exclusive title bullshit. We just hook up for a release when we can’t find it anywhere else, it’s as simple as that. No complications.”

“So…” Matt purses his lips in deep thought. “We can still fuck other people?”

You scoff, “Of course. You think I’d drop Tyler for you that easily?”

“Fuck you.”

Your lips curl into a smirk, “I’m hoping you would.”

Matt stares at you for a brief moment before chuckling, shaking his head as his tongue prods at his cheek. The little action spurs something within you but you remain seated, wanting Matt to be the one to make the first move if he was game in fucking you to help relieve the stress you’re both feeling… maybe Matt a little more considering that you fucked Tyler a few days prior, but you were desperate to be filled again.

You watch Matt sit in silence for a moment, seemingly deep in his thoughts as his eyebrows knit together, thinking about the pros and cons. His hands come up to pull the cap off of his head completely, his hair messily falling in front of his eyes and your thighs press together as the thought of seeing it between your legs with your fingers threading through the locks.

You internally laugh at how deluded you sound.

“What time does your roommate get back tonight?” Matt questions you, his low tone bringing you out of your own thoughts and your body buzzes with excitement, fumbling as you reach over to snag your phone off the coffee table to check the time, informing him that she won’t be home for another three hours. “Alright. Good to know.”

“So?” You press, dropping your phone back down as you look at him expectedly. “What’s it going to be?”

Matt takes a deep breath, “No titles.”

“None at all.”

“We can still fuck whoever we want.”

“Whoever, whenever.”

“And most importantly…” Matt pauses with a deep sigh, leaning over the couch closer to you and he holds up his hand, his pinkie outstretched. “We’re still best friends.”

“It’ll be like nothing ever changed.” You promise softly with a smile, curling your pinky finger around his own, squeezing it tightly to keep your promise.

It’s silent between you both for a while, and you can clearly see the cogs turning inside Matt’s head as he thinks about his next move, yet you’re the one that decides to take that initiative.

You rip your hand away from his to throw your arms around his shoulders, fingers buried into his locks as you drag him towards you to eagerly plant your lips on his. You’re surprised at how fast Matt responds to the kiss as his hands come up to cup your cheeks, tilting his head to the side to kiss you deeper, slipping his tongue into your mouth.

The plenty drunken kisses you’ve shared with Matt to help each other out of sticky situations is nothing like the kiss you’re experiencing right now, and it catches you extremely off guard. You were expecting him to allow you to take control of what was happening and lead him through it considering you were the one to bring it up, but with the way Matt’s pushing you backwards to lay you down on the couch and crawling between your open legs with his lips still attached to yours, you’re stumped.

“Wait,” You stop him, pressing your palm against his chest to push him back and Matt moves away with raw, wet lips, his fingers hovering above the waistband of your shorts. “Why are we doing this on the couch? I have a bed we can use.”

Matt glares down at you, “That didn’t stop you and Tyler from fucking on my couch.”

“Actually, there were no sheets on Tyler’s bed, so—”

“Think of this as payback,” Matt smiles at you sweetly and you snarl, knocking your leg against his side with force and he laughs through clenched teeth, “Besides, you’ve probably fucked a lot of people on this couch… Do you really care?”

You blink up at him. “Are you implying that I’m a slut?”

Matt shrugs, “Maybe, yeah.”

“That’s so hot of you.”

Matt chuckles and leans down to reconnect your lips, fingers unbuttoning your shorts and pulling them down your legs with your underwear, carelessly throwing them somewhere to the side and you hiss at the cold air that hits, yearning for warmth.

Matt’s lips trail down your throat and to the collar of your shirt, nipping and sucking at your skin, heading south to where your thighs shake in anticipation. Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as you watch him shuffling down to lay between your legs, hands pushing against your knees to spread you further apart, the coldness of his rings prickling at your skin.

Your own hand reaches down to thread your fingers through his hair, trying to tug him closer but he barely budges, gazing up at you with his brows knit together.

You whine, “Hurry.”

“Are you always this impatient?”

“Of course,” You look at him like he’s stupid. “We’re both doing this for a reason and it’s to cum, not to take our sweet little time and—Oh shit…”

“Fucking yapping. You talk too much.” Matt drags his tongue through your folds, the pink muscle swirling over your clit and your body jerks in shock at the sensation, a gasp fleeting past your lips as your grip on his hair tightens, feeling his tongue wiggle between your folds and licking upwards to flick over your clit before his fingers tease at your entrance.

Your body goes slack against the couch cushions, mouth stuck open as he eases two digits inside the warmth of your pussy, curling his fingers upwards as his lips wrap around your sensitive clit and you whine, tugging at his hair a little harder which causes him to groan, the vibrations causing goosebumps to shoot up your spine.

You’re in shock at how well Matt actually uses his tongue and fingers. Of course you’ve heard stories from your girl friends and even Matt himself, but you didn’t expect him to be this good and it completely catches you off track, unable to control the noises that rip from the back of your throat when he begins to pump his fingers in and out of your cunt while using his tongue to work wonders on your clit.

“Matt,” You whisper his name with a moan, thighs twitching and closing in around his head. You feel him smirk against your pussy and you squeeze your thighs in warning. “Stop it.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to cum already?” He asks, his tone a little condescending as he raises his head, mouth glistening with your arousal. His fingers continue hitting that spot that has your toes curling and back arching against the cushions. “You can cum, if you want.”

“You’re so fucking cocky,” You tut, fighting the urge to smile but you amusement ends up slipping away and is overcome b y pleasure as he pumps his fingers a few more times, the tightening band in your stomach snapping as you cum all over his fingers, gasping through high pitched whines and trying to control the convulsing movement of your body.

“That’s it,” Matt hums, pressing a quick kiss to your pussy. “Good job.”

You choke out your words, unable to come up with a full sentence as your hand falls limp onto his shoulder, fingers twitching over the material as you breathe heavily. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Me eating you out,” He answers matter-of-factly, a hint of smugness in his tone as he pops his fingers into his mouth to lick them clean. Your mouth drops in shock at the action and he meets your gaze, “You good?”

“Yeah… good.” You nod dumbly, completely astonished at how nonchalant Matt is acting as you watch him tug his sweatpants and boxers down his legs awkwardly when he sits up, eyes automatically zoning in on his cock that slaps against his stomach once freed from its confinements.

Honestly, you have seen Matt naked. He’s comfortable with stripping in front of you and changing without any thought. But… you’ve never seen Matt hard, and the sight alone is enough to have your mouth watering.

Your best friend is huge.

“Okay,” Matt mumbles to himself, crawling forward and hooking his hands under the back of your knees to pull you closer to him, his thumbs caressing your skin. “Are you sure you’re ready? You know there’s no turning back from this, right?”

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” You grin as you wiggle against him excitedly. “Give me what you got, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that.” Matt clicks his tongue against his teeth, shaking his head as he slowly eases his cock into you. Slowly, your eyes start to widen at the stretch, the burn obvious in your core and thighs, and your hand flies down to his in hopes to slow down his movements despite him going as slow as he possibly can.

You try to breathe steadily through your nose, lips pressed together tightly as your wince at the uncomfortable ache that spreads, your pussy clamping down on him as if you were trying to prevent him from pushing any further.

“Ow.” You whisper, twisting your hips to try and get comfortable and relax but you wince at each movement you make, causing Matt to raise his gaze from where you’re connected to look into your eyes, his own pooling with concern.

“Are you okay?”

You hum with a curt nod of your head, “Nothing of that significant size has been up there before, you know? I’m just… feeling uncomfortable, that’s all.”

Matt’s lips curl into a grin, “You calling my dick big?”

You send him a hardened glare, “Not as big as your fucking head.”

Matt laughs loudly and he lays his hand flat across your lower stomach as he adjusts himself between your legs, head ducking down slightly to watch himself slowly push into you once more, but the second your legs tense up, he sighs apologetically and strokes your stomach, sliding his cock out of you and you whine at the sudden feeling of emptiness, looking at him with a pout.

“Give me a second, okay?” Matt orders you, gently grabbing your waist to help turn you around on all fours. The brows pinch together at the new position, but your body seems to relax when you feel his hands slide around your back and press down tightly, arching it to hold you in place as you feel his cock at your entrance once more. “This should feel better. But tell me if it hurts? I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

“Just—” You grit your teeth together. “Just fuck me, Matt.”

“You got it.” Matt whispers as he pushes himself back into you again at a slower pace and you gasp, your fingers gripping the arm of the couch, head dropping low to rest on the cushions as you try to control your breathing. The new position was definitely better than the last, but you can still feel him stretch you out to fit you around his cock. “Is my dick really that big?”

“Are you asking because you’re concerned or because you want me to boost your ego?”

Matt smiles, “Maybe both.”

You don’t even get the chance to retaliate with your own snarky comment as Matt fills you up completely, hips pressing to your ass and cry out at how full you’re feeling, unable to think properly as he pulls back, leaving the tip nestled in your cunt before thrusting back in.

Matt curses loudly behind you, fingers digging into your ski as he rocks his hips into you, his thrusts sending your body jerking forwards. You squeeze around his cock and he grunts, changing his pace and you can’t help but fuck youtself back onto him, whining and panting at the pleasure that swirls in the pit of your tummy.

The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin is enough to have your eyes rolling back in pleasure, driving you even closer to the edge along with his rapid thrusts and continuous cursing. You’re positive you can even hear him praise you a little bit, muttering about how tight your pussy is.

You would’ve never guessed he was into such dirty talk. Matt continues to amaze you.

Your pussy clamps around his cock when you feel his hand sneak beneath your body to reach between your thighs, the pads of his fingers rubbing diligent circles on your clit and you mewl, your own hand coming down to latch around his wrist.

“Shit,” You slur your words, drool seeping past the corner of your lips. “So good—fuck, Matt, don’t stop—s’good.”

“You’re funny if you think I’m gonna stop.” Matt chuckles behind you and you can feel the tears build up in your waterline as Matt leans over your body, holding himself up with one hand on the arm of the couch, his other still rubbing circles on your clit. You gasp as how deep he’s nestled within you and it has you seeing stars, your toes curling and your body tensing up as his cock fucks into your cunt, repeatedly hitting that spot over and over before your second orgasm of the night hits you violently.

Your screams are muffled by the cushions, walls pulsating around his cock as you cum, struggling to hold up your own weight as your body falls limp on the couch. Pleasure buzzes through your veins and it sends you mind whirling as Matt fucks you through it to reach his own high, moving his hand from your clit to rest on your lower back, arching your ass up to fuck you deeper.

“Where do you want me to cum?” He pants heavily, thumb stroking the bottom of your spine. “Fuck—tell me where I can cum.”

“Anywhere you want.” You slur your words, craning your head to the side to look at him, capturing how his eyes widen slightly.

“Anywhere?” Matt repeats as he slows down his movements and you nod your head, only to yelp in shock when he pulls out of you completely and flips your body around once more. You stare at him in surprise as he crawls up your body, resting a hand on your cheek and pulling down your bottom lip with his thumb. “Here?”

You don’t give him a verbal answer, instead you open wide, welcoming him and Matt grins, pushing the head of his cock into your mouth and sighing as your lips close around him, suckling on his tip as he cums in long spurts down your throat, brows knitting together in pleasure and moaning softly as your tongue presses against his slit, swallowing everything he gives you.

There’s a comfortable silence as Matt removes himself from above you, choosing to drop down in the limited space between your body and the couch, running his fingers through his sweaty hair as he tries to catch his breath.

It takes you a few seconds to comprehend what had just happened, staring between Matt’s naked lower half and yours before you abruptly sit up, rolling onto your knees that pop as you stare down at him incredulously.

“Matt!” You screech, punching his shoulder with such force that has him wincing.

“Ow!” He hisses, rubbing the area. “Why—”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were that good?” You immediately cut him off, not allowing him to finish as you shake your head quickly. “We should’ve done this ages ago!”

Matt rolls his eyes in annoyance despite the grin that spreads across his cheeks as he throws his arm over his face, “Shut up.”

“Okay, so, let me get this straight,” Nick pauses to chew and swallow his sandwich, pointing between you and Matt on the opposite side of the table. “You two decided to hook up last night because neither of you have hooked up with anyone in a long time, and now you’ve made some sort of deal that when you can’t find release somewhere else, you’ll go to each other?”

“Yeah.”

“What the actual fuck?!” Nick exclaims, looking at you both as if you’ve grown an extra head before abruptly turning to Chris and Tyler who are sitting beside each other silently, watching everything unfold. “Why are you guys saying anything?!”

“I don’t think it’s as bad as you’re making it out to be,” Chris shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly before he turns his attention to you, furrowing his eyebrows. “Although, I am kind of offended you didn’t ask me to fuck you.”

You grimace, “It makes me queasy thinking about where your dick has been, if I’m honest.”

“When was the last time you got tested?” Matt teases his younger triplet, a slight smirk curling at the ends of his lips as he leans back into his chair, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he manspreads. Chris rolls his eyes and retaliates by throwing him the middle finger.

“And you’re okay with this?” Nick questions Tyler who slowly nods his head as he rolls a blunt beneath the table, lips pursed in concentration.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Tyler questions back, lifting his gaze to Nick and raising a brow before looking back down to his lap. “We just fuck, that’s it. And besides, sometimes I get so faded that I can’t even get my dick up. She needs good dick and I can’t give it to her when I’m that out of it.”

You gasp in awe, reaching across the table to grip his arm. “You are so thoughtful!”

“So I’m the only sane fucking person that thinks this is a stupid idea?” Nick shakes his head in disbelief, biting into his sandwich with a deep sigh. His eyes suddenly widen, a piece of lettuce hanging from his mouth as he erratically pats his pockets. “Where’s Nate? Somebody text Nate right now.”

“Please, you know damn well Nate isn’t going to give a shit,” Chris cackles with a grin, adjusting the beanie on his head. “Pretty sure he fucked his girl best friend last year.”

“Yeah? And where is she now?” Nick looks at all of you expectedly for an answer and you frown, sinking into your seat with your arms crossed over your chest. “Exactly.”

“Come on, kid, it’s not like that…” Matt tries to explain. “We talked about it. We’re not doing any of that exclusive or official title stuff. We’re not making it weird.”

“Meaning we can still hook up with whoever we want.” You add on, eyes flickering over to Tyler and you give him a pretty smile, only for him to look back at you with a smirk and give you a flirtatious wink.

“So, what I’m hearing is,” Chris pauses, leaning his elbows on the table and resting his chin on the palm of his hand as he bats his eyelashes at you. “There’s still a chance for me?”

Nick immediately plugs his ears as he repeatedly mumbles, “I don’t not want to hear this. Stop it immediately. I hate it.”

“Hate what?” Nate’s voice interrupts from behind and you whiz around in your seat, grinning widely as you see Nate approaching your table with his hockey jersey in one hand and his books in the other.

He greets you all with a smile, placing his belongings down on the table before grabbing an empty chair from another, the metal legs scraping across the floor as he drags it to place beside Matt, slapping his hand down on Matt’s shoulder in greeting as he sits down.

“What are you talking about anyway?”

“They hooked up,” Nick immediately jumps straight into it as he points at the two of you and you sigh, throwing your head back in frustration. Matt laughs beside you. “And they’re going to continue to hook up whenever they don’t have anyone else to go to, so—”

“Oh, nice man.”

Nick stares at Nate, “No. Not nice. Not nice at all,” Nick shakes his head. “You’re all helpless. Dumb and helpless, every single one of you.”

Nate pulls a face, “I mean, it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be—”

“That’s what I said~” Chris sings.

“And besides, they’re grown adults. They can do whatever they want.” Nate’s words make your brows raise with little surprise, watching as he flips open his book and grabs the pen that rests behind his ear, biting the cap off with his teeth before looking at you. “I’m surprised it took you both this look to actually hook-up… I thought it would’ve happened months ago.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just means I thought you two would’ve fucked months ago.” Nate smiles and shrugs his shoulders innocently, blowing the cap out of his mouth and watching it with his hand before he begins to scribble on the pages. You roll your eyes, glancing over at Matt who shrugs his own shoulders, not fully understanding the meaning of Nate’s words but chooses not to dwell on it any longer as he reaches for his drink, sipping through the straw as he gives his attention to Chris who angles his phone in his direction to show him something you could barely see.

Nick shakes his head, still in disbelief as he shoves the last remaining bite of his sandwich into his mouth before grabbing his book out of his backpack to take notes alongside Nate. He then comically raises his head up to point his pen at you and Matt.

“Also, just to let you know, I don’t want to hear any complaining from either of you when this whole situationship bullshit ends up going to literal shit,” Nick warns before he slowly turns to the pen to point to himself, “Because I will laugh in your face and simply say, ‘I told you so’.”

A scoff leaves your lips as Matt speaks, “Relax, kid. Everything is going to be fine. Plus, this whole thing could just be a one time thing… It might not even happen again,” Matt turns to look at you. “Right?”

A smile finds its way onto your face as you lean your elbows on the table, chin resting on the palm of your hand as you give him an affirmative nod. “Right.”

“Fuck, Matt.” You moan out his name repeatedly, back arching off your bed, gripping the pillows resting behind your head with your mouth wide open. Matt’s fingers pump in and out of your pussy, squirting over his hand and splashing onto the bed sheets below you.

He laughs as you shove your face into the crook of your arm, body trembling and breathing whines slipping past your lips from the overwhelming sensation of him fucking you with his fingers.

Your legs clamp shut around his hand but he’s already prying you back open with the other, holding them down to the bed as his fingers curl upwards, almost bringing you to tears at the pleasure in the pit of your tummy.

“There we go…” Matt hums softly, milking you for every drop you can give. You quiver and gasp when Matt comes to a stop, the grin on his face evident as he pulls his fingers from your cunt and you whine, struggling to raise your foot and kick him in his side. He captures your ankle in his grasp, drawing circles with his fingertips. “You good?”

“You good?” You mock him, tone nasally. Your arms flop to your side as you take a deep breath, ignoring the way Matt’s laughing at you. “That was intense… I felt like I was going crazy.”

“Thank you,” Matt grins, eyes twinkling as he slips off your bed. “Your need to change your sheets though.”

“Wow. So gentlemanly of you to offer to help.” You mutter sarcastically under your breath, clicking your tongue against your teeth. You stand up from the bed and your knees buckle beneath you, causing you to panic and immediately reach out and grab onto a surface to steady yourself, throwing the middle finger up in Matt’s direction when he chuckles.

He tells you to go shower while he takes care of the sheets and you immediately oblige, patting his arm in a quick thanks as you wobble out of your bedroom and into the bathroom, eager to clear yourself up after previous activities.

You take longer than usual to shower, taking your time to scrub your body clean and even wash your hair, not even caring about what Matt could be doing inside your home as he waits for you, but you pause your routine when you actually begin to think about your relationship with Matt.

It’s been almost three weeks since you started hooking up with Matt, showing up at each other's places whenever you’re in need of sex, getting it over and done with before hanging out properly, before even getting a bite to eat or binge watching a series.

You still sleep with Tyler. You’ve even fucked Tyler and Matt on the same day. Matt doesn’t care, of course he doesn’t, and personally neither do you. But there have been a few moments where you start to recall the amount of times you had chosen Matt over Tyler… and it was a lot.

You and Matt are supposed to fuck whenever you have no one else to go to. And yet, give the choice… you still chose Matt.

A loud call of your name and a fist banging against the bathroom door startles you out of your thoughts, “I need to piss. Hurry up!”

“Just come in!” You yell back at him, frowning as you face the stream of water to let the soap run off your body as you mumble, “It’s not like you haven’t barged in before.”

You hear the door creak open behind the shower curtain and you poke your head around just in time for Matt to unzip his pants to relieve himself, his head tilting back with a sigh of relief.

His eyes meet yours when he turns his head and his brows knit together, giving you an odd look. “What?”

“Can I ask you a question?” He blinks before giving you a quick nod. “Are you still fucking other people?”

“Yeah,” That answer relieves you a bit. “I was with Sadie last weekend.”

“I have another question.”

“Why are you—”

“I’m asking the questions,” You cut him off and Matt laughs, nodding for you to continue as he zips up his pants and washes his hands. “Has Sadie, or any other girl, been available on the same day that I’ve been available? Or asked you to come over?”

“Uh…” Matt ponders for a moment, bottom lip poking out his deep thought as he dries his hands on a towel. “Yeah, I think so.”

“And who did you end up choosing?”

“You.”

It shocks you at how fast he answers your question and you grip the shower curtain for support, the slippery floor of the shower almost making you tumblr. He chose you too… is that wrong? You’re uncertain and it makes you feel a little uneasy. Surely there must be a reasonable explanation to why you choose each other instead of fucking other available people.

“Why are you asking me that anyway?”

“Curious,” You answer quickly as you close the curtain to block him out and continue showering, ignoring the way he’s mumbling under his breath how strange you are. “Wait. I have another question.”

“Ask me when you’re down showering.”

“Why?” The tone of your voice turns sultry as you smirk, “Is knowing I’m naked behind this shower curtain turning you on?”

Matt doesn’t answer. Instead, his arm shoots out from behind the curtain, hand curling around the faucet tap to turn the temperature of the water, laughing like a maniac as he hears you scream from the cold water that splashes your skin.

You hated birthdays.

Actually, you hated your birthday.

You hated knowing you’re getting older each year, desperately wanting to go back to the ages where all you worried about was not making a fool of yourself in front of someone you had a crush on, or not knowing the biggest high school gossip about who was seeing who behind whoever’s back.

Now, at your growing age, all you worry about is failing college and not being able to get a good enough job to provide a future for yourself.

You wish nobody knew it was your birthday, but having such a close group of groups who knew you better than you knew yourself, it wasn’t going to be easy, and you almost spun around and darted out of campus when you saw Chris twirling a gift bag in hand with helium balloons that spelt out ‘birthday girl!’ in big, bold letters tied to his wrist.

“There she is!”

You wanted the ground to swallow you up.

“Happy birthday!” Chris yells loudly when you reach their circle, letting your backpack drop to the grass beside Tyler who looks up at you with a dopey smile. Chris shoves the gift bag into your hands when you finally sit down, huffing at the weight of the bag. “I bought you something.”

“I told him not to, I promise,” Nick tells you as he applies chapstick before he leans in close, “But as always, Chris doesn’t fucking listen.”

“And I never will,” Chris grins, untying the strip of balloons from around his wrist to tie them around your own, ignoring the dark glare you give him as he smiles at you cheekily. “Look inside. It’s all the essentials you need.”

“I swear to god, if you—”

“Shh,” He pressed his finger against your lips. “Less talking, more looking.”

You roll your eyes, swatting his finger away from your face before peering into the bag. A soft, genuine laugh leaves your lips when you first see two bottles of your favourite alcoholic beverage and a few chocolates, but you immediately cease all laughter and amusement when you see a pack of condoms and a Plan B box sandwiched between the pair.

Tyler peeks over your shoulder to drop a pre-rolled joint and a few gummies into the bag for later, but makes a funny noise when he sees the condom pack. He dips his hand inside the bag to pull it out, throwing it back at Chris who fumbles to catch it.

“Hey—”

“She doesn’t use condoms.”

Chris gapes, slowly turning his head towards you with widened eyes. He leans forward, nose brushing against yours as he speaks, “Are you sure you don’t want to fuck me?”

Nick yells and covers his ears, threatening to punch his youngest sibling in the throat as Nate and Tyler snort.

“Positive,” You giggle and pat his cheek, causing him to whine and slump back into his own space in defeat. “I’m thankful for the gifts, but please… you know I hate celebrating my birthday. And were the balloons really necessary too? Did you have to make it more obvious?”

Chris frowns, tugging at the string. “But the balloons are pretty.”

“She doesn’t like balloons, kid.”

Your head whizzes around so quickly you’re positive you could hear it crack at the speed, a grin spreading across your cheeks when you see Matt standing behind you looking at your balloons in disgust. But your eyebrows raise in surprise when you see Sadie standing beside him.

You greet her with a wave and she reciprocates, wishing you a quiet happy birthday which you thank her for and motioning for them both to join you in your circle, but Sadie shakes her head with an apology, announcing that she has to be somewhere else.

You watch as she places her hand on Matt’s bicep, asking if they can meet up later but Matt shakes his head, telling her that he already has plans and her face deflates for a moment before nodding, bidding him and the rest of you a goodbye before leaving.

Matt lets out a huff as he drops down to the grass, stretching out his legs and knocking his foot against yours, mouthing you a quick happy birthday and you smile in gratitude.

“Sadie seems to be hanging out with you a lot recently,” Nate points out and Nick nods his head in agreement. “You like her?”

Matt shakes his head, “No. She was just asking me if I wanted to do something this weekend.”

“Are you?”

“No,” Matt mindlessly starts plucking the glass, avoiding everyone's eyes as they zone in on him. “I don’t have the time. Got some assignments to finish for my classes.”

Hearing him say that he hasn’t got the time sparks interest in you, and you begin to wonder if Matt would end up asking you for some well needed release. It excites you, especially when you realise you haven’t been under him or on top of him in a few days and you press your thighs together at the thought of possibly getting dicked down sooner rather than later.

It’s a birthday gift, you say to yourself when you try to give an excuse to why you’re so needy to be fucked by Matt. It’s just a birthday gift… yet, you have Tyler right beside you, someone who’s easily available and someone who used to be frequent in giving you the best birthday sex of your life.

You could ask Tyler to come over tonight, but why wasn’t the question being asked? Why does it feel like you’re stopping yourself from asking something so simple and easy?

Perhaps you’re so used to sleeping around with Matt that it doesn’t even occur to you to ask someone else anymore. Tyler doesn’t seem bothered, maybe because he’s been getting his fix elsewhere too, so why does it bother you?

A quiet call of your name brings you out of your thoughts and you turn your head towards the source, gazing landing on Matt who is looking back at you with a kind smile.

He shuffles further into the circle to get closer to you, voice dipping low. “Come home with me later? I have something for you.”

“What is it?” You instantly ask back, excitement evident in your tone. Even though you weren’t the biggest fan of celebrating your birthday and receiving gifts, there was no doubt in your mind that Matt was probably one of the best people to receive gifts from, knowing he usually goes above and beyond to give you the most memorable birthday.

You smile when you remember the three-day spa voucher he gave you last year when he and his brothers had taken you away for the weekend, it was the most breathtaking cabin you had ever been to. The sunset above the lake was still photographed in your memory, so was the midnight drive he took you on when Chris and Nick were sleeping.

The sights were beautiful, and you were grateful to have seen it with your best friend.

“You’ll find out.” Matt tells you with a smile, refusing to give you a hint of any sort as he turns his attention to Nick to engage in a conversation. You pout, shoulders slumping in defeat and Chris knocks his arm against yours, voice teasing as he whispers in your ear;

“Looks like my gifts will come in handy after all—OW!”

“This is actually fucking ridiculous.” You giggle as you’re blindingly walking into Matt’s dorm, his hands covering your eyes to prevent you from seeing even though you’ve tried countless times to peek through the gaps between his fingers.

Matt’s chest rumbles against your back as he laughs, waiting for you to toe off your shoes at the entrance before leading you further into the room.

You have the layout completely mapped out in your head from the amount of times you’ve been at his place, already knowing that he’s leading you into the kitchen just by the cold marbling that you feel beneath your feet.

You almost trip as Matt shoves you down onto a chair and whispers a countdown in your ears before he removes his hands from your face. Your vision is blurry for a moment and you try to adjust to your surroundings with a few blinks, jaw dropping in complete awe as the splotches begin to disperse and you see what’s presented in front of you.

“Are you kidding me?” You whisper softly in astonishment at the gifts that are laid out across the table. You spot a few of your favourite scented candles stacked on top of each other, a bottle of perfume that you were one hundred percent certain that was sitting in your wishlist on an online store you were browsing a few days prior, and a miniature bag with the logo of your favourite jewellery store.

You feel extremely overwhelmed, the urge to cry becoming harder to keep at bay as your eyes water and string, throat tightening over how thoughtful Matt had been.

You turn your head towards him with your bottom lip quivering and Matt snickers, pulling a party hat from god knows where and advancing closer to you.

“You asshole…” You insult jokingly, using the sleeves of your shirt to wipe at your eyes, hoping that the tears wouldn’t dare fall as Matt secures the hat on top of your head. You point to it, “Isn’t this a little cheesy?”

Matt rolls his eyes, snapping the elastic band against your chin for extra measure and you hiss at the slight sting it causes, punching his arm in retaliation but he pays no mind, smiling to himself as he turns his back to you for a moment to open the refrigerator door, pulling out a white squared box.

He balances it on the palm of his hand with ease, using his foot to kick the door shut as he makes his way back to you.

You’re grinning widely at the thought of what could be inside the box, even though you’ve already guessed it’s a cake. Your hands rub together excitingly as Matt places it on the counter and gently slides it over to you, the box still in his grasp as it stops in front of you, drumming his fingers on the cardboard.

Sensing your eagerness, Matt lifts the lid off of the box and the excitement on your face drops almost instantly, expressionless as you peek inside to see the miniature spongebob themed cake staring back at you.

You raise your head to see Matt already grinning at you, tongue poking at his cheek as he opens up a drawer to retrieve two plastic forks, twiddling them between his fingers.

You deadpan, “Are you sure we’re not celebrating your birthday right now?”

“Be quiet, you like spongebob just as much as I do,” Matt scoffs as he hands over one of the plastic forks and you take it with a smile. You go to cut out a piece for yourself but freeze when Matt makes a weird noise, gazing up at him in alarm. “Wait. Hold on—my god—let me take a photo first.”

You roll your eyes but happily oblige as Matt fishes his phone out of his pocket and angles it towards you. You pose, pointing to the cake with a wide smile, almost blinded by the flash when Matt takes the picture and you immediately rub at your eyes, trying to get rid of the blotches while spitting a few creative curse words that make him giggle.

He quickly takes the opportunity of you being blinded to slide beside you, holding his phone high to take a selfie and you poke out your tongue, using your free hand to cup Matt’s cheeks while he rests his on top of your head.

Before you have the chance to complain about how hungry you are, you gasp in shock when you feel the coldness of the cake’s frosting rubbed on your cheek and the shutter of the camera goes off when Matt takes another photo, capturing you mid chaos as you dig your fingers into the side of the cake to smush a piece against his own cheek, grinning evilly as the yellow frosting covers his skin.

“Alright, alright. I deserved that,” Matt sighs with a lighthearted laugh, making sure his phone is tucked away and out of the icing zone. “Makes a good blackmail photo though, don’t you think?”

“If that goes anywhere, I will kill you.”

“You already know that’s going on my Instagram, sweetheart.” Matt teases you and you scoff jokingly, shaking your head as you reach for the napkins that are laying conveniently at the side, trying your best to wipe away the frosting before it drops and stains your clothing.

Matt manages to clean himself up pretty easily and decides to help you out when he notices you struggling, plucking a spare napkin from the pile and he takes a hold of your jaw, facing your towards him as he gently wipes at your cheek, careful not to rub too hard at your skin.

You’re suddenly awkward of the close proximity and you grow silent, watching as you cleans you up diligently. The concentrated look on his face is what causes your stomach to whirl and heart bloom with warmth, his eyebrows furrowed and gaze zoned in on the area he needs to clean, tongue licking over his bottom lip.

“Matt…” You call out his name quietly to grab his attention and he pauses, staring right at you. He seems to slowly take notice of how close you both are, taking in the limited space between you both and he goes to remove his hand away from your face but stops himself short with a noise, bringing his hand back to finish the job.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” Matt whispers to you once he finally wipes away the frosting from your cheeks, smiling down at you with adoration swirling in his eyes and your breathing gets caught at the back of your throat for a moment at the sudden affectionate gaze, unsure of what to say or even what to do with him looking at you the way he is.

Your hands move up to take the birthday hat off of your head, dropping it to the side carelessly as your arms curl around his shoulders, pulling him into your embrace. Matt’s arms slide around your waist, holding you close to his chest as he hugs you back, burying his face in the crevice of your neck and exhaling deeply.

“I’m so thankful,” You admit, squeezing him tight as the emotions within you struggle to be contained. “For real, Matt. I’m really grateful too… thank you for making this birthday special again.”

“It’s not over yet, you know…” Your hear him mutter in your ear and you go to pull back, to question him on what more he could possibly give to top everything else he’s down for today but he’s already bending his knees, arms falling low to lock around your thighs and throwing you over his shoulder with a huff, smacking his hand roughly against your ass as he carries your giggly self to the bedroom.

Friday nights will always be your favourite nights to let loose and party.

Dressing up in your prettiest outfit that makes you feel confident and sexy, decorating your body with the shiniest of jewellery you own and drinking the most intoxicated drink you could find while mingling with your friends.

Talking with your girls face to face after a week of classes had unfailingly lifted your mood, catching up with all the gossip you missed or only briefly discussed over the phone, finally adding your own two cents into situations which they eagerly agree with a nod of their heads, tapping their cups to yours before taking a sip.

“Speaking of unusual relationships,” Sarah, one of your dearest friends, turns to look at you with a grin, “How's it going with you and Matt? Have things turned awkward yet?”

“Nope,” You shake your head, buzzing happily. “We’re fine. The whole ‘hooking up with your best friend’ culture isn’t as complicated as everyone makes it out to be. Everyone gets dramatic about it for no reason.”

Kendall lets out a heavy sigh, nursing her drink in her hand, “I don’t know how you do it. I can’t even imagine hooking up with Isaac. I mean, he’s attractive, but we’ve seen and know too much about each other to get physical on an intimate level… props to you.”

Anna shifts her gaze to you next, “Do you still fuck Tyler?”

“On occasion,” You admit. “But honestly, I’ve been so wrapped up in assignments—”

“And Matt.”

You give Sarah a smirk, “I haven’t really had the time to call up Tyler and ask him to fuck. He doesn’t mind anyways. He’s been busy smoking and selling weed for some extra cash.”

“What about Matt? Is he still fucking around?”

You pause at that, lips pursing in deep thought before you shrug your shoulders, “I don’t know. I haven’t asked recently if I’m honest.”

Kendall gestures over your shoulder, “Looks like you’re about to find out the answer.”

You crane your neck to follow the direction she’s pointing in, noticing Matt standing near a back wall with a drink in hand, deep in conversation with Sadie who’s smiling, locked on each word he’s speaking to her.

Feeling your eyes on him, Matt looks up to meet your gaze, raising his drink in greeting and you grin, lifting your own cup before he resumes back in conversation.

You take in his appearance with interest; a black fitted tank top paired with some loose fitted jeans and shoes you’re certain he definitely stole from Nick’s closet. The silver chain deer hangs from his neck and silver rings adorn his fingers. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he looks good.

“Take it easy with the lovey dovey eyes,” Sarah teases, nudging your shoulder to bring your attention back to her and you laugh, tipping your head back to finish the contents of your drink. “He does look good though, so I don’t blame you.”

“When was the last time you fucked Matt?” You direct your question towards Anna who shrugs her shoulders in response.

“I don’t remember,” She smacks her lips together. “Definitely more than two months ago, that’s for sure… No disrespect to you but god, I miss his cock. How he walks around with that thing completely baffles me.”

Kendall’s eyes widened slightly, “Is Matt’s cock big?”

“Yes.”

You and Anna share a knowing smile and high give each other. You drone out the complaints Kendall makes about wanting to fuck someone with a big cock and how Isaac always sets her up with people who are both shitty in bed and lack personality, you being too focused on looking around the room to find a clear path to get more drinks and you dismiss yourself from your girls for a moment as you spot Nick and Tyler pouring vodka into each others cups.

You bound over to your favourite boys, throwing your arms around their shoulders and startling them with your presence, but Tyler hazily smiles you when he sees it’s you and presses a chaste kiss to your temple as Nick hugs you tight in greeting, offering to fill up your cup which you happily give him.

“Where have you been?” Nick asks you as Tyler takes your hand in his to twirl your around, whistling as he eyes your dress. “You look pretty.”

“Catching up with my girls because I spend way too much time with you guys,” You explain, but cheesily grin at the compliment you received on your outfit. Nick hands you your filled drink and you thank him, taking a quick sip as your eyes glance around the room, “Where’s the rest of the guys?”

“Chris is around here somewhere trying to get laid and Nate is talking to this girl he likes from his classes,” Nick informs you before he laughs. “Matt’s been talking with Sadie for the past hour—-sweet girl is trying to make her move.”

“And why aren’t you showing off your charms tonight?”

Nick’s face immediately drops, “Please. I’m done with boys. All they make me feel is absolute regret and disappointment.”

You smile in sympathy, “You’re looking at the wrong guys.”

“No,” Nick shakes his head. “They’re all the same. Everyone of them. Disgusting.”

You loop your arm around his, tugging him into your side, “What if I introduce you to this guy in my class? He’s tall… handsome… sweet…”

Nick eyes you, clearly interested in what you’re telling him and he holds his head high, “Maybe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Chris!” You greet him happily as he appears beside Tyler, staring at you all with a confused look but grins when you throw yourself into his arms to hug him tightly, swaying you both back and forth. “I thought you were trying to get laid?”

“I was,” Chris sighs as he pulls away from the hug, but keeps an arm wrapped around your middle. “But she has a boyfriend and he’s, like, scary looking and I didn’t feel like getting nightmares for life.”

You frown, patting his shoulder. “What a shame. The dry spell continues for you.”

Chris leans into your touch, batting his eyelashes prettily at you with a smirk, “You can change that for me if you want.”

Nick fake gags behind you as you smile, “In your dreams.”

Chris sighs jokingly, dropping his head low. “Guess I’ll keep on dreaming then.”

“Dreaming about what?”

The sound of Matt’s voice has you spinning around, beaming happily as your eyes meet his but it falters slightly when you notice the fake smile he’s sporting, wanting to question him and ask him what’s wrong but you bite your tongue, not wanting to bring attention to the subject, knowing it’ll make Matt uncomfortable putting him on the spot.

You reach out and touch his arm, giving him a comforting squeeze which makes him seem to relax, using your grip on him to tug your into his side and for Chris’ arm to slip from your waist.

“Chris is saying weird ass shit about her again,” Nick fills Matt in, wafting the smoke that Tyler blows in his face teasingly when he takes a hit of his joint. “How’s Sadie?”

“Fine,” Matt replies simply, licking at his lips as he turns to you. “Do you want to get out of here? Just me and you?”

Chris immediately takes offence to that, “What about us? What are you going to do without us?!”

Matt goes to answer but Nick immediately raises his hand, silencing him. “Don’t answer that. Just don’t.”

You’re in complete bliss with Matt holding himself above you, your back is arched, bare chest pressed to his as he nips and licks at your neck, his hips lazily grinding into yours, cock hitting deeper than he’s ever been.

The pace is slow, something that you’re not used to when it comes to Matt, but you don’t find the voice within you to complain, enjoying it a lot more than you’d admit with your fingers tangled in his hair, cries spilling from your lips with your legs hooked over his waist.

He’s grunting in the crevice of your neck with each deep thrust, one hand caressing the side of your face while the other finds a place beside your head, holding up his weight.

You’re whining from the loss of contact when he moves his head away, missing the feeling of his teeth against your skin, the slight stubble scratching your face and you look up at him pleadingly, but he’s frozen as he stares down at you, despite his hips thrusting automatically into you.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so pretty…” You barely hear him mumble and your heart pounds against your ribcage at the complement, body feeling more heated and warm.

“Matt—”

He cuts off your words by planting his lips on yours with the most sweetest and softest kiss he’s ever given you, and you melt into the touch, fingers untangling from his hair to cup his cheeks in your palms, gasping through the kiss as Matt's cock cock slowly pulls out of your pussy before pushing back in, sending a shrill up your spine.

The band in your tummy tightens with each slow but powerful thrust he gives you, thighs shaking around his frame, unable to keep up with his kisses as your mouth falls open with short gasps and whines, white specks flickering in your vision as your feel yourself inching closer and closer over the edge.

“Cum,” Matt whispers, breath fanning over your face as he pants, “Do it. Cum on my cock.”

You wail as the band snaps, orgasm crashing down on you violently. Your body convulses, pussy squeezing around his cock, keeping him buried deep which has him moaning, his own hips stuttering as he cums. You feel him pulse inside you, filling you up with everything he gives.

Matt’s head slumps down on your shoulder as you try to steady your breathing, wincing as you feel him slowly move his hips back to pull his cock out of your sensitive cunt, your hand falling from his face to drop down at your pussy, gathering his cum that pools out onto your fingers.

“I’m sorry,” Matt apologises against your skin, “I’m sorry, I—shit. I should’ve asked if I could—fuck. I got too overwhelmed. I’m sorry.”

“It’s kind of cute that you’re apologising,” You admit, gently pushing him off of your body to sit upright. “But you don’t need to apologise… this isn’t the first time you came inside me, Matt.”

“I know,” Matt runs his fingers through his sweaty hair. “I usually ask...”

“Matt. It’s fine,” You reassured him, placing your palm on his bicep. “I’ll forgive you a thousand times more if you help clean me up though.”

Matt smiles and nods his head as he slips off the bed, disappearing out of the room for a moment and returning with a wet towel. He sits between your parted legs, gently cleaning up the mess, whispering apologies and apologies every time you wince when he presses down on sensitive areas, thighs closing around his hand which he carefully pries open to resume his job.

You sit in silence, watching him, frowning at the troubled look you see on his face, not used to seeing Matt being so closed off with his feelings and emotions, especially towards you. He hasn’t been open and honest with you in the past few weeks, he hasn’t come to you and asked for your reassurance or help.

It makes you feel a little bit defeated.

Something is different, and you struggle to pinpoint what it is.

The questions lay on the tip of your tongue, desperate to be brought to light and asked, and even more desperate to get the answers you’ve been craving. Your relationship with Matt has changed since the proposition you’ve made about sleeping together, but he’s still your best friend.

“What’s going on?” You finally ask and Matt freezes, fingers clutching the wet towel in his grasp tightly. “And please don’t lie to me… I can tell when you’re being truthful or not—”

“What am I to you?” Matt suddenly asks and you’re a little thrown off at your question being answered with his own question. He takes his hand away completely as you blink at him, feeling confused. “Even with all this going on… what am I to you?”

“You’re my best friend?”

Matt seems to frown deeply at that, “So nothing has changed? At all? Even with us sleeping together? I’m still your best friend?”

“Wh—of course!” You’re baffled, assuming that with the way Matt is speaking about your situationship, that he is worried that you have gained some negative feelings towards him. It hurts you, and you’re eager to reassure him, to let him know that everything is okay. “Matt, you’ll always be my best friend. We promised nothing would change, right? I’m keeping that promise.”

Matt closes his eyes as his shoulders sink in defeat, “I…” He drops his head with a sigh. “I can’t do this anymore.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, “Do what?”

“This,” He gestures between the two of you. “I just… I can’t. Not anymore. I can’t continue sleeping with you.”

“Oh.” You swallow thickly, feeling something heavy weighing in your throat. “Why?”

“Things have changed,” His voice is quieter now and it makes your heart shatter at the tone. Does he hate you? “I can’t continue whatever this is and be your best friend at the same time, it has to stop. It—” Matt sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” You mutter as your chin rests on your knees, hugging your legs closer to your chest to cover your modesty. You refuse to even look at him now, finding interest in the sheets below you as your throat tightens up more, feeling sick at the thought of him hating you so much that he can’t even continue sleeping with you. “I’m sorry too. I don’t know what I did to make you hate me, but I—”

“Wait what?”

“—I’m just so sorry. Especially if I came across too forward and for putting you in such a position, I know you were so hesitant about this in the direct place.” You’re babbling now, unable to take control of yourself due to the overwhelming feeling that washed over you. “I’m so fucking sorry, Matt.”

“Wait… I don’t—”

“Can we not tell the others right now?” You raise your head to meet his eyes this time. He’s looking straight at you, confusion and disbelief swimming in his irises but you ignore it, chewing the inner skin of your cheek. “Mostly Nick. I don’t really want to hear him laugh in our faces and give us the whole ‘I told you so’ speech he threatened us with at the start.”

Matt calls out your name and extends his hand to touch you, but you’re already climbing off of the bed, searching around for your underwear and dress that was thrown across the room earlier.

You’re too embarrassed to continue on with the conversation, to ask him what exactly you did to make him grow to hate you so suddenly. Truthfully, you didn’t really want to dwell on it too much, the pain of losing someone like Matt already making your heart ache.

You just wanted to go home—to be in the comfort of your own bed and curse yourself out, and probably cry to the point you might just forget everything that just happened. You are feeling a little teary, but you wouldn’t dare cry in front of Matt right now.

“I’ll, uh, see you around or something,” You sniffle, shoving the heels onto your feet and casting one final look his way. “I’m sorry.”

It’s been almost two weeks since your last encounter with Matt.

You shouldn’t be avoiding him like you are. It’s childish, you know that. But you can’t force yourself to face someone who used to be your best friend and now seemingly hates your guts.

Maybe you should’ve waited a few more minutes, to give him enough time to explain the entire situation and how he was feeling but you were selfish, you didn’t want to hear him explain in full detail what you had done to make him change his feelings towards you so negatively.

You miss him. Of course you miss him. For years he’s been your best friend—your other half, more like. There was no you without Matt and vice versa. You weren’t exactly sure on how you could continue moving on without Matt by your side, as dramatic as it sounds… but you’ve always been a little dramatic.

His brothers, Nate and Tyler have been blowing up your phone—-courtesy of you ignoring them too, not wanting to hear Nick rub it in your face on how the ‘friends with benefits bullshit’ you had with Matt actually did go to shit. You also didn’t want to hear the others continuously ask questions about what happened and what had changed.

Even your roommate, someone who keeps herself out of your business and hardly ever bothers you, had cornered you one morning at breakfast, asking why you looked so glum and why the ‘shirtless and tattooed Boston fuckboy’ wasn’t joining you both anymore.

You’re not the type to let anyone know your worries, so you’re surprised when you find yourself explaining to your roommate about what happened in full detail.

She gave you an unimpressed look, calling you a little stupid for not staying behind and listening despite you letting it be known that you couldn’t bear to listen to why his feelings turned negative towards you. Your face twisted and turned, offended by her harsh words but you allowed yourself to let her talk and not interrupt even though you desperately wanted to.

“You jumped to your own conclusion,” She told you when she was collecting the dishes. “You know, for two close best friends who talk to each other every second of the day, you have some major miscommunication issues.”

So, that’s what leads you to now; you sitting alone in the living room with your phone in hand, staring down at yours and Matt’s chat with your thumb between your teeth, biting down on the skin anxiously as you try to figure out how to start a conversation, to let him know you’re ready to listen.

from you: i think we should talk….

from matt: good because im almost at your house anyway. I had to go get something.

from you: ???? u coming over

from matt: yes from matt: i was going to make you listen to me from matt: its kinda important kid.

You snort at his message, sending a quick thumbs up emoji before throwing your phone to the side, awaiting his arrival. Your leg nervously shakes in the corner of your vision and your eyebrows knit together, placing your hand down on your knee and squeezing tight.

As if that will stop you from being nervous.

You’re about to hear the reasoning behind why Matt's feelings had changed for you so negatively, nothing can prepare you for it.

Just bite the bullet. Take it like a champ.

The rapid knocking on the door rips you out of your thoughts and your head slowly turns with a confused look sketched upon your features. Was that Matt? Matt never knocks—he freely walks in like it’s his own place usually, always making himself at home.

You push yourself up from the couch and make your way towards the front door, taking a peek through the peephole to see Matt’s form, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip with his hands behind his back, swaying back and forth nervously. You grow even more confused and concerned, pulling open your door to face him fully.

“Why did you knock—”

“Hate you?!” Matt suddenly cuts you off with a shout, startling you with the loudness of his tone. His eyes are wide as he stares at you, full of disbelief. “Hate you, I—fuck—how could I hate you?! I’d never hate you… god, you’re so frustrating sometimes.”

Your lips quirk upwards, “Nice to see you too?”

“I don’t hate you. At all. When I told you that things have changed, I didn’t mean anything bad by it… I pretty much meant the opposite…” Matt’s words trail off and before you can even get the chance to ask him to explain exactly what he means, air gets caught at the back of your throat and you struggle to speak as he pulls his hands from behind his back; a bag of candy in one and a handful of ripped up flowers in the other. Your heart thumps rapidly. “I’m going to tell you something and I just… I need you to listen to me.”

You barely whisper, “Okay.”

“Being in this friends with benefits relationship with you was not as easy as I thought it would be,” Matt tells you, his honesty making you pull your attention away from the gifts in his hands to meet his gaze. “We promised each other that we’re not going to involve any titles to make it complicated for us… yet here I am, standing in front of you with the same candy and flowers in my hand from when we first met, about to confess my fucking feelings to you, I’m so—”

“You’re rambling.” You cut him off, a smile creeping onto your lips.

“Yeah, of course I am,” Matt laughs at himself, shaking his head as he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck before he straightens out, keeping his eyes on yours. “I fell for you. Hard. I think I sort of realised it on your birthday but I didn’t want to say anything just in case whatever I was feeling wasn’t what I thought it was… but when we were at that party and I saw you from across the room, talking with your friends, I realised how much I actually do fucking like you and that it wasn’t just my dick talking.”

You snort as you repeat, “Dick talking.”

“Shut up,” Matt smiles at you, his own laugh fleeting past his lips before he sighs, “I like you. I’m falling in love with you, and I get it if you want to reject me because of how fucking weird this whole thing turned out… but I would actually like to continue being with you, not just as a best friend but as your boyfriend.”

You’re too busy repeating his confession in your head to notice that Matt is waiting for an answer, bottom lips tucked between his teeth as he bites down nervously, visibly shaking out of excitement or fear due to the fact he just confessed his entire feelings—you weren’t sure which one was right.

The silence from you kills Matt and his face drops when you step forward to quietly take the flowers and candies out of his hands, taking a step back inside your house. His shoulders slump in defeat, taking your nonverbal response as a rejection to his proposal of him being your boyfriend.

He goes to turn around, to get the fuck off your doorstep and drive home, hoping that the intense embarrassment he feels coursing through his veins is enough to make him disappear.

But he freezes mid escape when he hears the rustling of you ripping open the pack of candies, spinning around to see you looking at him with the prettiest smile.

He watches, heart thumping wildly, stomach fluttering with nervousness and excitement as you extend your arm out, angling the bag in his direction and a grin spreads across his face, unable to control the happiness that bursts from within.

You’re giving him a treat, you’ve giving him a relationship.

©sturnioz

#©sturnioz #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo fluff #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo #sturniolo triplets x reader #sturniolo triplets smut

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amiableness · 4 months ago

Text

Dad!James Potter x Bsf!Reader ☼ 1260 words

series masterlist ; main masterlist this is part one of this blurb! the next part will be smut! this was supposed to one whole blurb, but unfortunately, i can't stop adding details

A week had passed since that toe-curling, heart stopping kiss with James, yet the memory clung to you, refusing to loosen its grip. Every moment replayed in your mind—the way his breath had mingled with yours, the warmth of his lips, the intoxicating mix of hesitation and desire that had crackled between you. It was impossible to shake, no matter how hard you tried to push it to the back of your mind.

But life, as it often does, had intervened. Work had been intense for both of you. His late nights at the office, followed by early morning school drop-offs, and your endless deadlines and marathon meetings had drained you both, leaving little room for anything else—especially the conversation you so desperately needed.

But you were hoping tonight would be different. He’d asked if you could watch Henry, and you’d never refused him before. And you weren’t about to start now.

“Darling?” Henry mumbled, his voice carrying that endearing tone that always made you smile. As he grew older, the nickname was losing its childish lisp, becoming clearer and more deliberate with each passing day. You couldn’t let yourself dwell on it, knowing it would bring you to tears. And as much as it weighed on you, you couldn’t even begin to imagine how James was feeling.

“Yeah, my love?” You hummed, your eyes still fixed on The Rescuers playing on the TV. Henry had insisted on watching it in James’s room because he wanted to “see the mice all big.” At first, you hesitated, unsure if being surrounded by James’s scent was a good idea. But Henry’s excitement was impossible to resist, and you found yourself giving in, despite your nerves.

“When is daddy back?”

“Um,” You glance at the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Soon I would think.”

“Oh.” Henry murmurs, shifting closer to cuddle into your side, his tiny hand reaching out to grasp yours. The two of you are nestled under the dark duvet, surrounded by the seven stuffed animals he insisted on bringing along. “I miss him,” he whispers, his voice tinged with quiet sadness.

“I’m sure he misses you too.” You say, offering him a gentle smile. He looks up at you with those unmistakable eyes—his father’s eyes—brown and sweet, carrying the same warmth that James’ have. His dark curls fall messily across his forehead, a mirror of James’s unruly hair. Even the curve of his smile, so innocent yet so familiar, pulls at your heart. It’s impossible not to see James in every feature, every expression, and every little gesture Henry makes.

All you can think about is James.

“Do you miss daddy?” Your lips part, flustered and caught off guard by the question. For a second you debate lying, but you realize there’s no point.

“Yes, I miss him too.” You finally murmur, and Henry’s face lights up with a grin, as if he’s just heard the most wonderful thing. He turns his gaze back to the TV, his attention returning to the movie, while he snuggles his stuffed dinosaur tightly in the hand that isn’t holding yours. The sight of him, so content and secure, tugs at your heart.

The movie has long finished and another has begun, but you’re oblivious to it all. Henry is fast asleep, nestled into your side, and you’re not far behind. Your focus is solely on threading your fingers gently through Henry’s dark curls. The rhythmic motion that had soothed him to sleep now lulls you as well, your eyes growing heavy with each tender stroke.

“Hey.” James murmurs with a warm, inviting smile, immediately drawing your gaze to the doorway where he stands. His white button-up shirt is casually open at the collar, the top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of his chest. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and as he crosses his arms, the fabric tightens over his biceps, accentuating their firm definition. Your eyes slowly trace down to his forearms, where the veins are subtly prominent. The combination of his relaxed stance and the his snug shirt makes your pulse quicken.

You resist the urge to fan yourself.

You swallow hard, struggling to pull your gaze back up. “Hi,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He grins, and you know instantly he’s caught you. “What are you two doing in here?” He asks, walking further into his room, glancing down at the stuffies with a soft chuckle

“Henry missed you,” You say softly. “That and he wanted to watch a movie on the big TV.”

“Of course he did.” James says with a soft, knowing tone. He rounds the bed and settles next the side closest to Henry. With a gentle touch, he brushes a few stray curls from his son’s forehead, his fingers lingering for a moment. Then, leaning down, he places a tender kiss on Henry’s forehead.

“I’m going to put him to bed.” James says softly, his voice soft as he looks up at you from his kneeling position by the bed. You nod quickly, your words caught in your throat.

You watch as James moves with practiced ease, sliding one hand tenderly behind Henry’s back and slipping the other under his knees. He lifts him carefully, his movements gentle yet confident, raising Henry up and off your chest. As hedoes, Henry lets out a soft whine, his small face scrunching up in a mix of sleepiness and longing. With a tiny, outstretched arm, he reaches toward you, his fingers stretching as far as they can go, desperate to grab you.

“No.” He huffs, his eyes opening the tiniest bit to glance up at his dad.

“It’s bedtime.” James says softly, drawing Henry close to his chest and gently reaching down to grab the stuffed dinosaur Henry clings to.

“No! But I—” Henry protests, wriggling in James’s arms. He twists around, casting a desperate look over his shoulder at you. “I want mummy.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and your eyes dart to James, wide with shock. He mirrors your surprise. With one arm securely wrapped around Henry’s squirming body, he struggles to keep his son from wriggling free. Henry’s little face is flushed with frustration, his eyes locked onto yours as he reaches out with tiny, pleading hands, desperate for your comfort.

“Do you want to say goodnight to mum before bed?” James asks quietly, leaning down to speak into Henry’s ear. Henry stops squirming instantly and nods. Gently, James places his son back onto the bed, and Henry immediately flings himself at you, wrapping his arms around your neck. He collides with you with a soft thud, and you hear James mutter about being gentle with you.

“Goodnight,” You say whisper, one arm holding him to you and the other holding the back of his head. “I love you bunches. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Your eyes flicker up to meet James’ who is watching you with an indescribable look.

“Love you.” Henry mumbles, the sleepiness in his voice affecting his pronunciation. Then he leans back and plants a big kiss on your forehead, mimicking the affectionate gesture he’s seen his father make so many times. You laugh quietly and press a kiss on his nose in return. Satisfied, Henry crawls back to his father and lifts his arms. James picks him up, his gaze lingering on you.

“I’ll be right back.” James says softly before heading to Henry’s room. As he walks away, Henry peeks over his shoulder and waves a tiny hand at you.

please reblog or comment with your thoughts! they are very appreciated and keep me motivated to keep writing! 🤍

part two here!

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ellecdc · 2 months ago

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I can’t find many fics with this…but would you maybe be willing to right poly marauders x werewolf reader?

Not in like a super angsty way. Maybe just like the morning after the full moon and Sirius and James are teasing reader and Remus because “you guys are like puppies chasing after bunnies.” Or maybe like prep for the moon and wow all the chocolate is gone it’s barely been a day.

I love this! thanks for the request, I hope I did it justice <3

poly!marauders x werewolf!reader post full-moon [836 words]

CW: fem!reader, post-moon care, werewolves being giant goofy baby dogs, James being doting, sirius being soft af [my kryptonite], Remus being stupid in love

His eyes - though obviously clear and clean of any blood, sweat, or debris - feel like they are crusted over. His chest feels like it’s being weighed down by a herd of erumpants. And his mouth tastes like acid and iron.

But the first thing from his mouth is the sound of your name as it rips through the sandpaper that's coating his throat, blindly feeling around on the bed whilst refusing to open his eyes.

“Easy, Rem.” James whispers, and Remus can feel gentle fingers card through his hair. “She’s okay.”

“Where is she?” Remus croaks, still blindly searching for you even though it has become clear Remus won’t find you there.

“She’s right here, Moons.” He hears Sirius murmur, further from him than James is, which makes him too far away.

Remus finally wrenches his eyes open and turns his head on his pillow, his neck cracking audibly as he finally spots the bed you’re situated in.

If Remus didn’t know better, he’d think it rather looked like Sirius was the one in the hospital wing; laying back on the bed, his head propped up comfortably on the stack of pillows meant for you whilst you were situated between his legs, your cheek smooshed up against his chest that rose and fell in time with his breathing.

But Remus does know better.

“What’re you doing in her bed?” Remus grumbles, but the inflection is more a result of his current state and less to do with any real ire. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit how sweet a picture it painted; Sirius’ onyx hair fanned out against the white of the pillow cases, the sun warming a few strands ever so slightly causing them to appear a chocolatey brown as your breathing continued in perfect rhythm. You seem so content, so secure, so loved that even whilst unconscious, you lean into them with your full trust.

“Same thing Jamie’s doing in yours.” Sirius responds breezily around a yawn, and Remus looks up to notice that James is actually perched on the head of his bed looking down at him - like he hung, well, the moon - massaging at his scalp that Remus swore saw any residual tension seeping from his body with every stroke of James’ careful fingers.

“She okay?” Remus asks then, letting his eyes fall closed as Sirius lets out a indignant scoff.

“‘Course she is, we’re not new here.” He sneers playfully at Remus, pulling you closer to him by the shoulders when you shift in your sleep and brushes his hand up and down your back in broad strokes; Remus is sure it feels heavenly.

“We’re fine too, by the way.” James teases as he leans down to press a kiss to Remus’ forehead. “Not like we were the ones doing all the hard work last night or anything.”

“Hard work.” Remus snorts. “I’m sorry; did your bones bend and break, and did your skin stretch and snap twice?”

“No…” James admits, though it’s Sirius who continues the banter.

“We were just in charge of chasing two giant, hyperactive puppies through the forest all night.”

“We’re not puppies.”

“Yes you are.” Sirius laughs, though Remus can tell - for Sirius’ part - he’s working very hard to dim his brightness in an attempt to keep you sound and not wake you. It makes Remus’ heart swell. “Dolly’s afraid of her own sodding shadow and yelped at every snapping twig, requiring plenty of reassurance, and Moony spent about twenty minutes chasing his own tail before he fell head first into a tree when he got dizzy.”

“That’s not true, is it?” Remus whispers to James who quickly offers him an apologetic smile.

“‘Fraid so, Moons. The two of you also had what I swore was a howling contest last night, too.”

“Oh my gods.” Sirius laughs as he recalls the memory. “Moony’s voice actually cracked like a teenage boy going through puberty, and Dolly’s voice was completely hoarse by the time we convinced the two of you to knock it off.”

“She’s not going to be able to speak more than a whisper for the next foreseeable future.” James adds, looking equal parts fond, exasperated, and sympathetic for you as they watch you push your face into Sirius’ chest.

“We’ll make her tea.” Sirius declares, his own voice but a whisper as he holds you close, eyes far away as if he’s focusing especially hard on keeping you comfortable and sleeping soundly.

“With lots of honey.” Remus agrees quietly, smile growing when Sirius’ eyes meet his and crinkle in the corners.

“Pandora told me she has a recipe for lavender tea; could be nice to try after a moon, hm?” James offers.

“You’d probably like that too, hey Moons? Lavender tea.” Sirius asks.

And Remus couldn’t deny that he would probably like just about anything so long as he was able to enjoy it with the three of you; pre- and post-moons, recovering in the hospital wing, watching paint dry, steeping tea…whatever.

“Yeah, Pads.” He admits. “I think I would.”

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kenjakusbraincum · 1 year ago

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can you pls write something about reader being sick and like not the cough and cold kind of sick- like really really sick, and sukuna realising how much he doesn't want to lose her to this sickness and how if she dies, he'll be alone again..🥺

You have NO idea how much I love this idea!!! I did go a bit overboard with it cause I love suffering though 👍 Still, this was SO much fun to write and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Vows

Sukuna x Reader

Word count: 4.5k

Tags/warnings: gn! reader, true form! sukuna, master/pet dynamic, fluff but most importantly ANGST, mentions of weight loss, mentions of violence, implied nsfw, reader dies in the end :( (sorry)

It's not the first time Sukuna has been made aware of your mortality. He recalls many instances when he's been reminded that you are human. Finite. The first time he wrapped his hand around your throat and squeezed with calculation while you were laying under him, and you looked up at him in fear for your life. Your little hand couldn't even wrap around his wrist, much less provide resistance. Or when he'd pull your hair a little too roughly, and hear a crack in your delicate spine. When you'd get sick, and humbly refuse his healing. So little as a tummy ache had you writhing on your bed.

You are so weak, so small, clinging to life like there was anything for you in it, beyond Sukuna. By all means he hates all of these things. So what witchery is this, and why does he care about you so much? Why does he keep you for years, and why does your company bring him comfort he hasn't ever known in his lifetime?

Still, as much as he cares, he doesn't notice when it starts. He's trained you to tolerate pain, after all. It's no wonder you hesitate to tell him. Little things like tummyaches and colds occur to you all the time anyways, and you never complain. Sure, you've grown closer to Sukuna, but he was still your master, and the rules he instilled in you from the start were always fresh in your mind, not to be crossed. Bothering him with everything that feels off always seemed inappropriate.

And Sukuna is just like that. If you're not screaming or crying, he won't know you're in pain. But he notices that you're acting off. And how he reacts really doesn't help your case, or encourage you to speak up about your condition. ''I don't have all day. What is wrong with you?'', he sneers when he catches you pacing too far behind him.

So you just sleep longer and preserve energy for when you are with him. You don't skip around as much anymore, or spend time doing your hobbies. Food doesn't taste so great anymore. You have a cough that gives you sleepless nights because it just won't calm down. And the time you owe Sukuna starts to feel like an obligation. You start to dread it. Dread slipping up, dread annoying him or failing to satisfy him. Dread being disposable.

When things start getting worse, it's hard to hide it even from him. He was taking you from behind one night, and you were grateful he couldn't see the look on your face. You thought you could do it. Sukuna was always demanding, but he would never force you to do anything. If only you told him before you felt yourself struggling for air, and your chest closing in on itself in tightness. You reached one hand back, frantically grabbing his wrist.

''Feathers, feathers!'', words came out as gasps, and you slumped forward when he let you go. You were panicked and crying by then, this kind of discomfort being foreign even to you, even after weeks of pain behind you. He hovered next to you with a puzzled look on his face. He wasn't even being that rough.

''What's wrong? Tell me.'', he said, and reached his hand to feel the warmth of your tears streaming down your face. He swiped your cheek gently. He didn't seem mad at all. Why didn't you say anything from the start?

''I just feel so sick.'', you muster up in between sobs, and shut your eyes. You were too embarrassed to even look at him.

''I see.''. His hand leaves your face, and he traces it from your neck down your spine. The pain subsided slowly, allowing you to relax and find comfort in his arms.

But the effects of his healing were short lived. Just a week later the feeling of fatigue creeps back into your life. Manageable, but lingering. And the cough persists. And it gets on Sukuna's nerves too. He's been quite patient with you, but his patience was reaching it's limit.

You're sitting by his throne as you often do, and as hard as you try to hold the cough in, you just can't help it. His hand finds the back of your neck and squeezes, turning you to him. And he looks at you with all four, terrifying eyes. ''Can you shut up?''

''I'm sorry, I'm trying -'', you stutter, but just end up coughing more. He doesn't wait for you to stop.

''Get out of here.'', and pushes you away. You stumble down the pile of bones and fall, landing on your hands and knees. You don't remember him being this cruel to you in a long time. You look back at him with teary eyes, and he looks back like the merciless monster he is. The villagers awaiting him moved to make space for your fall, taking note of the tense situation.

That day, Sukuna sends word that he doesn't want to see you until you get better. You're forbidden from going outside again, in fear that that is making your 'cold' worse. It's a lonely week in your room, until Sukuna starts to crave you again. It didn't take him a while, counting the couple days he spent convincing himself he doesn't miss you. He does. So when he sends word for you again, and the servants come back to him saying you're still not feeling well... he's worried. So worried he comes to see it for himself.

Sukuna rarely comes to your room. It's the only space you have for yourself, and he doesn't want to take that away from you. Your room is modest. You have a bed, a carpet, and a couple shelves to house the books he's gifted you. There's a desk where you can eat and read, and a doorway to the garden. There's an empty glass of water and a napkin next to your bed. You're still sleeping, but the door shutting behind him wakes you up, so he doesn't get to enjoy observing you in your natural habitat for long.

It's not the first time doors opening and closing woke you up. But you know this time is different. The servants are always quickly shuffling around the room, cleaning up and moving around. Uraume clanks with plates. There is no noise now, other than your strained breathing and a cough brewing in the back of your throat. Besides, the aura that Sukuna brings with him everywhere he goes is recognizable. Especially to you. Heavy.

You turn around, and meet the gaze of his four eyes. ''Master...'', you struggle to sit up, and even a little action like that has spots forming in your vision. Then a coughing fit hits you. You pick up the napkin and put it to your mouth.

Sukuna sees your whole body strain with the effort of coughing. And when you call him master, even your voice sounds different. He knows your morning voice. He missed hearing it, but this... this is not it. You sit with your head hung low, staring at the napkin between your hands. There's a fresh splatter of blood on it. But Sukuna scares you more than the progression of your illness.

''Are you mad at me?'', you ask timidly, meeting his gaze.

''I'm concerned.", he says and sits next to you. You curl up to make space for him. "Two weeks is a long time for a frail human like you to be sick.", he looks at you, scanning your form up and down.

"I rested and drank every tea Uraume told me to!", your defense mechanism kicks in, and you start babbling.

Sukuna dismisses you with a hand and a pained facial expression. "I know.", he says. His brows are furrowed now, and he's looking at the ground, lost in thought.

You feel guilty for annoying him again. You feel guilty for the whole thing, getting sick, draining the energy it takes him to heal you, robbing him of the time with you that he deserves. Owns. He is very generous with the way he treats you, having all that in mind.

You tug on his sleeve. "I'm sorry, Master... You deserve better.", and you're sobbing again. Sukuna gives you a pathetic look, but smiles as he pulls you into his embrace.

"Silly pet. I can survive a couple weeks without your assistance.", he says, rubbing your shoulder.

You run your fingers against the back of his hand mindlessly, not knowing how to respond. Caressing his knuckles, bones, veins... feeling his nails and their sharp tips against your sensitive skin. When you bring his palm up to your lips, your kiss stains it red with blood.

You still sleep with Sukuna sometimes. Less frequently, only on days when you feel well enough, and those are rare. You've lost weight by now, sickness making itself visible on your body. You're sitting on his lap and clinging to your robes, scared that he won't like you as much, that you won't live up to his standards. But Sukuna's demeanor about your illness has changed, as he seemed to sense something unusual about it. He flips you over so gently, like you're made of glass, and peppers kisses from your neck downwards, slowly undressing you as much as you allow him. When he takes you, he's so careful. Constantly checking you're comfortable and enjoying yourself. You feel so loved and relaxed, and pleasure comes so easy when you're in this state. It's not the first time Sukuna is this caring with you in bed, but this time is different. This time you can't help but feel like he's saying goodbye.

He holds you afterwards, tracing his fingers over the ridges of your spine and your shoulders. You were always little in his grasp, but now that he feels your protruding bones under his fingertips, you seem all the more vulnerable.

"Will you kill me?", you ask, breaking the silence.

Sukuna frowns. "Nonsense. Why would I do that?"

There's a gulp in your throat. "It won't be long before I can't even do this. I won't be of any use to you then...", you say.

"Stop.", he says sternly. "There's a lot more to you than what you provide me with in bed."

You smile to yourself, but there's still a hole in your chest. Your statement is still true, and you aren't comforted. But this is Sukuna, and you know that he's offered you quite a lot even with that little bit of reassurance. To your surprise, he speaks again.

"Don't upset yourself. It's been a long time since killing you crossed my mind.", he says. "Save the energy for something else."

You nod and thank him. Just moments later, you're asleep. Quicker than ever before, he notes. You usually love it when he lets you cuddle and talk to him. You would force your eyes open when you were sleepy, just to enjoy it longer.

He feels guilty. He's your master, he's responsible for your well being. Yet nothing he does seems to help you long term. Healing you is temporary and he knows that without accessing the source, it will never work. If he could, he would find what was making you sick and rip it out of you with his bare hands, crush it with the force of his palm. He would have to look deeper, open you, and for once, he thinks he can't open a human being. He thinks of you trashing, screaming, and worst of all, looking into his eyes. Just the thought of you like that makes his chest feel like a gaping cavity. Worst of all, he's sure you would let him. He's sure you would forgive him for spilling your blood, and find comfort in his arms again. If you survived, that is. What has he done to you? And to himself?

Now, your head rests on his chest, and you're snoring lightly. For once, a repetitive noise like that doesn't annoy him. For once, he wishes he could listen to it every night. One day, that noise will be the only thing audibly confirming you're still alive.

Months pass and you're only getting worse. You barely leave your room now, too weak to even do so. You eat little, and it's showing in your sunken cheeks and eyes. You feel yourself withering away, loosing color, drying like a dying flower. Sukuna is in grief. He struggles to look at you, and visiting you falls heavy on him every time. He always finds himself thinking afterwards. Regretting that he let himself get this attached, wishing that he could simply forget you. But it doesn't work that way.

He goes to see you, after avoiding you for a week. He's Sukuna, he doesn't have any shame. You're sleeping, like you usually are when he comes to visit you. Your snoring is laboured, and it sounds painful. This time, the doors and the silence don't wake you up. He watches you, curled up under a stack of blankets, rising and falling with your struggles to breathe. How foolish he was, to think forgetting you would be as easy as avoiding you for days. How evil he was, trying to forget you while you are still alive under his wing, still his responsibility. Still his.

He sits next to you and leans over you, fingertips ghosting over your face. The snoring stops and you flutter your eyes open, turning in bed and feeling his body next to yours. You smirk at him, eyes adjusting to the light, and smile when you recognize him. ''Master.'', your arms wrap around his neck as you welcome him, your voice dry, but lively as you beckon him closer. ''I missed you.''.

He comes down to plant a kiss to your forehead. ''I missed you too, darling.''. Oh, the things that escape his mouth when he's alone with you. He cups your face, enjoying how much healthier you look with a smile on your face. ''Feeling any better?'', he rubs your cheek, lingering closely above your face.

You nod, but both of you know you only feel better because you saw him. Still, the little surge of happiness that brings you gives you more energy than you've had the whole week. You wiggle to the edge of the bed, making space and inviting him to join you. Sukuna lies down, hooking one arm underneath your neck and pulling you flush against him.

You wrap your arm around him and lean your head against his shoulder. He's still as big as you remember him, unfaltering in the face of your illness. It's comforting. ''You didn't visit in a while. Were you busy?'', you ask, stroking his back. ''How were your days?''

''Monotone.'', he says. ''The villagers bring remedies for you every day, and wish for you to get well.'' It's no wonder. So many times, Sukuna found himself hesitating to kill just because you were sitting on his knee, dressed in something too pretty to be splattered with blood. In the local villages, word spread that you have ''domesticated'' Sukuna. As if such a thing was possible. Or was it?

''Oh?'', you smile. ''I didn't think they would notice my absence.''. You always were supposed to be Sukuna's accessory and nothing more. Remedies and good wishes make it sound like you're more important than just a pet. So it really is that obvious...

''They did.'', he says, and lowers his head, brushing his nose against your face. ''Some took that as an opportunity to gift me new pets.''

You blink at him, a bit taken aback by his honesty. You keep smiling anyways. ''Did you take any?'', you ask, and he sees nothing but genuine curiosity in your eyes. The truth is, you've had a lot of time to think about your place in Sukuna's mansion. You knew, especially in sickness, that you were never entitled to exclusivity with him. You knew that at some point you would have to be replaced, just by the virtue of being a mortal. A human, who would age and become ugly, wrinkled and useless. You were just unlucky enough to meet this fate sooner than you should've.

Sukuna sighs, the weight of the conversation shifting to him. ''Not to bed, no.'', he says.

You're quiet while you think of what to say. You still have a habit of picking words when you're with Sukuna, but the times when he would punish you for improper formulation are far behind you. "Why not?", you settle. You hope the implication is there, that you wouldn't be so mad even if he did.

Why not? Because he thinks it might break him. Because the image of someone else in your place, under him, feels unnatural and wrong. He thinks the guilt might eat him alive. For once in centuries, someone else's needs come before Sukuna's. He is gone, so far gone. You've raised his standards, and he's not sure anyone he takes now will be able to live up to them. Besides, training a new pet to fit your mold would take years, and even then... He couldn't train someone to love him. Not like you do.

''I wouldn't want you to hold back because of me.'', you say, and he realizes he's been quiet for too long. Years ago, if you dared to imply that Sukuna would do such a thing as hold back because of you, that he cared, you would've been minced meat ready for dinner. Now, he looks down at you tenderly when you say it. Well, a tender look from Sukuna is a docile one. You've gotten used to the way that Sukuna communicates love. Subtly, innocuously.

''Worry about getting well, pet.'', he shuts down the conversation, and moves away from you, sitting back on the bed. ''Any wishes? Food? Activities?'', he asks, and feels your forehead with the back of his hand.

Food? No, but... ''I'd like you to stay, please.'', you say, and take his hand with the two of yours, feeling it up with your thumbs.

Sukuna resists the urge to roll his eyes, knowing the thought of annoying him would upset you greatly. ''That's a given. Anything else?''

You pretend to think, then just babble your favorite food. Sukuna takes your order to Uraume. But when he comes back, you're already asleep again. He waits by your side, but you don't wake, so eventually he leaves. By the evening, the plate of your favorite food remains untouched.

You can't leave the bed on your own anymore. Sukuna carries you outside when you're feeling good enough. You barely have the strength to latch onto him securely. Still, it's hard to slip out of the grasp of his four arms. He says you've gotten pale. You lay in his lap and bask in the sun, while he tells you about his day or reads a book out loud for you to enjoy. You wish you could talk to him more, but your voice leaves you as days of endless coughing wreck your throat. No herbs and teas ease your condition anymore. You wait for your final day.

And Sukuna doesn't know when he's given up on the idea that you might get better. But he starts spending whole days with you, leaving your side only to sleep in his bed. He tends to almost all your needs personally. You think that if you asked him to get on his knees for you, he would. He is not familiar with this ache that brews in his chest when he looks to his side and doesn't see you there. It feels violating. To be as powerful as he is, and yet completely helpless in the face of the sickness that drains you in front of his very eyes.

He plays with your thinning hair one morning, and you look at him from his lap, as adoringly as always. ''Isn't it funny?.'', you say, and he snaps out of his thoughts to look at you. ''I always imagined dying by your hand.'', you kiss his hand again, planting your dry, blue lips against his knuckles. ''Who would have thought?''.

You, you little human. You made him feel like a fool, like a coward. You made him feel powerless. Who could ever get away unscathed with making Sukuna feel like this? The thought of killing you now, even out of mercy, fills him with horror. He thinks he couldn't live carrying the burden of your death on his back. It's already hard for him as is.

When he's not with you, he withers away in his room, waiting. And when the servants finally come, and tell him you're at your last strengths, he feels as tense as he feels relieved. The servants shake in fear of his reaction, and he simply dismisses them. In a thousand years of his existence, he doesn't remember having to prepare to enter a room. His hand trembles as he brings it up to push the door open. He dreads what awaits him inside.

He expected blood, hysteria, chaos, yet there's none of it when he walks in. Just the pained noises of your breathing. A servant, your favorite, sits by your side and wipes sweat off your forehead. She talks to you in a comforting tone and pats your head gently. When he walks in the room, she lowers her head and moves to leave. It's only a second, but he sees the sad look on your face. ''Stay.'', he orders, and the servant bows and thanks him.

You move your attention to him, raising your hand to greet him weakly. He picks it up and bends down to kiss it. There's tears in your eyes as he settles into a seat next to you, and you open your mouth in an attempt to say something.

''Easy now.'', he shushes you, and helps you into his lap. You lean back, looking at him through a blur. His features appear even more doubled through the tears, and you still find his beauty mesmerizing. Your master. Your own little god and protector. Although he regrets it, you've never claimed the title of his spouse. Yet, he still stuck by your side, until parted by death. In sickness and in health.

He wipes your tears, and the mouth he conjures onto his hand kisses your forehead. One set of his hands caresses your face, the other massages the tension out of your bony shoulders. Sukuna knows how important it is for you to pass in peace. He doesn't want to curse you, or have despair turn you into a curse. "Relax now.", his voice is so soothing, as if lulling you to sleep. "It won't be long". You weep. What did an ordinary human like you do to deserve this honor? To be comforted on their death bed by a god. To be guided to death by him.

"Master.", you sob. "I'm so scared..."

Delicate touch against your skin. Sharp nails grazing your cheek ever so slightly, just barely enough to make their presence known. "Have no fear.", Sukuna looms over you like a snowdrop. "Where you go now, pain won't follow.". You speak to him a little longer. Tell him all the things you always wanted to tell him, but were scared of the consequences. Dangerous words, ones that were rarely associated with Sukuna. Love. And Sukuna is attentive, so human. Your blinking slows and you find comfort in his voice, as he returns every loving word back to you. Your pained breathing follows, and your eyelids are so heavy. But the sight of him is so hypnotizing, you wish you never had to look away. "You are so brave, my little dove. Go now, be free.". You were too good for this wretched palace anyways. The sight of him is etched in your memory as you close your eyes. "It was a pleasure to have you by my side.", you listen, feeling control over your body slip through your fingers. When you can't move, or feel his touch, you still hear his calm voice. "When you're ready, come back to me. I'll be waiting for your return.". Then everything is quiet, for you and for him. The servants cries are muffled by the sheets, where she has her head pressed by your side.

The hallways, silent except for the busy tapping of feet. Outside, the wind blows petals off of blooming flowers, leaving them bare and stranded. Autumn is here to carry you away.

Servants hold their breath when Sukuna walks by. One wrong look at him and the walls would be painted red. Just like before. Before you. And it's not long before Sukuna looks like a monster again - red eyes and a permanent frown etched on his face. Villagers bring bouquets, and lay them to the right of his throne, where you used to sit. He stares them all down, and only for a moment thinks that maybe, humans are not the scum he thought they were. But then he remembers, they only mourn you because you held him back from his destructive tendencies. Scum.

And he kills again. The first is a villager from afar, where news of your passing hasn't reached. Ripped to shreds for mentioning you. The women who screamed, their blood soaks the carpets and seeps through the wooden floor, dripping down to the cellars. He feels like himself again, unhinged, unbeatable.

Until the day is over, and he goes back to his empty room. His cold, empty bed, and the old habit of reaching for you in his sleep, only to grab nothing instead. And the crocheted figures of the two of you on his nightstand, watching him as he struggles to sleep alone. He can't bear it. So he leaves, and doesn't come back for days, weeks, months.

Smoke clouds the skies on the horizon once again, after years and years of peace and clarity. As far as the eye stretches, the world will know of Sukuna's wrath. But as thrilling as it feels to conquer again, when the village is burned and ash covers the grass on the ground, the thought of you still lingers. Your devastated eyes the first time he's killed before you. The first time he's felt guilty about his monstrous nature. When he comes back, no one's warm embrace awaits him. No one's there to brighten up his day. No amount of blood shed and villages burned replace the emptiness you left behind in his heart.

The grief settles, and sits heavy in Sukuna's chest, as he assumes position in his lonely throne again, and gazes at the row of people waiting to beg, talk, offer... bore him. Another eternity of boredom. An eternity of picking through thousands of humans, in vain hopes of finding you again. In vain hopes of recognizing you, even if it's lifetimes from now, when the last memory of your face has already faded from his mind. When generations change, and the thought of a monster like Sukuna being capable of tenderness vanishes. When the fire in his chest, ignited by love, is already a memory so distant, that recalling it feels surreal.

Maybe he will forget you by then. Maybe times will harden him again, and the idea of a pet becoming his lover will make him laugh. But for now, the thought of finding you in a crowd, taking you in his arms and never letting go, is his comfort and safe place. For now, he will wait for you. As long as it takes, like a stone, unyielding against the passing of time.

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk angst #jjk fluff #sukuna fluff #sukuna angst #sukuna #soft sukuna #i love bastardizing sukuna in my fics #also this is totally leading me into a part 2 w reincarnated reader #yes weve heard it a thousand times #idc it makes me happy

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say-al0e · 5 months ago

Text

Hope

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18, Minors DNI!

Summary: From the age of ten, your heart has belonged to Aemond Targaryen. As the factions of your family wage war, each fighting for the crown, all you want is to love the man you chose. | Ft. "You think I wanted to fall in love with you, of all people?" Requested by @niamh11 Warnings: Targcest, doubt, war, death (mentioned), dragon fire, inaccurate Targaryen marriage rites, PinV, oral (f!receiving), Harrenhal, light drugging (nothing happens while drugged, just sleep; only briefly mentioned). Aemond and Reader are 20. Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!Targaryen Reader (Daemon's Daughter, Unspecified Mother - not Rhaenyra) Word Count: 11.5k (I don't know, I blacked out) HotD Taglist

For weeks, it felt as if every breath was filled with the scent of damp earth, the smoke of dragon fire, the copper tang of blood, or the char of wood and bone. Each was heavier than the last, harder to draw and less likely to fill your lungs, but you continued to fight to catch your breath with every moment that passed.

The stench of war, now hanging heavily over the entirety of the realm, made itself at home in the fabric of your clothes, the strands of your hair, the very pores of your skin. It haunted you in your sleep, lingered just around every corner and refused to allow you a moment of peace. Despite your reluctance to fight, to watch the realm tear itself apart, it slowly consumed every piece of your life. But the stench, while maddening, meant that you were still alive.

For now, anyway.

Once, only a few short moons ago, towns and villages near the Kingsroad found themselves on the verge of prosperity. Their proximity afforded them the coin of travelers, of weary men wandering through the realm for one reason or another and sellswords looking for work - or, more often, debauchery. None were as large as Oldtown or King’s Landing, none quite as prosperous, but it was more than could be said for other villages. There was food to eat, coin to be earned, and fun to be had; just enough for the inhabitants to consider themselves lucky.

Unfortunately, their luck only extended so far.

The all-consuming threat of dragon fire often loomed over the realm. There were many who were raised to fear the ancient beasts - and rightfully so, for their not so distant ancestors perished in flames - but, for many, the threat seemed far off.

Until smoke filled the skies and the threat that once seemed so distant now swallowed them whole.

Blackened land surrounded you at every turn. Fields, once filled with crops, reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash; pastures, once teeming with livestock, a final resting place for cleaned bones; ponds, once a source of water for the bustling village, still bubbling as it boiled. Once great buildings were nothing more than rubble, mere pieces of stone marking where they once stood, and the streets were littered with bodies still smoking.

Though the sight was growing familiar, you could still feel the bile raise in the back of your throat as you stepped across cobblestone paths in search of any survivors. The beat of your heart echoed in your ears, hammering so hard inside your chest you worried it might crack a rib, and you struggled to even your breathing as you gripped your sword.

There was no need to guess who had lain waste to the lands, no need to question those who managed to flee, those who would spend the rest of their lives searching the skies in fear. It was obvious whose work this was and your father had little problem reminding you.

“I suppose your beloved did not deem this attack worth discussion upon your last meeting,” he sneered, toeing at a large piece of melted metal. “Tell me, what is it you see in him; his devotion to senseless violence or his shameless predilection for leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake? Your devotion to him is… baffling."

For a moment, it felt as if your heart stopped. While he had not spoken of him as anything other than a nuisance, a proverbial thorn in his side, since his refusal to allow you to marry, it was of little surprise to you that your father knew your heart still belonged to him. Most turned blind eyes - some willingly, with no desire to speak aloud your transgression; others simply allowed you to go unnoticed, expecting this behavior from the eldest child of the Rogue Prince - but you should have known there was nothing you could hide from him.

“I have loved him since we were children,” you reminded him, needlessly. “I cannot simply stop. As for what I see in him, I would say that I saw you, father,” you began, voice thick with emotion, “but something like this would require you to sully your own hands.” Despite the knot in your throat and the tears stinging the backs of your eyes, you carried on, hoping he couldn’t hear the shake of your voice. “Aemond’s crimes are his own. Yours are carried out by men who have the misfortune of trusting you.”

Daemon Targaryen had always been noted for his prowess in battle, his cunning, his silver tongue, his enjoyment of Flea Bottom. Rarely was he noted for his even temper or his devotion as a father. He loved you, and your siblings - of this you were almost certain - but you considered it evident when he chose to reach for you, hand clasped in a viselike grip on your throat, rather than his sword the moment the words left your lips.

“Mind your tongue,” he ordered, voice a low rasp as his violet eyes narrowed. “This,” he hissed, gesturing to the carnage you stood amidst, “is the work of a weak, pathetic little boy throwing a fucking tantrum. He wants war, he wants blood, he wants the crown; he knows nothing of the reality. He has chosen to burn his own kingdom for a chance to play king now that his drunken, usurper cunt of a brother has disappeared and were it not for Rhaenyra, for you, I would let him.” Daemon paused, his grip tightening on your throat - earning a sharp gasp, a desperate scrabble of your fingers, nails digging into his forearm - as his gaze burned into yours. “I once saw myself in Aemond,” he confessed, voice softening, “though there is one grand distinction. I would sacrifice the world for Rhaenyra, for our children, for you. Aemond will sacrifice you the moment you no longer serve his purpose."

A single glance around the village, around the dozen other villages you’d flown through on your patrols - on your search for Aemond, for Vhagar, for any sign of an impending Green attack - confirmed that your father spoke the truth. The Aemond you loved was long gone, replaced by a man desperately clawing for the power that now seemed well within his grasp, but you were your father’s daughter.

Dragon rider since ten, skilled with a sword, intelligent, comely gifted with a mind for strategy - it was oft whispered that you were a mirror of Daemon Targaryen. The best, and some of the worst, parts of your father were passed directly to you. And, unfortunately, that included his predilection to stubbornly listen to the thrum of your heart rather than reason.

“You act as if you have the right to shame anyone, as if you have not sacrificed many and more in the name of getting what you want,” you reminded him, nails sinking into his skin and drawing blood. The rasp of your voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it carried through the hauntingly empty ruins as you searched his face for any hint of understanding. When you found none, you pleaded, “What would you have me do, father? Tell me, please.”

“Return to Harrenhal,” he commanded, releasing his grip on your throat, gaze never once leaving yours. “I will join you on the morrow.” For a moment, you stood toe to toe - jaw working as you contemplated speaking, wondering if you could push words past the sudden dryness of your mouth - before Daemon turned. “That is a command. Go.”

Without sparing you a second glance, Daemon stalked across the field to mount Caraxes before beginning his ascent.

Rather than immediately following the harsh command, one he would almost certainly apologize for in his own way - with an embrace, most likely, or a tale of his youth - you allowed yourself a moment. With little regard for your armor, for your sword, you sank to your knees and pressed your palms into the scorched earth and reflected on how exactly you found yourself with an aching heart.

For much of your life, your heart beat for Aemond Targaryen.

As the eldest daughter of the Rogue Prince, Lords and knights from all parts of the realm - princes from Dorne and the Free Cities - all vied for your hand, once upon a time. With every tourney or feast you attended, you were inundated with glances and introductions. Each conversation included boasts of riches and land, of family titles and pedigrees. Daemon found it intoxicating, waiting for the perfect proposal to be made, while it all mattered none to you.

The idea of marriage was one you disliked, but one you knew would become reality sooner rather than later. As a Targaryen, there were but two possibilities: your marriage would serve as a political alliance, your husband chosen for the connections he could bring the crown, the resources his house could provide; or you would marry another Targaryen, a member of your own house who could ensure your name and bloodline carried on.

Neither was appealing but a political marriage always seemed the most likely option as you viewed it as the only way your father could win favor with his brother. It was an eventuality you were prepared for as your brothers were young, and betrothed, while you knew little and less of your cousins.

Visits to the Red Keep were few and far between, only possible when your father and uncle found themselves in good spirits - or at such odds that a conversation was necessary - and even less frequent upon your father’s marriage to Rhaenyra. Alicent Hightower’s children mattered little to you at first, their existence often forgotten as you followed your father from this exile to that, but everything changed the moment Aemond claimed Vhagar.

Funerals - too many of which you’d witnessed in such a short existence - never sat well with you. They served as a reminder that while House Targaryen sat high atop the Iron Throne and soared through the skies on the backs of ancient beasts, none could escape the Stranger’s eventual embrace.

Mortality felt too heavy a thought for one so young but it was the ever present reality.

On a day that felt so heavy, so sobering, you were surprised to find any joy at all. There was so much anger, so much tension, so much sadness, that you wondered how anyone would carry on at all. But somewhere, amidst the depths of despair, you stood in awe of the timid boy who once had trouble looking you in the eye as he mounted the oldest and fiercest dragon you knew.

Aemond’s joy was almost palpable that night. His relief at having claimed a dragon - the dragon - set you at ease, thrilled you almost more than claiming your own dragon, and you watched happily as he circled Driftmark. Vhagar carried him around the island and their cries, his of triumph, carried on the wind. It filled your chest with a warmth you’d never known, a joy that felt almost suffocating. The sight of him, fearless and finally free of the cruel teasing of his brother and yours, endeared him to you in a way you never bothered to examine.

Upon his return, a split second after his feet hit the sand and your eyes met, you pulled him into your arms. With one embrace, you saw a future, a life of love - of joy, of dragon rides and quiet evenings - and you hoped he might feel the same.

It was fitting, you supposed, for the love story you always wished for to be marked by fire and blood.

The first and only time you hoped that you might marry for love while fulfilling your duty to your house ended in bloodshed. Though you were both but ten years old, you learned an important lesson; hope is not meant for a Targaryen.

Driftmark, in hindsight, began it all - the start of your love story, the seeds of ruin that would someday fell it - but you were nothing, if not stubborn.

Despite the events of that night, despite your father marrying Rhaenyra and the boys becoming your brothers, Aemond knew you shouldered no blame. Though he wanted an apology, an acknowledgement of wrongdoing, he was satisfied; an eye for Vhagar, of all dragons, was a worthwhile price to pay, that much he confided in the first of many letters you shared.

The letters were flowed easily and, though most contained trivial thoughts that mattered little to anyone but the pair of you, they meant the world to you. For the first time in a long time, you felt content - happy, even.

As you grew older, you understood little and less of the rift between your family. Your relationship with Aemond was easy, almost effortless, but everything else seemed so needlessly complicated. There were apologies owed and egos too fragile to repent for past sins; a simple problem with an even simpler solution. However, it seemed as if all were too self-involved to see the simplicity.

Viserys, with his ailing health and reputation as peacetime king, wanted nothing more than for peace amongst his own family.

For all the harsh words and bitter distance, for all the sleepless nights and long fights, for all the accusations and moments of mistrust, Viserys and Daemon truly loved one another. There was nothing, in the end, that could destroy their relationship.

That was why, you supposed, when Viserys suggested it and you insisted, Daemon agreed to send you to ward in King’s Landing.

The gesture was one, both you and Viserys insisted, meant to unite your families. Your willingness to step into a proverbial viper’s den, however, did little to ease the tension that grew so thick you feared it may someday choke you.

In hindsight, you knew the damage was already done. The groundwork for the coming war, the brewing discontent and deep mistrust, was laid long before you entered the picture. Perhaps it was naivety, or a brotherly desire to make up for past mistakes, that lead Viserys to believe the decision would invoke fondness between the halves of your families - or perhaps less bloodshed when the reckoning finally arrived - but a Dreamer he was not.

Most believed disaster loomed over the Red Keep but none could have predicted just how horrifying it would be.

Upon your arrival to the Red Keep, you were reminded of how long it had been since you wandered its halls. Little of your childhood was spent there, visits grew fewer and farther between, but very little remained of image your mind conjured. There was no warmth, no cheer, no comfort. Though autumn had scarcely begun, the bitter cold of winter already enveloped the Keep and its inhabitants.

Viserys himself hailed your arrival as a cause for celebration. Helaena, too, found joy in your presence as you served as her closest friend and confidante. Aegon, now eight-and-ten, all but ignored your presence, as did his mother. And the one you missed the most seemed most outwardly indifferent to your presence.

Aemond spoke less than he did as a child, his words carefully measured, though his confidence had grown with him. He carried himself in a manner befitting a prince, with set shoulders and a keen violet eye scanning his surroundings at every turn. And while his brother spent his days deep in his cups or between the thighs of paid women, Aemond’s days were spent honing his abilities. He trained with Cole in the yard, studied with the maesters in the library, and listened intently to every conversation he could catch regarding matters of the realm.

Though you spoke often through raven, the comfort did not quickly or easily extend to face-to-face interactions.

Despite the initial tension that arrived with you from Dragonstone, Aemond graced you with his presence more often than not. He sat with you in the library, body occupying the seat beside yours despite a handful of empty chairs scattered about the room, and went flying with you as often as you wished. At mealtimes, he sat at your side - his violet eye trained on you, observing but rarely speaking more than a handful of words - and walked the gardens with you after breaking your fast.

There were moments of bitterness, bouts of anger where your tempers flared - particularly in the beginning, and often because of one sibling or another - and more moments spent hurling cruel words at one another.

But with every moon that passed, you settled into a life far different than any you could’ve imagined. And with every moment spent by Aemond’s side, you knew it was love - real and true - you’d found all those years ago. Love lightened your spirit, brought you a warmth and a comfort you never knew existed, and joy found you despite the chill of the Red Keep. Aemond was the one you wanted and, delighted, you learned he felt the same.

Yet, neither of you forgot that hope was more dangerous a beast than any dragon.

Hope abandoned you both as you sought permission to marry. Though Viserys was overjoyed, thrilled by the prospect of uniting the family through the joining of your hands, there were few others who shared his enthusiasm. The factions of your family agreed on little as of late but Alicent and Daemon found themselves in agreement at long last; both would sooner see their children miserable, alone or trapped in loveless marriages, than allow them to marry.

It seemed as if everyone, save Viserys, shared the sentiment. And, as you gathered for what would - unbeknownst to you all - become the last supper, none were shy about sharing it.

Piece by piece, the future you foolishly allowed yourself to imagine shattered into shards that pierced your heart deeper and deeper. With every argument against your betrothal, with every sharp word uttered and eventual punch thrown, you felt the fate you desperately hoped to avoid closing in on you. And as your family disappeared from the Red Keep, eager to return to Dragonstone - with a parting command that you begin preparing to join them - you took to the skies to ruminate.

Naively, perhaps, you imagined you could have won them over.

There were a thousand arguments to be made in support of your marriage to Aemond, the least of which was the love you shared. Though Daemon mistrusted his nephew, he would’ve seen reason - someday, perhaps - that Aemond loved you, that he would never cause you harm. Though your brothers disliked Aemond, the result of childhood animosity fed to you all by adults, you could have shown them how happy Aemond made you. And though Rhaenyra found herself wary, she knew your marriage would provide stability and comfort to Alicent upon her ascension.

If only Viserys had lived just a while longer.

Viserys’ death had long been a matter of when. In the immediate aftermath, you found yourself wondering how things might have changed had Rhaenyra remained at the Keep - if he’d died sooner rather than later, if she’d been the one to share his final moments. But there was little time to dwell when you suddenly found yourself considered an enemy to the crown.

One moment, you were lingering in the Dragonpit - Aemond’s hand on your cheek, his forehead pressed to yours as he assured you there was nothing that could keep you apart - and the next, members of the Kingsguard were dragging you through the Keep to lock you in your room.

For several long hours, there was no explanation. Aemond was kept from you, sent from the Keep in search of his brother, and you were kept under strict guard. Despite the silence, you knew with great certainty that Viserys was dead and your stomach churned with fear of what was to come. And despite yourself, you held desperately to the hope that the great houses would remember their oaths to uphold Rhaenyra as the rightful heir.

Abandon all hope, should you wish to survive.

None knew what Otto Hightower intended to do with you - for it was, most certainly, he who masterminded Aegon’s ascension and he who planted the seeds of mistrust in you as a suitable match for his grandson - but you considered yourself blessed to escape that fate, nonetheless.

A knight of the Kingsguard facilitated your escape, granted you and Rhaenys the freedom necessary to flee King’s Landing. Rhaenys herself facilitated the liberation of your dragons, neither of whom you intended to leave without. And in the blink of an eye, every aspect of your life changed. War was nigh, closer than ever before, and though you escaped the Red Keep, hope held you prisoner.

For a blissful moment, little of your relationship with Aemond changed.

There were ravens - messages written in High Valyrian, now of greater significance than ever before - and meetings arranged in secluded woods. There were longing glances exchanged, fleeting touches and soft kisses, embraces you once refused out of some sense of propriety. Words of love were whispered and promises, bound to be broken, were made. There was even a dream, only spoken under cover of darkness, of finding a septon to marry you in a desperate bid to end the war before it began in earnest. But the storm itself had only just begun.

The question was never when, nor if, blood would be drawn; it was always who would draw it. Most feared it would be Daemon, or perhaps Aegon - both quick to anger, to act, desperate to prove themselves. But it was of little surprise to anyone, save you, that it was Aemond who began the Dance.

Whispers filled the land and the halls of Dragonstone echoed with the title that chipped at the already shattered pieces of your heart; Aemond One-Eye became Aemond the Kinslayer.

Most believed it was a deliberate act, retribution for the eye Lucerys stole as a boy. Others, an act of provocation to draw Rhaenyra out of hiding. Regardless of motive, nearly all found themselves in agreement that Aemond committed the most grievous sin. Though it was a compelling argument, one you found yourself struggling to deny when Jacaerys confronted you, you hoped it was not true.

Aemond longed for an apology, an acknowledgement that he was wronged. That much you knew to be true. But he was not a murderer, not one to cut down a child in cold blood.

Three long months of piecemeal battles followed Lucerys death - Visenya’s death - and, despite the damage done and the fear beginning to grip the realm, there was little to be done to keep you away from Aemond. You continuously found one another, seeking solace where you knew it was guaranteed, and he swore Lucerys’ death was a tragic mistake. He apologized, sincerely, and you believed him.

Love, perhaps, was more dangerous than hope for it could make even the sharpest eye blind.

As you glanced around the village, reduced to nothing - to ash, to rubble, to ruin - you wondered if it was love that blinded you involuntarily or a choice made to protect what remained of your fragile heart.

Every sign that Aemond had changed, that he was no longer the boy you fell in love with but a man grown into a stranger, was there. And as you stood, limbs trembling as you realized an inn had become a graveyard, you wondered if he’d ever been the man you believed him to be.

Perhaps it was hope, a desperate desire for a fairytale you long ago accepted you would never have, or perhaps it was naivety that blinded you. While others saw a waking nightmare, a terror to behold, you saw a man in desperate need of comfort. While others saw a threat, you saw a man who needed a gentle hand to guide him to the light. While others saw a raging storm, threatening to spring forth and destroy everything in its path, you found yourself trapped directly in the ruinous calm of the eye.

Aemond was, you truly believed, good. Somewhere beneath the facade he wore, the bravado that kept his shoulders straight and his lips narrowed into a thin line, was a delicate countenance you’d witnessed. But as you gathered yourself, scrubbed at your cheeks with the hem of your sleeve and swiped ash from your gloved hands on the fabric of your coat, you wondered just how deeply it was buried.

Village after village had been burned, thousands of innocents killed in cold blood, and to what end? There was no question who torched the villages, not pretending the offense was committed at Rhaenyra’s command.

All knew it was Aemond Targaryen, the One-Eyed Prince - Kinslayer, attempted Kingslayer - who singlehandedly destroyed them all.

Death and destruction marked his path, nothing left for you to find other than rubble and ash. It made you sick, turned your stomach and left an acidic burn in the back of your throat, but you couldn’t help wondering why.

As you mounted your dragon to return to Harrenhal, body present but mind far away, little made sense to you. Aegon was gone, still missing after weeks of searching; Alicent and Otto, for all their determination, would never see the realm reduced to ash; and Criston Cole would rather fight, march on with a host of men and a strategy rather than torch villages with little rhyme or reason. There was no plausible explanation for the campaign, no reasonable excuse for the destruction you found awaiting you at every turn.

All that remained was the truth; each and every village burned was a choice Aemond made.

The realization that every heinous act you’d stumbled across in your search for Aemond and Vhagar - for Aegon, for Criston Cole, for a Green army you began to imagine would never materialize - was his froze the very blood in your veins. It made each beat of your heart more painful than the last, each a little too fast and hard enough you feared your ribs might crack, and you fought bitter tears as you flew toward Harrenhal.

Only weeks ago, Aemond pleaded with you. He urged you to abandon your family and give yourself to him - your hand, your body, your dragon - and join his cause, not his brother’s. It was heartfelt, soft, emotional, convincing. He promised that you would rule as his queen, that your family would be forgiven and peace would return to the realm, if you would simply give in to him. And for a long moment, you considered his plea. So strongly did you consider accepting, you gathered your things and crossed through the dilapidated corridors of Harrenhal with every intention of taking flight and joining him.

In fact, you made it to the gate before the little voice in your head gave you pause.

Alys found you in the courtyard, bag tossed to the ground and shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, sat before the Weirwood tree. With a few soft words, she reminded you of your place - of your family, of your fight - and lead you to bed before Daemon could find you.

Briefly, as you soared through the cool, late afternoon air, you wondered if the destruction was your fault. Perhaps your rejection ignited the flame of his temper and sent him on a rampage. But you believed you knew him too well to entertain that train of thought for longer than a moment. Aemond had proven himself to be volatile, dangerous, but there had to be a reason for the destruction he rained.

Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with you and much and more to do with his own campaign for the crown - a campaign none knew existed until the power he so desired fell straight into his hands.

There was little time to dwell on Aemond’s aspirations, however, as the great ruins of Harrenhal entered your sight.

Resting in a field, not far from the charred remnants of the castle, was Vhagar. She slept, unbothered, by the beating wings of your own dragon - a scent she recognized, a scent she knew offered no threat - and you felt your pulse jump as you grounded your own dragon just outside the walls of the once great castle.

Where Vhagar went, Aemond went - a fact all knew. And what Aemond wanted, he got. It was only a matter of time before he came for you, you realized, just as you realized the choice to join him was little more than an illusion. The decision to be his was made long ago, by a lovestruck fool who believed in hope and happy endings. The consequences would be felt by a woman whose sight had been restored.

There was no use in attempting to flee. He’d seen you arrive and would doubtlessly follow, so you steeled yourself and made the short trek to the ruins of the castle courtyard.

With your blade drawn and your ears ringing, heart hammering so loud you feared he might hear over the wind howling around you, you stepped through the gate. Despite the persistent chill in the air, the bile rising in the back of your throat, you felt impossibly warm - burning from within, fear lapping at your skin like the hottest flames of dragon fire.

Aemond didn’t bother turning from the Weirwood, hands remaining folded behind his back as dead earth crunched beneath your boots. “I wondered if Daemon would dare face me himself,” he began, voice soft and carrying on the cold wind, “of if he would be craven and allow his beloved daughter to return to me.”

It was apparent he thought you knew - that Daemon knew - he’d arrived at Harrenhal. And you had no intention of correcting him as you tightened your grip on your sword. Instead, you laughed; a brittle, hollow sound you knew he would see through.

“My father is not afraid of you.” Every step you took, sword clasped in your hands - clutched like a lifeline, as if you had any chance against him in battle - the harder it became to catch your breath. “He does not consider you at all. You are nothing more than a pest to be swatted in his eyes; that is why I am here.” A lie, something you both knew, as Daemon understood exactly who his nephew had become, what kind of man he’d grown to be.

The understanding was one he attempted to share with you, one he begged you to see, but the three of you shared a common weakness; love.

Daemon, for all his gestures and his promises, would never love anyone more than himself as only he could protect his own heart. You would never love anyone more than Aemond, despite his flaws and his mistakes, as he’d captured your heart and refused to set it free. And Aemond? He would never love anyone more than he loved the image of himself wearing a crown.

Seated amidst the ruins of a small village, lingering with the ghosts of lives lost in an awful game, you found that understanding for yourself. Though Aemond professed his love for you - and felt it, of that you were certain, even if it was not the love you dreamt of, not the love you wanted - you knew that a piece of him saw you as a little more than a pawn. The war that raged around you was bigger than you, both pawns to be knocked around a board at the mercy of the gods, but he still fancied himself a player rather than a piece.

Love clouded your judgement, cast a rosy hue over the deep gray of your world, and you almost hated to see it go.

Without it, you saw the blackened hull of Harrenhal and the jaded, empty husk of a man Aemond had become. The man you loved was gone, the heart that beat in time with yours was no more. Instead, stood before you was a man who sent a thrill of fear shooting down the base of your spine.

If Daemon had known the fate that awaited you at Harrenhal, he would’ve sent you to Dragonstone, to the Keep, to the Reach, the Vale, the North - somewhere, anywhere other than into the hands of the man who would destroy you.

Daemon hadn’t known and neither had you. But if you had, you knew you still would’ve flown straight into his trap.

Silence, thick and tense with an energy you’d never before felt, enveloped you both, broken only by the call of your dragon - cries that sank into your heart like knives, plunging deeper and deeper with every beat - before, at long last, Aemond turned to face you.

That searching violet eye fell to your sword, amusement clear in the raise of his brow and the way his mouth twisted into something resembling a smirk. “Look at you,” he declared, gaze sweeping across your armor of red and black. “My beautiful Fierce Princess.” He took a single step forward, huffing a breath that could pass for laughter when you rocked back onto your heel, and hummed. “I always knew that you would be mine."

“I belong to no man.” The declaration escaped as little more than a whisper, leagues away from the confidence you hoped to project, but there was little use in denying him.

Aemond was the one person who knew each and every inch of you. Every detail - no matter how small - had been committed to memory somewhere in the years you’d loved one another. Though you had not yet given yourself to him, he was more familiar with your skin, your mind, your heart than any other could ever hope to be. If anyone were to see through a false act of bravado, it would be him.

“Mm.” He held his laughter, an act to spare your feelings, though his violet eye shimmered with a mirth that seemed rare these days - a mirth you once considered yourself lucky to witness - as he stepped closer. “Sheath your blade,” he commanded, voice soft but firm as he easily brushed past you. “I would not harm you, my love.”

Disregarding the command, you kept your sword in hand as you followed him through the dark, damp corridors. There was little light and less company, something you had yet to grow used to.

Though you knew you would find nothing before you began to search, you could not stop yourself from glancing around. Desperately, you hoped for a glimpse of a familiar face - Simon, his men, Alys - but the pit in your stomach only sank deeper as you entered the empty shell of the dining room.

“If you are searching for the witch, she’s gone. Ser Strong, as well. They all seemed… content to die,” he reveled, tone almost pitying as he reached for the carafe on the table. “Has my uncle treated them so poorly?”

“They’re dead,” you repeated, whisper echoing through the empty halls as he began to fill two glasses.

“Mm. Regretful business,” he sighed, turning to offer you a glass - one you took without thought, the action so natural you might’ve forgotten the setting had it not felt so stifling even amidst the cool breeze floating through the halls. “It is a shame they had to die,” he lamented, lips twisting into a rueful pout, “but between this… dwelling and what is to come, I consider it a merciful alternative.”

“What’s to come?” The question escaped before you could stop it, before you could convince yourself to swing - to end the battle before it began - but Aemond was unsurprised.

“Harrenhal can hold a great host. Whoever controls that host, controls the realm,” he reminded you, pausing only to sip his wine. “My brother was weak,” he continued, a soft hum of disappointment punctuating his words. “He was impulsive and undisciplined, unsuited for the crown. He would not have lasted as king. Perhaps dragon fire was a blessing, a suitable end to his reign.”

“Aemond…” For just a moment, you caught a glimpse of the man you loved as you faltered - as your feet carried you closer, as you sheathed your sword and reached for his cheek. “The villages,” you whispered, “the small folk, Simon, Alys; why?”

Aemond leaned into your touch, warmth of his cheek bleeding into your palm as your thumb brushed the ride of his scar. His violet eye fluttered shut, just for a moment, before he sighed. “I intended only to occupy Daemon, to keep him far from Rhaenyra as she attempted to take the Keep. He has long wanted battle; I chose to give it to him. He now has a cause worth fighting for.”

With a hand on your waist, fingers pressing into the heavy material of your coat, Aemond drew to his full height. “Why go to these lengths for the crown?” A large hand lifted to your cup, nudged it to your mouth, and you took a sip without thought before lamenting, “You could have done much and more without it.”

“You know nothing of being denied,” he whispered, voice as soft as it was cutting. “You have been given everything you could have ever wanted. Princes fought for your hand, lords tripped over themselves to wed you; the word ‘no’ means little and less to you.” He urged you to take another sip of your wine, the bitter taste lingering on your tongue as he tipped his head to meet your eyes. “I suppose I am also to blame as I have never refused you anything, nor will I ever. But the crown has always been meant for me, just as you have."

Another insistent press of his fingers saw you drain your cup, casting it aside the moment the liquid disappeared, and you flinched as it clattered to the ground. “You’re wrong,” you whispered, swallowing a gasp as his thumb brushed a drop of wine from your bottom lip. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted, really and truly, I was denied. I’ve only ever asked for your hand, for your love, for you. But I did not set fire to the realm, to the innocents whose paths the gods deemed unfortunate enough to set in my way. I did not betray my brother, my father, my queen. I tried reason, again and again, and held steadfast to hope that our families might see what we have always known.”

“And what did hope earn you, my love? Your father’s ire, your siblings disappointment, your realm’s division. Hope is for the foolish. You must take what you want and offer no apology,” he insisted, forehead dipping to press to yours. His hair, a cascade of white, curtained you - hid the blurring reality that surrounded you from view - as his nose brushed yours. “Everything I have done, it has been for us.”

The words, a soft declaration that should have filled your frozen limbs with an overwhelming warmth, made little sense as your thoughts began to muddle together. The ground beneath your feet trembled, your limbs suddenly felt boneless, and your tongue began to feel too large for your mouth.

Focus grew more and more difficult, a monumental feat with every breath you inhaled through wind-chapped lips, as you attempted to blink away the haze beginning to cloud your vision.

“I wanted love,” you whispered, voice distorted in your own ears. “But do you think I wanted to fall in love with you, of all people? Hope has earned me nothing, yet I continue to cling to it and hope that the boy I fell in love with will someday return to me.”

“I have never left,” Aemond assured you, though his voice sounded far away. “And I never will. We shall spend the rest of our lives together.”

As the world began to crumble around you, as your vision blurred and your ears rang, as your heart slowed and your breathing grew labored, your legs gave out. Despite Aemond’s grip, your body connected with the floor - your knees pressed hard against the broken concrete, your cheek caught the blunt edge of the table - and in an instant, everything ceased to exist.

For a blissful few moments, there was nothing.

There was no war, no death, no fire or blood or ash. There was no king, no crown, no throne. In the softness of your dreams, in the depths of your mind, there was little more than love. Aemond’s touch against your skin was soft, eager, as he committed your body to memory. His gaze was loving, reverent. The vision was dark but you felt it all so immensely.

When you awoke, you realized that it was no dream at all. Aemond sat at the side of your bed, one calloused hand stroking your skin - fingers careful as they avoided the tender skin of your cheek, the dried blood at your temple, the bruise you knew was beginning to form. “Rest well, my love?”

The dark of the room made it difficult to see and the fog still clouding your mind held tight. Your tongue still felt too large for your mouth, too dry, but you persisted. Hoarsely, you whispered, “This was a trap.”

Aemond shifted, his weight dipping the bed but leaving you undisturbed as he brushed hair from your forehead. He was clad in a shirt and pants - missing his sword, his coat, his eyepatch - and his hair fell across his shoulders. He was beautiful, as ethereal as you’d ever seen him, but the warmth you once felt was now replaced with a feeling of dread as he hummed. “It was,” he admitted, no longer bothering to pretend as his thumb swiped at your bottom lip.

“You… you poisoned me.” There was no venom in your accusation, only confusion as your mind struggled to catch up to the moment at hand. “The wine…”

“I did.” Another easy admission of guilt, this one accompanied by a flicker of his eye to meet yours. “I needed to make arrangements,” he reasoned. “I thought it kinder than locking you in a cell.”

There was no emotion in his eye, no inflection in his tone. He simply stated a fact, but you felt your heart begin to race once more as you struggled to sit upright. “I thought you loved me,” you continued, body aching as you moved.

“I do, more than you shall ever know.” Despite everything, despite yourself, you truly believed him. Of every answer he could have given you, of every explanation - every sharp glance or sharper word - you felt inclined to believe that whatever he’d done could be traced to his love for you. It was untraditional, but as someone who had never felt love, perhaps he did not know better.

Still, you asked, “Then why?”

“Because you are mine.” The answer was simple, easy. It was the same answer he had repeated a dozen times over.

When asked why he agreed to duel a Dornish prince who wanted your hand? You were his, not a prize to be won. When asked why he apologized to his cousins for his ‘Strong’ remarks? You were his; your family was important to you, therefore, they were important to him. When asked why he refused to offer his hand to a Baratheon, despite the crown’s need for their alliance? You were his and he was yours; his hand was already bound.

“Come,” he urged, standing from your bed and offering you a hand.

Slowly, you stood - your limbs weak and your head throbbing, mouth dry and stomach churning - as he reached to steady you. “Where are we going?”

“It is past time we were wed,” he declared, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright.

With muddled thoughts and an overwhelming bout of nausea, you inhaled sharply. “There is no septon,” you reminded him, blinking hard against the sudden warm glow of a torch as you stepped into the hallway. “No one to perform a ceremony.”

“We shall marry as our ancestors did,” he reasoned, waving away the notion as he guided you with ease. “They had no need of a septon; the Old Gods witnessed their union as they shall ours.”

“My father,” you began, blinking desperately to clear the haze from your eyes, “my family.”

“In a period of war, tradition means little,” he reasoned, voice low in the silence of the ruins. “There will be another ceremony later, in view of the entire realm, if you wish. For now, we will join hands and take our place as the rightful king and queen.”

“Aemond…”

The pleading edge to your tone, the shake of your voice, was enough to finally give Aemond pause.

A large hand lifted, cradled your jaw and tipped your head. You met his violet eye with your own and searched for answers to the thousands of questions that rushed at you from every angle. Though you’d longed for nothing more than to marry him, to become one, you now wondered if you had any choice at all. Would he allow you to refuse, to escape Harrenhal and return to your family? If you gave him your hand, would he truly spare your father, your siblings, Rhaenyra? If you ran, would he allow you to survive?

Aemond posed a question before you could. “Have you changed your mind, my love? Do you no longer wish to be my wife?” There was little indication how he meant the question - little indication of his true feelings; whether he was angry or heartbroken at the thought - and you found yourself uncertain which would be worse.

But for a long moment, you considered his question.

The man stood before you was no longer one you recognized, not fully. There was a darkness now ever present, clinging to him in a way it never had before. There was no longer a levity to him, no longer a spark of joy. But for as long as you could remember, Aemond was all you’d ever wanted. And, when you truly stopped to consider, the pieces you missed the most were pieces only you had ever seen.

Vulnerability was given only under cover of darkness, whispered in the depths of the Dragonpit or hidden deep in the godswood. Joy was only shown in fleeting flashes, with red cheeks and swollen lips in stolen moments you dared spend wrapped together. Love was shown in flashes of protection, in moments of compassion. Honesty was only ever granted to you, answers given freely to all questions asked where others received scathing looks and half-truths.

Perhaps your Aemond was just that; yours and yours alone, unsuited for the eyes of outsiders.

Thoughts rushed at you, moving simultaneously too quickly and syrup slow. Everything muddled in the depths of your mind, a confusing mass of emotion and rationality - heart versus head. For the first time, Aemond truly terrified you, though there was a certainty in the back of your mind that there was no safer place for you in the realm than by his side.

Despite the fear that left your hands trembling, you swallowed your doubt. “I have only ever wanted you,” you whispered, not bothering to hide your tears. “I am yours.”

“As I am yours,” he reiterated, dipping his head to press his forehead to yours.

As water dripped around you, as rain fell over the ruins of Harrenhal, you stood in the corridor together. Uncertainty lingered in the pit of your stomach, the question of how you found yourself here plagued you, but the warmth of Aemond’s body pressed to yours did much and more to settle the wild beat of your heart.

Hope, as dangerous as it was, again found you in the ruins as you resumed your journey to the Weirwood tree.

In the courtyard, beneath the bright, full moon and freezing rain, Aemond slipped the Conqueror’s dagger from its sheath. With a steady hand, he nicked your bottom lip and your palm before carefully gathering a bead of blood on his thumb. He then offered the blade to you and though your own hand shook, you reciprocated without sparing it a second thought.

Aemond clasped your hand in his own, your palm stinging, before he leaned in to press his lips to yours. The dagger, forgotten, clattered to the ground as you pressed impossibly closer.

Weeks apart, separated by death and destruction; confusion, desperation, desire, all clouding your ability to think rationally; overwhelming, all-consuming love - the perfect storm of circumstances saw you desperate to give yourself over the flames that certainly awaited you.

There was no longer any way out, no longer any escape. Aemond was your destiny, your lives bound together years ago. The tinge of fear that pricked at your skin each time you imagined the future - each time you questioned whether you had one, whether anyone would - remained, but your fate was sealed. Rather than fight it, rather than run, you gave in.

The moment you parted, crimson staining your lips and chin, Aemond sighed. “Ābrazyrys,” he whispered, violet eye blinking against the harsh rain.

“Valzȳrys,” you replied, grateful the rain masked your tears as Aemond smiled.

“We are one,” he declared, “united as we’ve always wished.” Your hand remained clasped in his, combined blood dripping into the scorched earth as he squeezed gently. “Nothing can part us.”

“Only the gods,” you whispered, though you remained fearful that speaking it aloud might make it so.

As he always had, Aemond dared scoff at the idea. “Even the gods could not part us,” he promised, silver hair clinging to his skin as he leaned closer.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the courtyard - the ghostly ruins of the castle torched by your ancestors, the halls Daemon had begun rebuilding - but your gaze remained fixed on Aemond. Rain drenched you both, chilled you to the bone, but neither of your cared as he began to guide you back to the castle.

There was little inside that remained dry, even less that offered some semblance of comfort, but that was of little consequence to either of you as Aemond closed the door to your room. Every emotion you felt, every ounce of fear and shame and desire and desperation, gnawed at the fraying edges of your nerves and there was nothing that could be done to alleviate your suffering. The choice was made, a pact sealed in blood, and it was clear Aemond intended to further lay his claim to you - as if he did not already own you, body and heart alike.

“I had hoped it would not rain,” he sighed, taking great care to remove your coat, “but this damn place has never been dry, it seems.”

“A curse,” you whispered, reaching on instinct to untie his breeches. “Punishment from the gods.”

“There is no such thing,” he asserted, hand tipping your chin to meet your gaze. “We are Targaryens,” he declared, “we are the gods.”

Dread settled deep in the pit of your stomach, then - a feeling so strong, you feared you might lose the little nerve that remained. Aemond was beyond reasoning, beyond rationality, and you knew there was nothing you could say to remind him of his own mortality, of yours. So, instead, you pulled him into a kiss.

The future grew dimmer, less and less likely to belong to you with every moment that passed, so you resigned yourself to enjoy the moment at hand. It was one you’d dreamt of, one you’d longed for with each rendezvous you shared, and Aemond seemed as eager as you. Now married, he had no qualms about touching you - calloused fingers skating across your damp skin, brushing across your shoulders, knocking the straps of your gown out of his path.

Aemond’s breath fanned across your cheek, a source of warmth in the chill of the ruins, and you leaned into it. Your nose brushed his, your lips ghosted over his cheek, his chin, his jaw as he nudged wet fabric out of his path.

“My beautiful wife,” he whispered, soft voice little more than a rasp in your ear. “I’ve oft dreamt of this moment. In only the sweetest of those dreams, you were mine to do with as I pleased. I believe this will be even sweeter.”

Heavy fabric fell from your shoulders, away from your body with every button Aemond found. A pool of red rested at your feet, the color of your house abandoned for the love of your husband. But you were not allowed long to dwell on the matter as deft fingers fell to your rain slick skin.

With steady hands, Aemond peeled your small clothes from your body - violet eye remaining on your face the entire time - before he reached for his own. Your hands, meanwhile, tangled in the dripping strands of his hair.

“You are so beautiful,” you whispered, gaze roving the sharp lines of his face. “A true sight to behold.”

Aemond came alive with your praise, a light flickering behind his eye that reminded you of the man you loved so dearly, and you were glad for it as you stood bare before him. The weight of his searching stare felt lighter, more bearable, as he finally allowed himself a moment to savor the sight of you. It felt as if he meant to commit the sight to memory, to savor the chance he was afforded, and you chose to do the same as you traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips.

Slowly, Aemond pressed you back, pausing only when you reached the foot of the bed. It was low, easy to settle upon, and he seized the opportunity to press you into the mattress. “Lie back for me,” he commanded as he began to sink to his knees, “my queen.”

Warm, calloused hands found your calves, touch so light you couldn’t be certain you hadn’t imagined it as he leaned into you.

Before you, the vision of Aemond clad in the translucent white of his shirt and unlaced breeches, his hair falling free and his sapphire eye uncovered chipped at the fragile remains of your heart. Hope reared its ugly head, gave you reason to believe this would be your forever - the sight of your husband, gazing at you with a reverence you’d never before known - when you knew that forever was far from guaranteed. The moments you shared were stolen, unearned, and if the Stranger did not separate you, your father surely would.

But every thought, every worry, every doubt - each ceased to exist the moment Aemond’s lips pressed to your skin.

Every ounce of tension, of fear, of trepidation, of doubt left your body in a soft sigh as his warm mouth pressed to your ankle. He began softly, slowly, and blazed a path across your skin. Fire burned in his wake, the impression of his mouth seared into your skin, and your breath caught in your throat the higher he inched.

“Tell me,” he urged, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thigh, “is this what you wanted, what you hoped for all those nights we spent in the Dragonpit, in the library?”

The request was not one meant to stroke his ego, not one meant to serve as an admission of desire. It was not an idle thought, whispered in the heat of the moment. Aemond desired reassurance, acknowledgement that you thought of him as often as he thought of you, that you longed for him the way he’d always longed for you. It was a request for your love, for your commitment, for your comfort. And you long ago lost the ability to deny him much of anything.

“Yes,” you whispered, hand reaching for his - fingers twining together, grip stronger than you intended as you tethered yourself to him. “I always wished you would take me, make me wholly yours. I dreamt of sharing your bed, of seeing you like this. You always wanted to honor me, refusing to steal my maidenhead, but you cannot steal that which belongs to you.”

“Perhaps, if I had taken you then, we might’ve wed years ago,” he ruminated. “But I intend to make up for lost time.”

Aemond repeated his path, his lips pressing to your skin as he used his grip on your thigh to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. You could feel his breath fan across your skin, warming you from within, and you clasped his hand tighter as he nosed as the juncture of your thigh.

Part of you imagined he would make you beg, eager for proof of your desire - of your need - but before your lips could part to utter his name, he surged forward.

Between your thighs, it was as if he was a man starved. Your immediate gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair, earned a soft groan from him as he lapped at your folds with the flat of his tongue. His shoulders kept your thighs parted as his hand slipped between them, calloused fingers gathering the combination of your slick and his saliva before pressing to the bundle of nerves hidden there.

With every jolt of your body, eager for something - to run from the pleasure or sink into it, you remained uncertain - Aemond shifted closer. He alternated between broad licks, the flat of his tongue savoring the taste of you, and kitten licks, reveling in the way your hips chased each flick of his tongue. Every noise you made was met with a hum of satisfaction, a palpable relief that he could please you in a way no one had ever been allowed, and you all but gasped his name as his fingers began to explore your slick folds.

The swipe of his fingers was foreign, the brush of his thumb over your clit caused you to jolt in his grasp, and you could feel Aemond’s lips curve into a smirk as he pressed his mouth to your mound.

“Ābrazyrys,” he whispered, breath fanning across your skin as he rested his chin on your thigh, “tell me how it feels.”

Words failed you as his lips wrapped around your clit and his fingers pressed into you - slowly, carefully, tenderly - and your breathing grew labored as he worked to prepare you. The only word your mind could recall was his name. “Aemond,” you gasped, fingers tugging at the silver locks drying in the curls he hid. “Gods, Aemond.”

Warmth filled your veins, your chest, the pit of your stomach, as he pressed himself closer. That violet gaze weighed heavy on your skin, able to see through the most carefully crafted facade, and each swipe of his fingers through your slick, each press of his tongue, chipped away at another piece of you. Bit by bit, Aemond worked to break you apart, to dismantle you completely, and you knew it was only a matter of time before you shattered.

And as his fingers pressed, filling you in a way you’d never experienced, you could only hope that he would piece you together again.

“Let go,” he whispered, voice a rasp in the dim light of the room. “Take your pleasure.”

Each sensation felt like too much, too fast, but you gave in to him. You melted into the uncomfortable bedding and focused solely on his attention. The warmth of his skin pressed to yours, the silk of his hair between your fingers, the soft noises he made as he devoured you; it all overwhelmed you in the most beautiful way.

The fire in the pit of your stomach grew hotter, lapping at your skin from within, and with each breath you attempted to draw, the more eager Aemond became to hear you cry his name. And as the edges of your vision began to white, as your fingers held too tightly to him, you gave him what he wanted.

With a cry of his name, loud enough to echo through the abandoned corridors, you came.

Fire, passionate and all-consuming, flickered in Aemond’s eye as he lifted himself. He stood tall, proud, and reveled in the lust openly displayed in your gaze as he finally shucked his own wet clothing. His tunic and breeches joined your own garments; green leather and red velvet, discarded for a union that neither side would consider sacred, but you knew the time to repent had passed.

Rather than dwell, you openly gazed upon the man you’d wanted for so long.

Aemond was perfect - beautiful, ethereal in a way that made your chest ache. There was an allure to him that called to you, a draw that pulled you in and refused to grant you leave. The angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose; he bared himself fully, no ounce of his soul hidden, and you swallowed harshly as you hoped the gods would forgive you for accepting it all.

“Make me yours,” you whispered, no longer able to remember why you’d ever considered resisting. “There is nothing left but us.”

One of the most feared men in the realm, quick with a blade and quicker with dragon fire, bent to your will. With an even stride and steady hands, he pressed you further up the bed before climbing in to join you. He settled above you, his hair falling - a curtain to shield you both from the world around you - and studied your face for a long moment.

There were tears lining your lashes, a product of the storm of emotion raging in the back of your mind, and Aemond was quick to bring a thumb to your cheek. “This is not the life you hoped for,” he declared, certain, “but I shall spend the rest of mine devoted to you.”

Little remained certain in your mind but you knew Aemond meant every word.

“I know,” you assured him, lifting your own hand to carefully brush at the jagged edge of his scar. “Hope is foolish,” you whispered, urging him closer, “it has caused heartache at every turn, but it lead me to you and for that, I am grateful.”

Without allowing him a moment to speak, you pressed your lips to his. The sting of the nick reminded you of where you were, of what had taken place, but you cared little for anything other than the weight of Aemond’s body pressed to yours. His warm hands held tight to the plush of your hip, fingers pressing into the skin so deeply you feared there might be bruises come morning, as he kissed you.

Emotion - fear, doubt, anger, resentment, longing, love - filled the kiss, a clash of lips and teeth and tongue that tasted of copper, but it was all you could do to keep yourself tethered to reality as Aemond traced the leaking tip of cock through the slick of your folds.

The first time hurt - so the few friends you’d made at court declared, giggled about when your father’s back was turned and your siblings wandered away - but you emerge beyond caring. And as he pressed forward, sheathing himself inside you, you found that the slight pinch, the sting of him, cleared the fog of your thoughts and brought the world around you back into focus.

As fearsome as he’d become, Aemond’s heart beat for you. The heavy thunder of it beneath your palm, the thrum of it beneath your lips as you pressed them to the pale skin of his throat, was a reminder that there was no other choice - there never had been.

With every press of Aemond’s hips, with every breath of pleasure, every whispered Valyrian praise, the truth grew clearer.

Hope was a mirage, affording you a fantasy that never existed. The life you lead was always destined to be one of fire and blood. The blood of the dragon coursed through your veins, dripped from the slit in your lip and your palm and spilled from between your thighs as Aemond claimed the last piece of you - a piece you knew had never been yours at all.

Every bit of you, every moment of your life, belonged to someone else; your father, your uncle, your siblings, Aemond. Now, there was nothing left.

A sob escaped your lips, a broken noise that saw Aemond pause. His head lifted, violet eye immediately meeting your own, as his hand lifted to your cheek. “Did I hurt you?” His concern was evident, proven as he stilled and searched for any hint of pain.

To lie would have been easy, as mindless a breathing, but the truth weighed heavy on your chest. “No,” you whispered, swallowing hard, “but I… you were right, this isn’t the life I hoped for. I do not want to continue fighting, to see more good people die. I’ve lost one brother, I cannot bear the thought of losing another. But I know that this, lying here with you, will drive them away. And you, Aemond.” Tears clouded your vision, hiding him from your view, as you admitted, “I just want you. I do not want to be queen, nor do I want to share my husband with the realm. All I want is to be happy, to be loved. I want to be free.”

Aemond frowned, eye rapidly blinking as he attempted to make sense of the words spilling from your lips, but you shook your head. “I’ve given my family my loyalty, my father my devotion, you my heart. I have nothing left to offer,” you whispered.

“Then let me fight,” he countered, tipping his head to meet your eye. “Let me end this war and give you peace. No more will die and when I claim the throne, I will never leave your side again.”

“A beautiful thought,” you nodded, “to be sure. But you can’t promise that, no more than I can promise we shall see morning. I do not want false promises or grand fantasies. I do not want a king or a warrior. All I want, all I have ever wanted, was you.”

Silence settled then, thick and suffocating, but you could see the emotion flickering in the depth of his violet eye.

Neither of you imagined this would be your reality, neither of you ever could have dreamed you would find yourselves fighting your own kin for a crown - a throne. Neither of you imagined a life outside of one another and now, faced with the realization that loving one another was not enough, you were at a loss.

“I cannot surrender,” Aemond finally whispered, gaze fierce - pleading - as he searched for an understanding. “And you are right, I cannot promise a long future. But I can promise that I will do much and more to return to you all that you have given me. You will be my queen and you will be beloved, kind and fierce in equal measure. And your family, your father, will not perish at my hand. There is no other path to be trod.”

“Our lives are bound,” you whispered, though a fresh wave of tears tracked down your cheeks. “Your path is mine.”

Aemond leaned in, then, and pressed his mouth to yours once more. This kiss was desperate, the kiss of a man seeking reassurance, and you offered it to him. There was nothing left for you to give; no more fire, no more blood. Now, you simply took the brunt of his desperation as he pressed closer to you.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice rough in your ear as his hips began to move once more. “I can promise that I will love you for the rest of my life.”

“And I you,” you reassured him, your own hand lifting to his cheek as his eye fluttered shut.

As Aemond’s end approached, his hips snapping quicker and his breath growing heavier, he repeated promises in High Valyrian; a promise to spend the rest of his life loving you, a promise to do whatever it took to make you happy, a promise to make right the wrongs that drove you so far apart. And though they were all grand, you knew he took each word to heart.

At his peak, he cried your name - a declaration of love following - before he collapsed into you. His head pressed to your chest, his thigh draped over yours, he held you tight and you allowed him. Your fingers combed through the curling strands of his hair, over the line of his jaw, as you stared up at the crumbling ceiling.

“This war will end,” he finally whispered, voice carrying on the cool night wind, “and we shall begin anew.”

Though hope abandoned you at Harrenhal, finally freeing you of its cruel embrace, Aemond found it. In the rubble and ash, surrounded by the ruins created by your ancestors, he vowed to give you what no other ever had; the love you’d always dreamt of, the life you’d always hoped for.

Hope was a dangerous thing, but nothing was more dangerous than Aemond Targaryen.

____________________________________________________

Author's Note: Started. Blacked out. Here we are. Bone apple teeth.

Taglist: @anaya-rhys, @holypeacecrown, @marvelously-flawed, @travelingmypassion, @letsgotothehop, @reynacrawford, @liannafae, @ffsg0jo

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