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starsofang · 5 months ago

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CALL OF THE SEA / PART FOUR

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, violence, kidnapping, angst, blood, 141 are still mean pirates ): kind of, very brief mentions of death masterlist

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

There were no ifs, ands, or buts about sleeping arrangements. Price, the Captain that he was, would have it his way, and his way was keeping you secured in the stuffiness of his own quarters.

It was uncomfortable, the way you shared the bed with him. He was a large man, much larger than you, and his bed only had so much space to fit the two of you. In the midst of the nights, you’d feel his leg brush against yours, or feel the soft rumble of his quiet snores from where he laid beside you.

It was far from ideal. As much as you hated it, it was an upgrade from your cell down in the brig. Price’s bed was softer, more plush, and it sank you in every time you slept on it. The situation was no better, but it wasn’t any worse, either.

The downside, though, was that you were just as much a prisoner as you were in the cell. Price made it known that you weren’t to leave his quarters under any circumstance.

They brought you meals in rotations. Sometimes Soap would show, cracking a horrible joke that left you rolling your eyes. Or sometimes it’d be Gaz, who hardly spared you a word of conversation, though you could see the faint glimpse of pity in his eye.

Then there was Ghost. A pure enigma, darkened by shadowy demons that were hidden beneath his mask. He never uttered a word to you, nor looked at you. He did his bidding by slapping down a bowl of poorly made stew and immediately making his exit before you could get a single word in.

Price wouldn’t bring you your meals, though you convinced yourself it was because he was avoiding you. You thought his original plan of having you sleep in his quarters would be for something diabolical and sinful, yet he made no effort to touch you nor get to know you. It was nice, knowing he wasn’t there to do things against your will, but it was also confusing, wondering what his real plan was for you.

It was as if sleeping with a wall, which you weren’t sure whether to be grateful or not. These men were far from people you wanted to be a part of, but the desire for a friend was beginning to outweigh your spite.

You were an outcast aboard this ship. Secluded from the world, and isolated from the only people you were surrounded by. It was a dreadfully lonely life to be living. Your only friend was the sea, and even that was something you were torn away from, locked away in the quarters with only a small window to offer a view of it.

The door of Price’s quarters barged open, disrupting you from your woe. None of them ever bothered to knock. They were savages, bred with no proper manners in the presence of a woman. But really, you weren’t a woman to them. You were labor. An inconvenience.

“Get up,” Ghost grumbled from his stand in the doorway, hand knuckling the rusty knob. “Goin’ shoppin’.”

��We’re on land?” you asked, standing from Price’s cot. Ghost grunted in response. “And I’m to… join you?”

“You need supplies, don’t you?” he gruffed, eyes narrowing in on you. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

The door abruptly slammed shut, leaving you alone in the quarters once again.

Land? They were allowing you to join them on their journey to land, to aid you in getting supplies necessary to work as a proper medic? It seemed surreal, yet bittersweet.

Gaining new supplies set your position on their crew in stone. They intended to keep you as theirs, and only trusted you enough to let you get off of the ship under their watch.

Yet, you’d be able to feel the grass between your toes once again. To feel the summer sun soaking in your skin, to hear the chatter of villagers fill your ears. You’d feel the liveliness of people apart from these heartless, savage pirates.

You’d be able to escape.

If you remained clever, you could leave the hands of Captain Price and create a new life far from their ship. This was your one and only opportunity to venture towards the life you always wanted for yourself.

You appeared as neutral as ever when you left the quarters to join the four men where they stood, clearly speaking amongst each other. You couldn’t show the rushing adrenaline coursing through you, not if you wanted to get away alive.

“Ach, there ye are, dove,” Soap huffed in annoyance, grabbing hold of your bicep to surge you towards him. You collided with his side, knocking the air out of your lungs. “Yer with me.”

“Stick with Soap,” Price ordered. His glare sent chills down your spine. “You are to get what you need under his watch. Try anythin’ funny and he won’t be so kind with you.”

“She’s fine, Cap, no need to worry. She won’t do anythin’ silly. Ain’t that right, dove?” Soap beamed, a touch of crazy leering down at you.

The plan in your head was beginning to feel too soon and too dangerous. You could only swallow nervously, giving a firm nod in return before they helped guide you off of the ship.

The town was lively around you. It was nothing like your home. Where you had grown with the quiet chirps of nature and gentle conversation, you were now greeted with an angry bustle of rushing townsfolk, brushing past you as if you were a ghost.

You felt out of touch with your surroundings. Others were dressed in fresh fabrics, altered to their frame. The women were pretty, hair unmatted and braided to frame their lovely faces while the men were covered from head to toe with the finest of coats.

Not all were as fortunate. There were a select few you caught glimpses of as you passed who were as dirty as you were, shoeless and hopeless. Begging for scraps of food or cheap coins, only to be spat on like the scum of the Earth.

You were no different. Next to Soap, you looked like a helpless, little mouse with dirty bags of fabric that fell loosely on your body, with your feet blackened from the lack of cover. It was utterly humiliating.

Soap kept a solid grip on your arm as he led you through the heaps of shoppers. He kept his eyes forward, scoping out any possible threat. You could see the hardwired focus geared in his brain, as if working on pure muscle memory.

“Pretty neat of a place, aye?” Soap asked, attempting small talk. He glanced over at you, wearing that boyish grin of his.

“It’s wonderful,” you replied, taking in the sights.

You meant it. Shops lined every corner of the dirt paths, windows displaying pretty dresses or tailored suits. Where you expected the town to look depressing, you found color, filling you with a warm dose of serenity.

This was a town you could grow to love. It was busy and loud, but the opportunity seeped out through every corner, calling your name. Your freedom rang out like a bell, offering you a place for your dreams to come true.

You had to escape if you truly wanted it. Your plan would have to unfold, even if it meant being patient.

“Yer bound to see a whole lot more towns better than this one, dove,” Soap boasted, grinning with pride. “Ye will grow to accept us one day.”

You stared up at Soap while the two of you walked. It was a shame, really, that he was the only one decently kind to you. Kind was far too generous of a word to describe any of these men, but it was the closest thing to what Soap was being towards you.

He was still a pirate, though.

“I am not so sure of that,” you confessed, unsure of why you did.

“Ach, ye will. The rest are secretly a bunch of softies,” he claimed, waving a dismissive hand. “We’re still human even if we’re pirates.”

“You’ve kidnapped me,” you stated.

“Mm. Yes.”

“You burned down my home,” you continued.

“Perhaps.”

“You killed my people,” you finished.

“You know nothin’ of what we do, dove. How about we keep shoppin’ for ye and stop worryin’ about the past?” Soap asked, not unkindly. He was surprisingly composed despite your accusations.

You stared at him for a moment longer before looking away. There was no point in arguing when the plan was to escape the moment you had the chance. Today would be the last day you’d ever have to converse with Soap and his men, if you played your cards right.

“You’re right,” you said quietly. “I apologize.”

“There ye go, dove.” Soap returned to smiling, giving a mocking pinch to your grimy cheek. “Now, what all do ye need?”

Soap made escape increasingly difficult. His hand remained secure around your arm for every shop you went in, keeping you by his side. It was as if he had a secret sense that let him know of your plans. Or perhaps he was following Price’s orders.

He stuck with you with every purchase. You gathered herbs, freshly made medicines, and a new book and quill to jot down notes in a journal. Soap allowed you the pleasure of collecting expensive items, unwavered by the prices.

He paid for them in gold, little round coins he’d slap on to the counter and leave behind without waiting for the shop tenant to gawk at such a rare sight of payment.

It wasn’t until you passed a clothing shop did he falter. His steps had stopped, eyes peering into the window. You stopped with him, dissecting his reaction.

“Sorry, dove. Makin’ a stop for myself,” he stated, tugging you into the shop. To your surprise, he let go of your arm, leaving you standing near the entrance. “Stay put. I’m trustin’ ye, so don’t make me regret it, aye?”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you gave him a nod. He threw you a beaming smile before stalking off into the store, disappearing just out of sight. You remained firm in place, hands clasping in front of you.

The pit in your stomach twisted from the nerves that wracked you. This was your moment, your only chance of escape. If you didn’t take it now, you may never be lucky enough for another one.

As if fate was sealing itself, your eyes caught sight of a group of guards walking past the store, wooden rifles at the ready on their shoulders. They were speaking amongst themselves, oblivious to your inner turmoil from where you stood in the entrance of the shop.

A quick glance behind you showed that Soap was still occupied, unbeknownst to your plan. You could only see the top of his head, the messy mohawk sticking out like a sore thumb.

With the opportunity in front of you, you took it.

You moved slowly at first. Unsure, cautious. But once you made it out of the shop with Soap realizing, you amped your speed. Your dirty bare feet clambered clumsily along the dusty streets, digging into the little pebbles that littered them.

The dull sting of pain as you sprinted to the guards was disregarded. It was nothing compared to the ache of freedom you desired.

“Hello!” you shouted, garnering their attention. They turned, eyeing you with a judgmental glint at the state of you. “Please, I need help!”

“What can we do for you?” one of the guards asked, suspicious. His eyes were set on your feet, which were caked with months of filth. “A lass like you shouldn’t be out without a chaperone.”

“You don’t understand,” you gasped, catching your breath from the anxiety that rattled you like a drum. “I’ve been kidnapped by— by pirates and I’ve only just escaped. Please, I need your help, or they will take me back.”

“Pirates?” The guards perked up, glancing between one another as if sharing a secret you were unaware of. “How many pirates, lass?”

“Four,” you explained. “The Captain— his name is John Price. He is the one that took me from my village and I have been imprisoned on his ship for so long, I do not recall the days. Will you help me?”

You were frantic. Desperate. It showed in the way your voice shook, the way your frame shivered with nerves.

“It is not,” Guard Two said to his companion.

“It is,” Guard One said, the one who had spoken to you first. This time, they spoke to one another rather than to you, as if you were invisible. “There is only one Captain Price. It is 141.”

Guard Two looked over at you, face set firm. His eyes were piercing and cold, and it made you shrink down into yourself. They were not welcoming or kind like you expected a guard’s to be.

Guard One fumbled in the pocket of his britches before pulling out an aged paper. On it were the faces of the pirates with the exception of Ghost, covered by his signature mask. All of them were plastered on the page with a bounty over their heads, as well as a promise of exile for their arrest.

Execution. The pirates would be executed publicly if they were caught. The punishment was inked in bold letters beneath their pictures, and each letter was taunting you with the blood that would be spilled on your hands for turning them in.

An unsettling guilt began to gnaw at you. You were unsure of why. Captain Price and his crew had stolen you from your home and made you their medic. They had you sleeping in a cell for nights uncounted, eating slop out of a bowl like a dog.

Yet, to kill them was much too burdening on you. They were mean, heartless, and unworthy. Yet, death was unkind. You were not so shallow.

“Is this what they look like?” Guard One asked, holding the paper in front of you. It was undoubtedly them, down to every detail.

“Yes,” you confirmed, though not as confidently as before. There was now a weight in your tone, as if holding back. “Yes, that’s them. You— you will kill them once you find them?”

Guard Two laughed, though it was bone chilling. There wasn’t a hint of warmth in it, only distaste and rage. “Of course. They’re to be hanged for their crimes. They are savages.”

He took a step closer to you, leaning down to your level. His aura was threatening, and you could feel yourself cowering away. “You must tell us where they are at once. We will help you once we have captured them.”

You took a step back, deflating. Everything within you told you that you made a mistake. If you went through with exposing their whereabouts and having them captured, their deaths would be because of you. You would be a murderer.

“I—“ You swallowed, clenching your clammy hands into nervous fists. “I do not know where they’ve gone. I ran away as soon as I could.”

“Not a problem,” Guard One gruffed, taking hold of your arm, just as Soap had done before. Now, more than ever, a part of you wished it was Soap rather than the guard. “You will guide us to their ship.”

“Please let go of me,” you murmured brokenly, covering the guard’s hand with your own to pry his fingers off. They didn’t budge. “Please.”

Your pleas were shadowed by their greed. You recognized the look in their eyes, and it scared you to the bone.

Bloodthirst. They were hungry to capture the pirates, hungry to be the ones to guide them to their impending death. It was not about helping you. It was about the handsome reward they would receive for turning in the most wanted criminals of the sea.

You began to panic. The air in your lungs felt weak, and you could feel the world around you closing in.

This was not the outcome you wanted. You simply wanted your freedom, yet it would come with a cost that you weren’t sure you could afford.

You did the only thing you could think of doing. Your fist collided with the guard’s face with a nasty crunch, causing blood to spew from his nose like a spout. It speckled on your dirty cheeks, tainting them further.

The guard let out a shout, releasing your arm. When his companion attempted to make a grab for you, you bolted, legs carrying you back to the shop Soap had been left in.

Chaos ensued from behind you. You could hear the clamber of guards, racing after you, yelling profanities in the air. The townsfolk stopped to observe, women placing their hands over their mouths in bewilderment, men torn between watching or intervening.

It was a commotion you never planned on starting, and now, all eyes were on you.

Soap came into sight from in front of the store. He looked focused and angry, eyebrows pulled together, jaw set taut. When he locked in on you as well as the guards behind you, there was no relief. His eyes were as intense as the guards had been, if not more.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” you sobbed pathetically, but he gave you no chance to pause your running.

Soap grabbed your hand in his, lugging you along the dirt paths. He swerved the streets, pulling your arm harder every time you fell behind. You struggled to keep up, spots of blood dotting the ground beneath you from the newly open wounds from pebbles that sliced open the soles of your feet.

You were pulled into a narrow alleyway with Soap, out of sight from the guards. Soap’s large hand shoved your head, urging you to crouch down behind a row of barrels that crowded the alley.

Your heart was nearly lurching out of your chest from your hiding space. Pounding footsteps raced past the alley, a cloud of dust filling the air and burning your nose. Voices could be heard shouting nearby, but not close enough for you to make out what they were saying.

Soap and you stayed put, his hand muffling your mouth, body smothering yours. He held his breath, ears listening in for the guards.

After what felt like an eternity, the footsteps grew farther away, voices fading into the wind.

“I trusted ye to stay put, dove,” Soap whispered, voice full of anger and betrayal. “I’ve been nice to ye. Why couldn’t ye just stay like I told ye?”

You whimpered into his hand, low and depressing. You felt defeated. Your fate was undetermined more than ever before, and you feared what the pirates would truly do to you now that you went against their word.

“C’mon,” he huffed, letting go of you and standing from behind the barrels. He grabbed hold of your arm, hauling you up and keeping you in his grip.

Soap crept the two of you through the town, slipping through every crack in the buildings to remain unseen. If people saw you, they remained silent, fearful of the pirate amidst their town.

The closer the two of you got to the ship, the more your heart sunk to your stomach. You were wracked with terror, horrified of the punishment you’d endure. The only thing you could do is let Soap string you along like a puppy on a leash.

“We need to go,” Soap barked at Price. The other men had long returned from their shopping, only awaiting your arrival with Soap. “Now.”

Gaz fluttered away without question, preparing to undock the ship and leave no trail in the town behind. Price and Ghost, on the other hand, were far more concerned.

“What the hell happened?” Ghost asked, voice gruff and dark, eyes narrowed on you.

“Dove tried rattin’ us out,” Soap hissed, throwing a glare your way. You shrunk in his hold, avoiding his eyes and bowing your head low. “Guards are lookin’ high and low. They know we’re here.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Ghost grunted, leaving the three of you to aid Gaz in prepping the ship for sail. He walked with a looming shadow over him, black and scary, oozing out the mist of pure acrimony.

Price stood tall and terrifying, arms crossed over his chest, the lines of his face firm and tight. He stared at you with a guise of disappointment and resentment, and if looks could kill, you would surely be one of their many victims.

The Captain took a step towards you, leaning down to your height. His hand grabbed hold of your face, fingers digging into your flesh as he forced you to look at him. His eyes were glaring, stabbing you with millions of daggers.

He shifted your head from side to side, inspecting the specks of blood that dotted your face. He was silent, making everything much more unnerving, and when he let go of you, he spared you not another glance.

“Take her to the cell,” Price ordered Soap. “We’ll deal with it later.”

Soap nodded grimly, tugging your arm aggressively so he could guide you to the brig doors. The sight of them made you sick, and you fought in his hold, which did nothing but make you look like a fool.

“Stop squirmin’,” he hissed, irritated. Seeing him without his signature smile made your chest fill with sickening guilt, and it twisted your insides in a painful knot.

The cell welcomed you when you stepped down familiar stairs. It was a slap in the face, seeing it once again, and you wanted nothing more than to take back everything you’d done and apologize to Price until he let you back into the comfort of his quarters.

But there was no going back. The deed was done. This was your price for freedom, and before it was handed to you, it had been snatched right out of your hands.

Soap shoved you into the cell with enough force to ensure you went inside, but gentle enough to make sure you didn’t topple over. Even now, when you’d betrayed his trust, he didn’t aim to hurt you. The pill was suffocating to swallow.

The cell shutting behind you rattled through your ears like a deafening shriek. The lock clicked, and Soap made no effort to move, not yet. Instead, he stood there, eyes boring into you through the bars of your cage.

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came out. So, you stood shamefully, staring at the floor beneath your aching feet.

Something clattered on the floor, and when you shifted your gaze to find it, what stared back at you was a pair of shoes. New, unworn, and pretty. For you.

Looking up at Soap, his expression was unreadable. He no longer looked at you. He seemed just ashamed as you did. It was as if all the anger he had before had diminished, and he now looked like a hurt boy, betrayed and ridiculed.

“I hope they fit,” he said quietly. While you stared at him, he was now the one avoiding looking at you. “Didn’t know what ye liked.”

Soap turned on his heel, trudging up the stairs with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He made no effort to look back at you, to study your stunned expression. Instead, what greeted you was his back as it filtered through the brig doors, shutting behind him with a loud slam.

You looked back at the shoes, careful when you picked them up. They were bland in taste, yet the prettiest thing you’d been gifted in your life.

Soap trusted you to stay while he went to surprise you with a new pair of shoes, and you had only gone behind his back out of fear of his pirate crew that had taken you from your home.

You felt no better than a pirate.

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pullhisteeth · 2 months ago

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saturn return | eddie munson

hello! I'm back :) will leave a little author note at the end of the fic for u. but in the meantime: enjoy this medieval slow burn fluffy smutty monster of a fic (which has not been proofread because I am so tired) <3

in short: you're from royalty, and the illicit crush you're harbouring on your sworn protector is threatened when your father, the king, reaches the end of his tether and finally begins the search for your husband.

medieval/fastasy au with knight!Eddie and fem!princess!reader, smut (18+ only, minors dni!), implied virgin!reader, (one attempted) assault, general fluff and angst and fun fantasy frolicking, mention/threat of arranged marriage (brief), enemies to lovers if you squint but mostly a bodyguard au but he wears armour and you live in a castle.

14k words (!!!)

You had only seen your knight without his cuffs and cloak once before in your life.

When you were nineteen, you had a fling with one of the boys who tends the horses in the stables. It had been a wet summer and against your father’s wishes you’d spent many evenings returning to the castle sodden and smiling. Your afternoons were adventurous - too much so for your age, your mother would say over dinner - and your escapades to the woodland beside the keep resulted in muddy fingerprints up the curve of your thighs and difficult-to-hide bruises blooming below your collarbone.

You may have been reckless, but you knew better than to show up to court with purpling bite marks where the collars of your dresses did not reach.

On one of the rare sunny evenings, you had stolen away after supper to the balcony that extended across the western wing of the castle. It stretched from your quarters around the side of the building, ending at the room that had belonged to your sister before she had been married to a man who lived across the sea. The sun was low and the air was thick and so in your nightgown you prowled the terrace, fingers dancing along the worn stone and up the wilting vines. As you rounded the corner there he was - your sworn protector, a man who could be barely a year your senior, hunched in an old chair over his armour. You stopped behind the wall with enough haste that he didn’t spot you - or if he had, he never let on - and while he was engrossed in the work of polishing the silver, you watched.

He’d done away with his undershirt, most likely because of the stubborn, close heat, and though he was side-on to you, his chair facing out towards the mountains in the distance, he was hunched to his left, leaving you with a view you much preferred to the vast one beyond the wall.

The muscles across his back rippled as his arm moved back and forth over the metal. In the quiet of the evening you could hear small grunts and sighs, and as your eyes adjusted to the light you spotted silvery marks of healed flesh across his side. His back was speckled with freckles and as he moved, you took notice of his mop of hair.

Though your father’s knights were never required to wear their helmets in the castle, the hair that now flowed freely was usually tightly bound at the nape of your knight’s neck. You had never realised how long it truly was - nor how unruly. Brown curls stood in what seemed like every direction, swaying back and forth in tandem with his shoulder, glowing a slight auburn in the setting sun.

You had watched him for a while, listening to the sounds of his efforts and drinking in the way the light made his skin gleam golden. It wasn’t until the sun had set that you had made your escape, bare feet padding silently across cool stone.

Ser Munson - Edmund, or Eddie as he preferred - was assigned as protector of the King’s first daughter when she came of age, at sixteen. You had been a moody teenager, belligerent and stubborn, determined you did not need protecting, even if the protector in question was broodingly handsome and a challenge to crack.

Thus, you lingered around the castle while your sisters sought husbands and new lives. Your father, though a cunning ruler, was soft when it came to his girls, and so no man was worthy of a single one of them unless he made her happy.

And no man ever had made you happy. The ones who put themselves forward as candidates for your hand were, in most cases, perfectly nice men. Mostly wealthy, often handsome, but always boring.

It was always the same: they believed you to be the most beautiful princess in the history of the realm, and they would be honoured to wed you. But as your father’s eldest daughter you knew one thing to be true: every one of them wanted the throne, and would marry you to get there.

So you sought fun in lowly servant boys, stealing kisses from cupbearers and kitchen porters, running wild in the vast gardens of the castle, just out of grasp of your grumbling mother. One day, you’d tell her when she chastised you over monstrously glutinous dinners. One day a man will come here and sweep me off my feet. Until then, I am content with my lot.

After that evening when you were nineteen, you had not looked at Eddie the same way. His job was to follow you everywhere - well, mostly everywhere, unless you were behind a tree with the stableboy again - so it was difficult to not look at him. But those aimless adventures became tiresome, and your daydreams became occupied instead by the man who tailed your every move. Stableboys were getting married, all your sisters were getting married, every eligible nobleman for a hundred miles was getting married - but you remained, as did Eddie.

“So it doesn’t hurt?”

“No, your highness.”

Eddie stares straight ahead, off into the distance, answering your childish questions through gritted teeth. You grin at him, elbow on the arm of your chaise and chin cupped by your hand, enjoying this latest instalment of your petty little game: you ask him silly questions, Eddie’s cheeks go pink, and you get a good giggle and a kick out of teasing him. It began as something lighthearted, a test of the waters after that late night wander changed your perspective, but that was two years ago and understandably, Ser Munson is getting increasingly tired of your games.

“Your highness, can I suggest that you get dressed? You’ll be late for-”

“No,” you yelp as he stands to move, sword clanking. “I’m sorry, I’ll bite my tongue. Don’t go.”

“But Miss-”

“Okay, okay, I’ll dress, just wait outside the door, will you?”

“I always do, your highness,” he says. “It is my duty.” You cannot see the smirk he sports as he turns his back to you; it is one he reserves only for himself, lest your ego get too big.

You deflate into your chair as he leaves, the heavy door swinging open. Three young maids are by your side as it slams shut, lifting you from your doze and tying you into a corset and skirt. Today you’re offered a deep navy gown, the colour of your family’s flag and perhaps the colour you look second best in.

At least it matches Eddie’s cloak.

You knock softly twice on your bedroom door, your handmaids tugging at the final details, and the guards who stand watch pull it open for you. You breathe in quick and deep, hands smoothing the satin across the top of your skirt, and step forward into the hall.

Eddie stands to one side, awaiting your direction. You follow your usual morning route, down the wide corridor to the stairs, which roll out into an even wider hall like dropped silk. Eddie’s cloak slinks across the stone floor behind you, and you yearn to make a joke, prod at him, get under his skin but you cannot, for many eyes are upon you now.

The Great Hall sits at the opposite end of the atrium to the staircase. The walls between yourself and the huge, towering doors are decorated for the brief return of your youngest sister, the most recent to wed - she is pregnant, and so there must be celebrations.

Floral garlands follow you as you make your way across the room, where, at the far end, your father stands in the doorway, watching, your mother by his side.

Peering glances follow you until other guests arrive and attentions are diverted. So you slow your step just slightly, enough that Eddie does not notice immediately and falls in line with you. Before he can correct himself, you lean in.

“Ed- er, Ser Munson,” you say, tone playful but slightly sinister, an indicator that you are brewing one of your schemes.

“Yes, your highness?” he responds neutrally.

“Ser Munson, would you please do me a favour?”

Long ago, Eddie learned to never respond to this query the way he is supposed to as your protector: Anything, your highness.

Instead, he asks: “What can I do for you?”

“You know that sword?” You twist slightly, tapping the hilt of his blade where one of his fists seems to permanently rest. “You’ve killed people with it, right?”

“Only when I have to, your highness.”

“How many, would you say?”

You hear him take a sharp breath in. You smile softly.

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen,” you repeat. “Care to make it nineteen? Do me a favour and slice through my guts so I don’t have to bear another one of these idiotic ceremonies?”

If you’d paid closer attention, rather than sharing your gaze between Eddie and your father, who was ever-nearing, you’d have seen that your dear knight almost broke. This would have been the closest you’ve come to getting a laugh out of him, your stoic, stone-faced hero.

“That’d be highly inappropriate, your grace,” he says, composed. “And I’d surely lose my head.”

“Oh, but that’s your job,” you whisper. “To die for me! And anyway, I can’t go to hell alone, you’ll need to keep me company. And protect me from the ghouls. So maybe make it twenty instead.”

This time, you do catch it. The corner of his mouth twitches and something in his eye, the way it dodges you, gives him away. In your peripheral vision you see him open his mouth - it’s close to your ear, you almost hear the beginning of a word - but you’ve reached the end of the hall, and your father awaits. Eddie falls back again, a step or two behind, as you drop your shoulders and brace yourself.

Being one of many sisters is a difficult life. Impossible to prevent yourself from comparing their hair to yours, their eyes, the slant of their shoulders, their waists, their hands, and worse is the bickering, the competition.

Being the only one of them not to be married is the worst.

Twenty minutes ago, you stole yourself away to a corner of the Hall with a too-full cup of wine and three slices of the best bread. Here you camp, munching on the final crust, eyeing up the table across the room. How do I get a refill without someone asking me to dance?

With your eyes squinted and shoulders hunched in, you scarcely notice your knight down the wall. He’s on guard, back straight with his hand on the hilt of his sword - watching, as he is supposed to. Only his attention is distracted, because in his peripheral vision is you, alone, as always.

It’s only when you hear the familiar clinking of sword sheath on armour that you turn to see that he’s beside you, and in a rare moment of peace, he’s leaning back, letting the wall take his weight.

“What’re you looking at?” You eye him suspiciously, swallowing the final sip of wine. “Come to ask for a dance for one of those snivelling Harrington boys?”

You hear him scoff, though he’s smiling just slightly. “No,” he says quietly. “Why, do you want to dance with Steven?”

You scoff. “Do I fuck.”

“Language, your highness.”

“Please stop calling me that when dad isn't around.”

He glances at you, smiling still, and rolls his eyes. “Why aren’t you with the other ladies?”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “The Buckleys aren’t here. It’s no fun without Robin.”

“And your sisters?”

“Oh yeah,” you drone. “I just love being reminded by all four of them how lucky a man would be to have me and how I must get married because, oh, weddings are so lovely!”

He turns to look at you properly, silver collar creaking, and reaches over to take your goblet. “How many of these have you had?”

You drop your hands behind your back, looking down at your slippers like a naughty child. “Three.”

To your surprise, you feel the damp rim of the cup meet your chin, pushing your face up. Eddie looks back at you and keeps the pressure under your head so you can’t divert your gaze. Your cheeks warm, heat blooming under his watch.

“Fine,” you sigh, eyes dropping closed in defeat. “Seven.”

You brace for a scolding, expecting a telling off from your faithful knight, but when you look at him in the silence, you find him grinning down at you.

“You’re going to feel awful in the morning,” he tells you.

You look back at him a little dumbfounded, because he’s very close to your face and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him in such detail before. There are creases by his eyes from smiling, and there’s an old, white scar across his nose, which is crooked, presumably from old punches.

“Will you take me to bed, then, please?” you ask softly, and he lowers the cup slowly, placing it on a nearby table without looking away from you. You look back at him, trying your hardest through the fog to give him your best pleading eyes, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. He’s close, still; time suspends as he nears even more and runs his thumb along the underside of your chin. It is the first time in your life that your knight has ever touched you.

You watch as he brings it to his mouth - it’s a deep, bruised pink, dyed by the wine from the rim of the cup where it had held your face up - and, taking his eyes off you, slides it between his lips.

It’s certainly not the first time you’ve been breathless around him, but it is the first time you’re face to face with him as the air leaves your lungs in a slow, desperate whine. It feels criminal, illicit, standing in the shadows at the back of the room, within reach of anyone who cares to look for you, watching Eddie lick wine off the pad of his thumb.

The festive music on the other side of the room ends and people around you cheer. Eddie’s smile drops and he straightens up as though kicked in the back, looking around like he just woke from a dream.

“Uh, yes- Your highness. I’ll escort you to your quarters.”

He steps back but holds his arm out for you to take. For a moment you just stare at him, incredulous, before wrapping your fingers around the cool leather covering his forearm and lifting yourself off the wall, your heart wilting as his guard rises again and your fun, playful protector is lost to duty once more.

The ceiling of your bed chamber hasn’t changed in fifteen years. You know because you’ve had many nights like this, staring at it forlornly, yearning for something you cannot and will not have.

When you were six, your father had the sleeping quarters across the whole castle redecorated, and you requested a fresco above your bed. Under the guise of education, telling your father that it would help you practise your knowledge of Arthurian legends, you asked for a depiction of the knights of the round table. Truthfully, you wanted to be able to look at Arthur every night before you slept.

Now, it makes you feel sick. It’s an ugly, truthless fairytale, spun to make little girls giggle and you despise every inch of it, regardless of how beautiful it may have appeared to you once.

In the dark, you can still make out Arthur’s faded features. He is plain, with cropped blonde hair and a silly chestplate, looking over the expanse of your ceiling to Guinevere, whose clasped hands by her cheek make the picture of a woman in love.

You turn over, frustrated, and cover your head with a spare cushion.

The stone of the balcony wall is cool beneath the palms of your clammy hands. In the courtyard, your sister’s carriage is leaving, followed by many horsemen from her husband’s house. They’ll return only when the baby is born, to christen him in the family chapel.

You sigh as she leaves the gates and lean your weight on your hands. It’s still hot out, too hot for so many layers under your dress and a corset so tight, and you’re too exhausted to carry the weight around. Your maids are nowhere to be seen because it’s the middle of the afternoon and you should be socialising, but you’re an adult. You can dress - and undress - yourself.

As you return indoors, you reach behind your back and tug at the knot at the base of your corset. After a couple of frustrated tries it finally gives, loosening so that you can hook your fingers under each stretch and pull it undone. You gasp for air, filling your lungs properly as your ribs expand, and use your shoulders to pull it loose enough for you to remove. You take care to place each layer gently over your chaise - corset, overdress, skirt. You’re left in your undergarments - a long, loose slip made of cotton - when you hear an unexpected knock and the door begins to open.

You jump, feeling suddenly exposed in so few layers. It’s unlike anyone to disturb you at this hour.

You tense even more when your knight, with his hair loose and his cheeks pink, pushes the doors wider. He stops in his tracks for a moment as he spots you across the room, flushed your own shade of mortified.

“Eddie,” you hiss. “Shut the fucking door.”

His eyes widen and he straightens up, knocked out of his daze. You expect him to retreat, but he moves inside and pushes the doors closed behind himself.

“I meant with you outside them, ideally,” you bite.

“I- Uh, sorry- My apologies, your highness, I-”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Sorry! Sorry, shit, I- It’s important, sorry.”

“So important that it requires you to see me indisposed?”

He looks at you blankly for a second. “I mean, technically I see you like this every morning when you interrogate m-”

“Oh, shut up,” you spit, eyes narrowing. Your arms are still crossed over your chest, even though you’re covered from neck to ankle. “You know that’s different. There’s no robe or slippers between us now, Ser Munson.”

His cheeks bloom at that, pink slipping into fiery red. He breathes impatiently through his nose, clearly irritated by your prodding, and steps closer.

“Your highness,” he says pointedly. You roll your eyes. “Your father- His Highness requests your presence. In the throne room.”

“I refuse.”

“Darling, I-”

“No!”

Your father stands at the other end of the table, his head hung and his hands on the wood in front of him. You are in the room in which he has his important meetings with his council. Over the years you’ve tried a hundred times to get in here during such meetings, to no avail, but now all you want is to get out.

“You are twenty-one,” he says after a breath. “I’ve given you time, five years of it. You can’t remain unmarried any longer.” This conversation has only been happening for maybe two and a half minutes, but it seems more like an age; you’re exhausted from yelling already, especially at him. But it feels like the walls are closing in, your entrapment in a loveless marriage with a stranger now a certainty rather than a possibility. It’s beyond your power to stop the tears falling.

“You can’t make me,” you say through the thickness of your throat. Your arms wrap around your waist, squeezing, breath hiccupping on its way out.

“I can,” he sighs. “But I really don’t want to. It doesn’t have to be horrible. Your sisters, they’re all happy, why-”

“I don’t care about them. I want to be-” You stop yourself, because this isn’t something to talk about here, with your father of all people; you’d barely even talk to your mother about this stuff. But he’s looking at you again over the expanse of mahogany and his eyes are sad, because he’s fighting with his first daughter, and you break. “I want to be in love, father. I don’t want to be sold off to the highest bidder because I’m the eldest. That can’t be my life.”

He sighs again. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It is. There are fifteen houses coming here tomorrow, each with an eligible son. I’m letting you choose; it’s the most I can do.”

Your nose burns with betrayal and terror. Your cheeks are wet, tears falling into soft, wet spots on the front of your dress. Your arms squeeze your middle one last time before you turn, pushing past the Kingsguard who stand at the door, past the cupbearers and the maids, and past Eddie, who has been waiting for you outside. For the first time ever you don’t hear the familiar sound of armour following you, and for a moment you almost stop to turn and look for him, but you’re still crying and although it’s the middle of the afternoon, all you want to do is hide.

“It’s true,” Robin sighs. “I’ve been looking in our library, and I’ve counted at least three instances.”

You roll onto your back. Robin sits beside you on the plush of your bed, which has been remade by your maids so that there are no remnants of your painful, sleepless night. She strokes your hairline softly, looking down at you with sorry eyes.

“The most recent was eighty-three years ago,” she continues. “Lady Flora. She ran off with her knight, to be fair… But still!”

“I’m the eldest, Robin,” you tell her, trying your hardest to stop your words coming out in a hiccup; you only stopped crying this morning, and you’re in no mood to begin again now. “There’s too much expected of me. I can’t run off. I have to pick the right person.”

She takes in a breath. “Who says he isn’t the right one? Or that you’d have to run off?”

“Centuries of historical precedent,” you tell her flatly. When you meet her eye, though, you watch as she tries and fails to hold in a laugh.

“Since when have you ever cared about historical precedent?”

“Never, but that’s the problem.” You sit up quickly, knocking her affectionate hand back into her lap. “I can’t… This isn’t right. None of it is, but especially… Him.”

“But in the centuries of historical precedent,” Robin says, a poor imitation of you, “There were people like you.”

“And what happened to them?” you ask with a huff, standing to pace beside your bed. “Exiled, abandoned, cut off, ridiculed… I can’t live like that, Robin. But- But I can’t exist here while he’s always around, right behind my back. He’s like my fucking shadow. I can’t-” You hiccup, a wet sound that heralds the return of tears. “I can’t move on.”

Robin watches you with eyes laced with a pity that makes you furious. You want her to fix this; it’s entirely irrational, but you’re lost, and surely someone somewhere has to take responsibility for this, fix it so you don’t have to feel anything anymore. Remove Eddie, replace him with someone lifeless and unfunny and ugly, hand you a beautiful, attentive husband on a platter and, most of all, take the pain away.

But it doesn’t work like that. You know it doesn’t.

“Your Highness,” Eddie says in a raised voice from beyond your door. “It’s time.”

You look at Robin, who looks back at you, her eyes wide.

“I’ll be a minute,” you shout back hesitantly as she rises and rushes over. You let her help you adjust your dress and she dips a cloth left behind by a maid into the basin of cool water by your bedside, wiping it gently over your cheeks in an attempt to reduce the blotches there.

Neither of you say another word. She takes your hand firmly and squeezes.

You hate this.

Although you’re desperate for anything but a pre-arranged marriage pact, part of you had quite genuinely hoped for some kind of miracle, that one of your suitors would be The Guy. In your restlessness the evening prior, you’d even let yourself fantasise that one of them, strikingly handsome in your daydreams, would appear at the foot of the throne and you’d feel it in that instant: love.

But in every version of this delusion, The Guy was faceless, nameless, a blur of a person until he wasn’t. Until he was Eddie.

In reality, your knight is out of sight for once, and you’re nearing hour three in the gardens, where the court musicians entertain the countless guests and wine is flowing freely for everyone except you. (With your father at your elbow all afternoon, it’s impossible to get a second cup. Your mouth is dry and your boredom inflating.)

You know better than to assume Eddie’s left the gardens completely, but there are too many people for you to see him.

Suddenly, you feel a sharp elbow nudge your rib.

You turn to your father and find him wide-eyed and pink in the nose - a tell-tale sign of frustration - nodding to the man standing opposite the two of you.

“Hm?” you hum, painfully aware of how obvious it is to the both of them that you weren’t paying a lick of attention.

“Lord Carver was telling us about his hunts,” your father says through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” you sigh, turning to the stranger. “How… Interesting. What do you hunt?”

“Deer, mostly,” he responds, puffing out his chest. His cheeks are blotched with pink and the caramel blonde of his hair is unpleasant. The pleasure of your attention is clearly feeding his ego. “Started on pheasants when I was ten. They’re far too easy now; I’m heading out tomorrow to try for a stag. Say, care to join me?”

“Oh, I’m flattered,” you say with a saccharine giggle and hand to your chest that your father can certainly see straight through. “But I don’t hunt. Thank you, though, Lord Carver.”

Lord Carver seems to take this somewhat personally, despite your almost sincere attempt at a polite curtsy. He comes over stoney, steel-eyed as though you’ve wounded him.

“No matter. Your highness,” he says flatly, bowing quickly to your father before turning on his heels and marching away.

You barely listen as you are accosted by the king for being so blatantly rude. Lord Carver is far from your mind because across the heaving mass of strange bodies, you can see your knight, looking straight back at you.

Your father hisses your name but you do not listen.

“I’m taking a walk,” you tell him. “Sorry, father, I just need a break. And… A glass of water.”

It must have rained this morning. The grass is damp beneath your feet, soaking slowly through the velvet of your lilac slippers as you push your way between bodies as politely as you can manage.

With your focus on the ground you do not see Eddie’s eyes following your figure through the crowd; you also do not see Lord Carver six steps behind.

The latter reaches you first, by quite a margin, a moment after you’ve broken free of curious strangers and can finally breathe again. Everything happens very quickly. In the shadow of a high wall, the man reaches for your arm like a viper. His fingers coil and the fresh garden air is replaced by his coddling breath on your cheek. He spun you so quickly you feel momentarily winded, enough to catch you off guard as your face scrapes the old brickwork. Spit hits your cheek and mixes with fresh blooms of blood as his pink face looms, dominating your field of vision - like a bear in a trap you feel helpless, his fingers around your wrist so tight you fear he may break your bones. In a moment you’re frozen stiff and he takes his chance, his lips pushing angrily into the stretch of bare skin above the collar of your dress.

“You’re a bitch,” he says, muffled by the skin under your jaw. You writhe and whimper but you cannot scream. “You humiliated me. See what happens to cunts like- Ungh-”

The force of your knee between his legs is enough force to knock him back. Stumbling, he lurches forward again, only to meet your elbow, sharp and swift at his throat. The pathetic choking sound he makes mixes with the familiar sound of heavy boots; you turn to find Eddie, pink in the face, fist on the handle of his sword.

“Christ,” he pants, “Are you okay?”

Lord Carver coughs as he struggles to regain his balance.

“You-” Cough. “You bitch,” he spits, hand at his collar.

“Watch yourself,” Eddie growls, towering over the spluttering lord, his sword pulled only a few inches from its sheath - a warning: I will not hesitate. “I suggest you take your family home, Sir.”

Lord Carver looks up at him, red eyes watering and breath still catching. For a moment he seems to contemplate fighting back, but even you almost find yourself laughing at the possibility, until you look to Eddie and find a version of the man you’ve never seen before.

Your life, which Eddie tails endlessly from a few paces behind, always, is quiet. Mundane, boring, unadventurous; you rarely leave the castle grounds and when you do, it’s inside a carriage. Your bravest adventure since you were sixteen was taken barefoot, that evening after dinner, up on the balcony where you’d stumbled across your knight, bare-chested and panting.

You’ve teased Eddie before about how the lack of danger in your life must mean his own is boring. Though he never once gave into you, deep down you worry that it’s true.

Now, though, your knight is coloured a shade unknown to you. He’s come over like a shadow, eyes hard and brow set, and there’s a vein visible above the collar of his cape. Lord Carver seems to halve in size beneath his frame, and though he has never shown himself like this in front of you before, you’re sure of one thing.

Your pleading cry is too late, too weak - before you can intervene, Eddie’s fist makes contact with Lord Carver’s cheekbone. There’s a crack that, to you, is as loud as thunder, though the skies are as blue as they’ve ever been. As his back hits the floor, Lord Carver yelps like a wounded dog, and Eddie moves in on him.

“Eddie,” you plead, voice weaker still, your hands grasping his arm, “Leave him alone, I’m okay, please.”

In the commotion, you’d failed to notice your growing audience. You’re sure that if you let him, Eddie would give another punch, and another, but the man on the floor is bleeding from his nose and from a wide gash under his eye and your slippers are drenched through and so is the collar of your dress where your tears, unbeknownst to you, have been soaking the cotton.

“Please,” you hiccup, your hands squeezing, pulling Eddie backwards with as much strength as you can manage.

“Asshole!” Carver spits, his voice broken. Two men who resemble him are helping him up off the ground, the small crowd murmuring between themselves as they watch him stumble away. “You’ll regret this!”

It’s an empty threat. You barely hear it, in fact, because Eddie is finally turning to you, his shoulders dropping. His face softens the moment he looks at you.

“Are you okay? Did he- Where did he hurt you?” He asks again. People are dispersing but you pay them no mind because Eddie’s hands hold your face and it stings when he runs his gloved thumb over the gash on your cheek. You wince and his grip on you tightens, as though you might slip away if he lets you.

As his arms wind around your shoulders, you push your face into the embroidered crest that sits by his heart.

“You’re okay,” he tells you firmly, sweet words murmured into your hair. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Your father’s booming voice cuts through whispering strangers like a whip. Eddie moves away from you so quickly that you almost choke.

Tears mix with old blood and you want to scream. You want these strangers to leave your garden, you want Eddie to clean your wounds, you want to run away.

You cannot have what you want.

Two and a half weeks ago, your father replaced your knight via a letter.

Ser Munson has been reassigned.

After two nights of bed-rest in your chamber, wherein you were seen only by your mother and two alchemists, your new knight - an older man, as old as your father and then some - made himself known at your door. He informed you of his new appointment as your sworn protector. When you asked after Eddie, he closed the door.

Two lonely weeks entailed many downward spirals. One evening after countless days spent rotting, refusing the attendance of your mother or father, you find yourself staring blankly at your reflection in the glass beside the chest that houses your dresses. The girl looking back is gaunt and her eyes are bloodshot. There’s an old cut on her bottom lip, close to healing but you’re sure you’ll bite it open again soon enough, splitting the skin so that deep red plumes can burst through and begin the process again.

You think about Eddie. What would he say if he could see you now? Over the weeks you’ve spent more hours than you can count thinking about how he’d held you, the words spoken into your hair, low enough to avoid unwelcome ears. His hands had gripped you so firmly that you’d almost felt whole again after Lord Carver’s grubby paws had violated you so horribly. Now you’re hollow.

His reassignment was surely your punishment: how dare you let yourself be so distracted that you humiliate a noble Lord to the point of such anger? How dare you humiliate him such that he wants to hit you, bite you, kiss you, hurt you?

Meals delivered by your maids go uneaten. You do not speak to your new knight, only catching a glimpse when he opens the door for attendants.

At the dawn of a Thursday, your mother delivers the news that you are to stay behind while your parents visit your sister. You’re not sure which one of the four it is, but you do not care. With them gone, maybe you can go out; it’s early summer, after all, the weather is glorious, and you’re gasping for some sunlight and some respite from this stupidity.

When the sandbag splits, old hay spills onto the muddy ground.

Eddie’s sword is freshly sharpened and slices through the woven material like a hot knife through butter. He imagines Lord Carver’s face where the bag is tied together with string and watches it fall limply to the floor.

Outside in the courtyard, the sun is hot and shade is rare, and sweat beads on his forehead and drips to his chin. Other knights spar around Eddie, practising for nothing. His new position in the Kingsguard is, quite obviously, a downgrade, but only a few of his fellow knights have tried to get the why out of him: why have you stopped tailing the eldest daughter around? Why are you now forced to watch the southern walls in the dead of night? How did it happen? What did you do?

He chances a glance upwards, to the higher balcony along the wall, squinting under the sun. He doesn’t know if what he sees is you, standing in the shadow, or a trick of the light.

Your parents have been gone for two days, and the castle is like a ghost town. It’s never like this; even on late night escapades through the hallways, there are always maids at work, cleaning ladies and cupbearers. Guards on constant rotation, your father’s advisers wandering the halls having hushed conversations.

Tonight, though, there’s nothing. Your family’s absence is a moment of respite for the staff, who get a rare few evenings off to venture into town for some fun. You’re completely alone.

The long corridors look almost blue. The full moon is rising over the horizon and you’re enjoying an evening of freedom.

With most of the court staff out of the castle walls, you can’t be sure if you’ll find what you’re looking for tonight. He may have gone off with them, with his friends in the guard, down to a pub, getting drunk because he can, stumbling half-blind into a brothel like the rest of them do.

You shake the thought off because it turns your stomach, despite having no claim over the boy. It’s true that he may have gone but you’re searching anyway, because you’re driving yourself mad with guilt, and secretly you’ve missed him horribly.

You miss knowing he’s right outside your door, only ever a few paces away if you need him. You miss the blooming pink across his cheeks whenever you tease him, his stumbling answers and poor attempt at staying stony-faced and stoic. And you miss the smirk, though you’re sure he thinks he hides it well, that creeps across his face whenever you finish your teasing.

It’s your first time in this corner of the castle. Almost twenty-two years of living here, you’ve never had a reason to venture to where the knights stay. It’s a long way from your own wing - you’ve been walking for ten minutes and you’ve only just spotted a door. You’re treading softly in your favourite ruby slippers which, though you’d never admit it even to yourself, were surely chosen on purpose. You dressed yourself this evening, so there’s no use blaming your maids for the decision to drape you in scarlet.

As you come to a stop outside the room, you hold your breath and listen. You haven’t seen a single knight - not even your own new one - this whole time, but there’s somebody in there, and it sounds like they’re pacing.

Your hand reaches for the handle but just as you touch the iron, it twists on its own and the door flies open. You stumble forwards, losing your balance, but a familiar hand steadies you.

“Your highness?” He breathes, helping you back up. “What the- What are you doing here?”

You look at him. The man staring back at you is wide-eyed, those browns as pretty as ever but framed by new, dark circles. It’s difficult to see in the low light but he’s more tired than you’ve ever seen him. And though he seems sleepy, he’s dressed up in most of his on-duty getup, without the cape and sword.

“Eddie?”

“I thought the- Aren’t you supposed to be seeing your sister?”

“No, I… I stayed behind,” you tell him. A half-lie.

He looks back at you blankly. “Well,” he sighs. “We should… I should escort you back to your chamber.”

“No,” you say firmly. He does not invite you inside but you step over the threshold anyway, pushing past him into what you assume must be his bedroom.

It’s a plain room. The bed is low with old sheets, and there’s one candle burning on a table by the window. On the wall above his bed, he has hammered what looks like a letter into the plaster. And to the left of that-

“Is that mine?” You point plainly to the embroidery hoop. Even in the near-darkness you cannot miss the rosy flush you ignite across his face.

He scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Yes.”

It’s a small hoop, one you must have done years ago. A deep red rose, your favourite.

You look at it for a moment, and then to him. “Where have you been?”

He drops his hand. “I was reassigned,” he tells you.

“Why?”

“I don’t-”

“Why?” you press. He sighs and leans in the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest.

“After the… Incident with Lord Carver, your father thought it best that I be moved.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he sighs, “I’m on the nightwatch.”

“The nightwatch?!” you parrot. Even you, with only superficial understanding of the mechanics of your father’s guard, know that that’s one of the worst jobs. “But you… Why would he punish you?”

“Ask him,” he says bitterly, and so quickly that you know he regrets it instantly. “Sorry,” he corrects, “That was out of order.”

“Don’t apologise,” you say back, stepping past him into the wide hallway. It’s a brighter blueish-grey now, the moon nearing its highest spot in the night sky. You stop, turning to look at Eddie, and there’s a beat of silence.

He’s watching you quietly, and it takes him a moment to realise that you wish him to follow you. Under the moonlight you’re effervescent, your skin almost sparkling. The soft glow of the moon reflects a million times in your eyes like tiny diamonds. You’re so pretty it’s difficult to look away.

Eventually he closes the door behind him and falls into a familiar step, just behind your left foot. You walk and talk as you meander through random hallways, clearly unsure where you’re going but he says nothing, silently grateful to see you again and willing to walk every hall of the castle if it means stretching out the time before he has to leave you again.

“Why do you say that?” he asks. You turn your head to look at him, lost. “You told me not to apologise.”

You huff, striding forward. “You don’t have to respect my father around me, Eddie. It’s not like he respects me, or anything.”

“I don’t understand,” he says quietly. You bristle, frustrated that you’ve allowed the conversation to move to you. You’d intended to find out where he’d gone, not tell him about this.

“He can quite easily forget about me,” you tell him over your shoulder bitterly. “I’m happy to forget about him for a few days.”

“I… I don’t understand,” he repeats, and it irritates you double.

“For God’s sake,” you spit, stopping so abruptly that he almost crashes into your back. You spin and stare him down. “I’m a disappointment, okay? They left for their trip, and they left me behind. I’m useless. No man likes me, not enough to marry me, only stupid stableboys have ever come close to me. Something went wrong somewhere and now I’m here, heir to the throne and without a husband. And it’s. Your. Fault.” You jab your index finger to his chest for emphasis, but it’s meagre because you can feel the tears returning and you want nothing less than to be seen crying by Ser Munson.

You cross the remainder of the hallways alone, Eddie left behind. Whether by choice or because of shock you don’t know, and frankly you don’t care. When you finally return to familiar halls, you push your way into your chambers and slam the heavy door as hard as you can behind you.

After a few minutes of pacing, having make-believe arguments with yourself in hushed tones, there’s a soft knock. So soft you almost miss it, but the eerie quiet of the castle has you jumpier than usual.

“Sweetheart,” you hear through the thick wood. “Let me in? Please?”

Maybe it’s your fear in the silence, or maybe it’s the way the rare sweetheart makes your stomach drop; either way you cave, rushing over and heaving the door open.

On the other side of the threshold, Eddie stands, hair unruly like he’s run his hands through it a few times. The curls stick out at odd angles and stand out dark against his alabaster skin.

Something in his eyes makes you break. The tears come thick and fast and before you can hide or apologise or close the door, arms wrap you up and his hand is on your back, smoothing patiently up and down.

It’s not the most comfortable hug; his armour is mostly leather and cloth but the toughness of it all makes it difficult to completely lean into him. As though he senses that, he pulls back, though his hand lingers on your arm where he gives you a squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, palms smudging wet tears across your face in an attempt to dry your eyes. “That was so mean of me, I’m sorry.”

“I just want to know what you mean,” he says, his eyes sadder than you’ve ever seen them. You dreaded this inevitability the moment you let the blame fall from your lips, but you owe him that much.

You sigh, look down at your feet, and resign yourself to truth.

“Father… He loves me, but he loves the throne just as much. And I’m the eldest, and I’m almost twenty-two, so…”

In your peripheral vision you see him sag, his shoulder dropping in premature realisation.

“He brought all those men here, and not one of them was even slightly as interesting to me as you.”

Eddie looks at you, at the tears that periodically drop from your cheeks to the floor, listens to you sniff and hiccup, and wonders how on Earth you exist, let alone how you’ve landed here, with feelings so profound for him of all people.

“That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me,” he tells you honestly. You look up at him and the sight winds him: you’re crying, and it’s sad and stressful and difficult but you’re so beautiful.

You giggle and to him, it’s the ringing of a thousand bells by a thousand angels. It’s golden and brilliant. “I’m surprised,” you say, your smile lingering. “You’re really very lovely.”

He steps forward and reaches up, taking your chin in his gloved hand. You look back at him and sigh without meaning to as he moves his hand to cup your cheek and wipes stray tears away with his thumb. It takes your mind back to loud music, seven goblets, and a wine-stained thumb between his teeth.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells you quietly. There’s no one around but this still feels painfully scandalous, like glass that could - and will - shatter at any moment. No sudden movements.

You smile into his palm. “Stop it.”

“It’s true,” he says as his thumb moves across your skin, over the remnants of the cut across your cheekbone, over expanse of skin to your lips.

You watch him as he takes a deep breath in.

“I wasn’t reassigned,” he admits to you. You match him, breathing deep through your nose, preparing for the truth. “Well, I asked to be reassigned. I had to plead, really, because your father… He’s a good man.”

You roll your eyes without thinking and feel your bottom lip quivering again, the tears reemerging.

“He told me I’d never be able to see you again,” you tell him in a whisper.

“That’s my fault.”

“What?” You lift your head upright and he drops his hand, bringing it to his hair instead to run it through the curls again.

“I asked that I be kept away from you.”

“Why?! Why on earth would you… What could possibly possess you?”

“I couldn’t go through that again,” he says. “I couldn’t be near you. It was too… Too painful, and I let it get the better of me when I punched Lord Carver.”

“You were protecting me,” you say flatly. “That’s- That was your job.”

The emphasis hurts. “I know,” he sighs, “But… I wanted to kill him.”

“I don’t understand,” you tell him. You despise the whimper your words come out with, the way your jaw clenches to hold back more tears. What you can see of his neck above the collar of his thick tunic and under the cover of ringlets of tired hair is blotchy, coming up rosy in uneven patches. Is he stressed? Nervous? Both?

Your vision blurs with tears and your nose burns. He looks back at you softly, just like always, his eyes dark and inviting. Your lip wobbles again and you hear his breath hitch in the quiet.

“Let me show you,” he offers as he holds your cheek again. You cannot help but lean in, head tipping to the left to feel the expanse of leather over your cheek, his thumb dancing softly across your skin.

“No, I- You have to explain yourself, I don’t-”

“Please?” He looks at you with those fucking eyes of his and you want to kick him and kiss him all at once. “Do you trust me?”

The urge to kick him persists but you nod anyway. Perhaps the kicking is not a frustration aimed at him but at yourself instead: why can you not tell him how you feel? Why does the possibility of what he’s about to do scare you so much?

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit to him in a whisper. You feel naked before him, though there’s layers of thick velvet and scuffed leather between the two of you, a hundred barriers of material, an aching yawn of distance that you find yourself disliking immensely.

Can Eddie read your mind? It feels that way right now - you only uttered six words but he seems to understand you entirely at this moment. He drops his hand from your face, takes a step back, and as you watch him wordlessly unbuckle his armour, your stomach contracts and your soul becomes hollow in anticipation. He removes the belt that the sword usually sits on, and then his leather gauntlets, pulling each finger from the gloves and placing them, too, on the table. As he peels off each piece of his uniform, creating a growing pile on the wood and on your floor, you see, for the first time since that night when you were nineteen, the bloom of his flesh under his billowing undershirt. He’s paler now than he was then, though the moonlight seeping in through the cracks between heavy curtains over your windows is no match for the golden wash of colour he had once basked in. If you had any sense you’d laugh at the display before you: endless metal defences and leather covers come away from his body and pile noisily beside him. But you’re transfixed, fingers fidgeting, bottom lip absentmindedly between your teeth.

You do not notice him glance at you every so often. Between removing each greave, he looks up at you again, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the flurry of blood to his cheeks. He’s baring himself, and you’re looking at him like he’s edible; perhaps, to you, he is.

After many minutes filled only by the sounds of deconstructed armour, metal and leather, he’s free of it, and he stands before you in a loose shirt and cotton slacks. His pale chest is visible behind the deep, un-tied collar and your fingers itch, fidgeting still, yearning to know what it feels like.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”

“I saw you like this, once,” you say quickly, voice so low it’s almost a whisper. You’re looking at everything - his arms, his legs, neck, chest, hands - except his eyes.

He’s taken aback. “What?”

“Years ago. I was nineteen. You were outside-” You turn to look through the open balcony door behind you, at the bright white gleaming down on the stone beyond. “-polishing. It was so beautiful out there, but I remember watching you for ages.”

You turn back, eyes on his finally. As ever, they’re wide and deep brown and beautiful. “Sorry. I know that’s strange. And forbidden, I guess.”

“No,” he breathes, taking a step towards you. “No, it’s fine- It’s okay.”

The air is thick and between that and your corset, you can barely breathe. He’s inching closer and it’s difficult to know where to look.

Nobody has ever been this close to you before. Not truly; you kiss your father and mother on the cheek before heading to bed each evening, you give your sisters fleeting embraces, you've fooled around with stableboys and, of course, you once loved to lean into his space whenever you teased Eddie, but this is different. Someone electing to be so near, choosing to breathe your air and not flinching or pulling back, instead lingering just to let his eyes dance over yours once more - it’s new, and it’s addictive.

He’s breathing your air but you’re also breathing his. The hills of his cheeks are mere whispers from your own, and his nose, crooked at the bridge where it once broke, nudges yours so lightly that you ought not feel it. It takes your breath away anyway.

At the sound of your gasp he smiles, only slightly, but you’re so close you see it in his eyes. Crows' feet emerge, wrinkling happiness beside his temples, and you can’t help but return it. As you fight the urge to close your eyes you watch him as he watches you, bated breaths and whimpers. All of a sudden he meets your gaze and you stumble where your foot had been resting on your other ankle. The heel of your slipper slides across bare skin and your balance goes, but before you can panic or cry out, you are pulled in breathless by his strong arm around your back. There may be layers upon layers of fabric but you feel it anyway, the electric jolts up your spine where his palm presses firm into your waist. Whether he means to or not is unclear, but you’re chest-to-chest with him now, the firm bones of your corset pushed against his shirt.

Your fingers spread across the fabric of his shirt. Without meaning to, you venture upwards, fingertips meeting the small smattering of coarse hair there, under the cotton. You watch your hands like they’re moving on their own, until his finger, hooked beneath your chin, tilts you up to meet his eye again.

It’s happening, you think to yourself. But then his arm, still around your middle, tightens briefly and he’s gone.

You watch him cross your room, the few steps he takes to your bed suddenly a criminal distance, too far, far too far. He sits upright on the edge of it, legs parted.

“Come here,” he says, his voice a melodic tug at your core. You move to him, sliding each of your slippers off on the way, and stand hesitantly between his knees, holding your breath without thinking to.

You can’t look at him. You caught a glimpse of his eyes and the way they’re looking up at you and you can’t. It’ll surely kill you.

He thinks you’re perfect, standing here, towering over him, relenting. His tough palms smooth over the layers of deep red velvet that lie over your hips, and for a moment he allows himself to relish in the small noises of shock you’re making before he urges you to turn around.

“You know,” he begins as his deft fingers untie and release the intricate ribbons at your back. “It wasn’t your fault.”

You turn your head towards him, as far round as you can. “What?”

“The… What happened, that afternoon. The way he spoke to you…” Eddie’s fingers still for a moment and you hear him take a deep breath. “The way he touched you. I don’t know what your father- what His Majesty said about it, but it wasn’t your fault.”

His left hand begins pulling at the ribbons again, but his right rests safely on your waist, as though he’s demonstrating something: how you should be touched, the way you deserve, soft and kind and gentle and wanted.

You hum in agreement.

“And I truly am sorry I punched him,” he says. “It- If I’d just told him to back away, it never would have become such… Such a thing, a big deal.”

“Eddie,” you breathe, grateful that you can get a lung-full again. You turn back to him in his grasp and take his face in both hands. Your palms are warm but they’re nothing compared to the flames of his cheeks, which almost burn under your touch. “I’m not mad that you punched him. I wish I’d done it, truly. But I’m never mad that you want to protect me.”

Your hands on his face startle him. You both sense it in the moment, how unlike you this is, to touch him so willingly and so carefully.

“I don’t think you needed me to protect you,” he says quietly, a smile emerging though he tries his best to hold it back. “Your elbow seemed to do a good enough job of that.”

Ah! The sound of your feather-light laugh fills a yawning gap in his chest that appeared two and a half weeks ago. It sounds even more beautiful than before, a twinkling spark of a sound, just for him.

“You’re funny,” you tell him. “I’ll always need you, Ser Munson. Don’t worry about that.”

He looks up at you from his seat on the edge of your bed with eyes that sparkle like the sky outside. Perhaps it’s the reflection of the faded stars painted onto your ceiling, or perhaps it’s just the sight of you.

Both of his hands are on your waist, now, as you stand between his legs. There’s a lot of material in your skirt, though, and it feels too distant still, so you reach behind your back to pull the remainder of the ribbons keeping your corset on, and pull it over your head. Eddie helps where he can from such a low vantage point, and as soon as it’s off and disregarded on the floor, his eager fingers are pulling the velvet dress down and away from your body.

“Fucking hell,” he heaves, “How many things do you have on right now?”

“You’re one to talk,” you giggle. “It took you five whole minutes just to free your arms.”

“Okay, but that’s important. I don’t want to lose my arms. This must weigh a tonne, and… For what?”

You hold his cheek in your left hand again while he unties various laces and undoes buttons. Your skirt has fallen away, as has the underskirt and the other, thicker layers. You’re left in your underdress, a simple white cotton embroidered at the collar. It’s nicer than the one he caught you in all those weeks ago, moments before your life seemed to tilt and slip away beneath you.

Under the fabric, your nipples harden in the cold, jutting out and catching Eddie’s eye.

“Is this okay?” He asks, pulling you in anyways, standing you safely between his knees, his wide hands tentative on your hips. “We don’t have to-”

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Please, yes.”

His hands slide over the hills of your behind to the backs of your thighs. He’s still looking up at you, eyes drooping when your fingers dance through his hair.

“I meant it, though,” you say. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” he sighs, standing slowly. “I have all the time for you.”

The moonlight bleeds a sharp bluish hue but it doesn’t matter. Right now, as he says those lovely words, the boy is a golden ball of light, humming pinks and warm ochre. Your yearning arms wind over his shoulders as his breath mixes with yours once more, his nose nudges the swell of your cheek, his hands press firm into your waist. He’s slow with it, tantalising, keeping you whimpering and desperate, until he finally dips into you, lips on yours with a surprising urgency.

It’s magic, you are so sure of it. His mouth moves over yours with certainty: he wants to be here, he wants to kiss you. He’s wanted to kiss you.

All those fairytales that your wiry old school teacher told you were real, about spells and conjurings and spirits: it’s all real, surely, and it’s in this feeling. There’s no other way you can understand it, though in truth your brain isn’t entirely clear because his fingers are smoothing lower, bunching your dress in his fists to pull the fabric up over the stretch of your legs. All the while his kisses never cease; in fact, once you feel the cool air over the material of your underwear, you gasp and welcome his tongue with your own. Air is worthless to you now; all you want is Eddie.

Much to your dismay, he seems to disagree, pulling back from you to take a breath and lift your dress over your head. He whispers up and you raise your arms, letting him undress you quietly, and once he has, you daren’t open your eyes, instead winding your arms across your chest. You feel the nighttime breeze across the backs of your thighs and you tense knowing that you’re bare in front of him.

There’s a slow beat before you feel his hands again. You hear the dress discarded on the stone floor and then his rough fingers are gently, oh so gently, holding your waist. It’s like he thinks you could break.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course you can.”

You expect more solid grabs of flesh, hands smoothing over the expanse of your stomach, maybe even venturing upwards, but you take in a surprised breath when you feel his mouth on your sternum.

His rough hands hold your lower back and he kisses, framing each of your breasts with rows of feather-light pecks, dancing blossoms of affection. You drop your hands to his hair as you let out a breath of satisfaction, tangling your fingers in the curls as his mouth rises.

The whine of your name that leaves your lips is met with his hands tightening, fingers almost curling into the flesh of your back. His kisses turn eager, frantic, crossing the mounds of each of your breasts. His hands leave you to pull his shirt over his head and it’s too much all at once: too much to see, feel, know. You can’t take it in before he’s kissing you again, less than kind as his arms pull your bare chests flush.

Your fingers explore new terrain, which is littered with freckles and white, years-old scars that stretch over his alabaster skin, each one a story that you hope he will tell you one day.

“Eddie,” you pant. He returns the sentiment, breathing your name over and over into your mouth as he sits back down and pulls you into his lap.

The rough of his slacks sends an unfamiliar jolt up your spine when your hips meet his. In the heat of the moment he’s pulling at you a little rough but your gasp draws him out.

“You good?”

“Just… Slow down,” you tell him, resting back on your heels with your hands on his broad, bare shoulders.

“Sorry,” he says. His face is flushed pink and his dark eyes are drooping. “Want to stop?”

“No,” you respond, too quickly to keep your cool. You shake your head. “No, I just- I’m scared I’ll go too fast. I like you too much.”

“I told you,” he says, moving in with his eyes on you. You nod, almost imperceptibly. He kisses your collarbone and then your shoulder. “I have all the time in the world for you.”

“What if someone catches us?”

He pulls back again and reaches up, moving hair from your face and putting it behind your ears. Tidying you up. Fussing over you. It’s nice.

“I promise that everybody who would even think to come anywhere near this room tonight is gone until at least tomorrow afternoon.” He kisses under your jaw, and it returns the shivers back down your spine. “They’re too busy getting drunk. Nobody’s thinking about us.”

“You promise?”

He kisses your chin. “I promise.”

A few years ago, your father entertained a visitor from one of the bigger cities. They had been on a ship for some years and they brought goods the likes of which you’d never seen before: round, vibrant, sharp fruits, powders that made food taste wildly different, and, your favourite, a small collection of fireworks.

In the light of a small bonfire, your father helped the visitor set the wooden tubes alight. They flew off into the air and sparkled, fizzed, popped. It was a display that you couldn’t help but gawk at, enjoying the sizzles and the colours in the deep January sky.

That’s what this feels like. His lips plotting a map across your bare neck, up over your jaw, until they reach your mouth, it feels like seeing fireworks. You keen into his mouth as he licks across your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth gently before letting go, meeting your tongue with his own. His hands at your back pull you in and that flush returns between your legs. He keeps you moving slowly, a lethargic push and pull across his crotch. The dips and folds of the tough fabric there, paired with the growing hardness beneath, give you a friction that you chase instinctively. It’s coupled with a litany of praises whispered into your skin between kisses, and the combination is clearing your head and sending you dizzy.

“That’s it, you’ve got it,” he coos, “Nice and slow for me, yeah? Just-”

Through drooping lids you watch him, his face scrunching in pleasure as you rock against him. It is not lost on you that this feels just as good for him, but you can tell he’s holding something back.

His face relaxes, and he meets your eye. “Hey.” He nudges your nose with his own and takes a deep breath. “You have to breathe, deep breaths. Doesn’t feel half as good if you stop breathing, promise.”

You let out a sigh and a twinkling giggle and he smiles, wide enough that you can see his dimples. He continues showering you with sweet praises, urging you towards oblivion. Look at you. I don’t even need to tell you what to do. You’re so beautiful.

“Fuck- My god.”

The pace quickens as you chase the abyss. His hands don’t move, keeping you anchored to him, moving you back and forth. It’s bliss like you’ve never felt; your own hand could never get you this far. The friction of his pants between your thighs is perfect and your need is ferocious as your stomach winds like a coil.

“C’mon,” he encourages, “You can do it. You’re doing such a good job, c’mon-”

You fall forwards and rest your forehead on his shoulder, whimpering something desperate into his neck as your stomach tenses and bends. Please, Eddie, please, please, please.

A white-hot light sears the darkness behind your eyelids as you come apart for him. He’s calling you all sorts of filthy things but you can barely hear him, brain too occupied by the burning in your belly and his hands, which are seemingly everywhere all at once.

“Good girl,” he whispers into your hairline. He scatters kisses there as you catch your breath.

“Thank you,” you sigh. “Thank you.”

He laughs and you feel it reverberate through his chest.

As you slouch into him, feeling returning to each limb, you feel a foreign yearning in your gut, a relentless feeling that prompts you to squirm. Wriggling, your restless hands paw at his arms and his back and they move lower, until you meet the waistband of his slacks.

You whine into his neck when he won’t move to accommodate your impatience. His hands lure you back from your resting place so he can look at you, with your kiss-swollen lips and happy eyes.

“I need to know that you want this,” he whispers. He rests your foreheads together, the tip of his nose nudging yours.

All you can do is whine. You’re too elated to care to form words, but Eddie’s not having it.

“I need to hear you say it,” he tells you sternly. His eyes do not betray him: they’re steely and suddenly darker than ever.

You dip your head to kiss his jaw, nosing at his cheek, lips and teeth dragging along his skin.

“I want you, Eddie,” you tell him. His fingers tighten at the nape of your neck and pull you back, gentle but firm, as he watches you speak through obsidian eyes. “Please.”

He says nothing as he gives you one more kiss, soft as anything to the pillows of your lips, before helping you off his lap and laying you between the pillows at the head of your bed. You curl up there, the breeze colder still against the wetness between your thighs, which you squeeze together as you watch him stand.

He’s all lean muscle and long limbs. You let yourself gawk for the first time since that night on the balcony; you usually have to ration your glances at him, and he’s always covered by so many layers, so you allow yourself this luxury.

He knows you’re watching, so he makes a little show of it, bending down to get rid of the slacks. Before he does, you notice that the brown has deepened around his crotch with the stains of your pleasure. Acknowledging this makes you shiver, and though you feel you should be disgusted, it’s oddly comforting instead.

When he looks over at you, finally bared and unflinching, he takes a moment to take you in.

You’re still glowing, perhaps more so than before. Some of your hair is stuck to your face, plastered there in the heat of your first orgasm, but the rest of it is laid out around your head like a halo. It’s unfair that you can be so casually magnificent. You’re also not looking at him - well, not meeting his eye, anyway. The tip of your index finger is between your teeth as you take in the sight before you, Eddie as hard as he’s ever been, just for you.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

You look up at his face and break out in a grin. “Absolutely.”

He’s slower than you want, leaning over you, his knees on the comforter beside you, mouth lazy as he gives you kisses. You take and take, happy under his touch.

His hands are everywhere again. Your skin is on fire, aflame from the praise and the affection and the attention. The sensation of being so close to another person while naked like this is achingly unfamiliar but learning it is nice, new, natural. Though it’s nothing like anything you’ve ever experienced before, you’re finding that you like it. You like smoothing your hands over his back, feeling the dips and peaks of his muscles there, or around to the slight pudge of his stomach, just above a thatch of hair similar to your own. You like the feeling of his palms on your shoulders, down your arms, across your waist. You like that when he kisses you, you feel the nudge of his nose beside yours. You like that he appears breathless to you, like your kisses are preferable to air, especially when he becomes restless and impatient.

Above you, his hand moves south, fingers burying their way between your legs. Without realising it, you’ve been squeezing them together, desperate for any relief you can find, but his fingers are certainly better. They push your knees apart so that he can climb into your space, his waist framed by your thighs, the weight of him crashing into you as he dips again to kiss you silly. You wind your arms around his neck and pull him in, enjoying the proximity rather than fleeing from it, and feeling desperate without shame.

One hand hooks under your thigh while the other plants firmly on the mattress beside your head.

“You ready?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“I’m going to go slow,” he tells you, his lips moving against yours lest he get too far away. “Just tell me if you want to stop, please?”

“Yes,” you pant, “Yes, of course, please-”

The hand beneath your thigh escapes and he holds himself as you wind your arms under his, around his chest, pulling him in tight.

It’s definitely slow. A slow, tantalising push between your thighs, filling that gaping yearning within your gut. He’s big, though it barely takes you by surprise because of course he is.

He’s panting, biting his lip above you. “Fuck-” he gasps, “Shit- You okay?”

You nod as fervently as you can because words are escaping you and all you can think about is him, hovering over you, pushing into you, breathing your air and nudging your cheek.

“You feel- You feel so good,” he breathes, pushing further. You nod in agreement and tug him closer still, until he’s in as far as he can go, filling you to the hilt.

The proximity dazzles you as you open your eyes and examine his face. The scrunch between his brows, the freckles across his crooked nose, his teeth biting firm into his lip. It feels only natural to lean up and plot a path of kisses across the hills of his face, bright, happy kisses that relax him until he can kiss you back. He lets the weight of his body fall into yours, keeping some pressure on his arm so as not to crush you entirely, but the feeling of closeness is too comfortable for him to forego.

He speaks into the flesh of your cheek when he says, “I’m going to start moving, okay?”

“Yes,” you pant, and he does, pulling slowly away before pushing back. The friction of the movement over your clit adds to the swelling feeling of fullness each time he returns to you, and the pleasure is almost overwhelming. You take heavy breaths until they become moans, matched by his own noises. Your head is empty and all you want to do is become him; being here, underneath him, is never quite enough. Instead you wish you could, in this moment, under the stars and the moon and wrapped in the night breeze, merge with your knight and stay here forever.

Your lazy daydreams are interrupted when he groans and mutters some kind of praise into your hairline: You’re doing so well. Fuck, so good. And then, to your surprise, you feel his free hand traverse the expanse of your body, between the two of you, over the hill of your stomach until the pads of his fingers find your clit.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Perhaps you haven’t melted together, but this somehow got even better. His cock moves just as quick as he draws lucid circles with his middle and ring fingers over you. He kindles the flame like an expert as his mouth drops kisses messily across your own lips. That’s it: everything is messy, lazy, desperate. He moves and kisses and whispers please, come on, come for me, are you okay? I know you can do it, you feel so good, you’re beautiful.

The hot wire returns. It burns as it coils, tighter and tighter around an abyss in your gut, tugging on each limb like you might implode and become a black hole right here in your bed.

“Eddie, oh my god-”

“Come on.��

“Unngh- It feels s- So good-”

“Come on, sweetheart.”

His movements never relent as you come, the wire burning out in a white-hot bang. You yelp, moaning his name, and he keeps going through it all, kissing you silly all over your face. It’s only when you start to squirm that he slows, brings his busy hand out from between the two of you and smiles. He allows himself a moment to watch you, face lax and mouth agape, sweaty brow and hair a mess, before he taps your hollow cheek with his knuckles.

You open heavy eyes to look back at him and watch as he smirks down at you and brings two messy fingers to his mouth. He’s still inside you and he feels it, the way you squeeze him just slightly as he tastes you on his tongue, making a little show of it for you. He hears you gasp, panting like a dog, and even the moan that leaves you when he pulls his fingers free and they glisten in the low light. “Holy shit,” you breathe, and he breaks out in a grin before he can stop himself. “Holy shit, Eddie.”

“Happy?” he asks.

“Happy? Fuck yeah, I’m happy.”

His laughter is deep and loud, a rumble from his chest that makes you grin back at him.

“What about you?” you ask, eyes drooping again, bringing the back of your hand to your forehead. It burns there, like you have a fever. You must look a state.

“I’m more than happy,” he says, smiling. “You up for a little more?

You look at him. “Hm?”

“I, uh… I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock,” he admits, flushing, “And you… You feel so good, and I’d like to… Y’know.”

He feels bad for a second when your eyes widen and you look down quickly. “Oh, Eddie, shit, did you not- Oh my god, I’m so selfish, are you okay?”

Your hands are everywhere all of a sudden, pawing at his arms and his chest, your fawning interrupted by another bellowing laugh. When you giggle back, he winces, feeling it in the way your body pulls him tighter.

“I’m fine,” he assures you, “But I want to try something.”

“Of course,” you say.

“You sure you’re okay to keep going?”

“Yes,” you sigh, “I want to help you, I want you to feel good too.”

“Hold on, then,” he says, threading an arm between your back and the sweat-damp mattress. You wind your arms back around his neck and yelp when he swings you around, all the while keeping his cock firmly inside your walls.

“Fuck,” you splutter, planting your hands either side of his head.

He likes this view. Your face hovering over his, your knees either side of his waist. He holds you by the hips, feeling the curves and dips, pushing impatient fingers into the flesh at the base of your back.

“God, you are gorgeous,” he says. He likes this view, too, watching you flush and bat your eyelashes, made nervous under his gaze and by his lovely, genuine words.

“Not too bad yourself,” you respond, smiling, lifting one hand to push curls from his warm face.

This feeling is new but it’s lovely. Gravity pulls you onto him and it feels as though he’s somehow even deeper than before. His hands at your ass fist at the flesh there and he tells you he’s going to help you, that you may be worn out and that’s okay, and as he helps you lift yourself upwards, you get the hang of it.

You plant your hands firmly on the expanse of his chest and drop yourself down before pushing yourself back up again. It helps to sit upright so you do, letting him hold you and watch you and god, his face is a picture.

He’s scrunching his nose again, eyes tight as he huffs each time you drop onto him. He’s droopy and blissful as you move up and down, circling your hips just a bit, letting him guide you. It burns after so long but it’s nothing compared to the warmth in your chest watching him near the edge. His stomach tenses, the muscles flexing between your thighs, as his breathing becomes more ragged. And suddenly his arms come up your back and pull you down flush and inside your walls, his cock sits as far in as he can push it. You feel him stiffen and shudder and the warmth as he comes inside, hugging you close, his forehead on your shoulder.

He warns you as he pulls out, and then you lie still, spent, limbs going soft together. The sky is a pale blue-green now, the sun soon to cross the horizon. You can hear birds, and the soft morning light coats your skin in a kind of effervescent glow.

Eddie’s breathing lulls you into a doze, but after a short while he stirs. The space between your core and his is sticky and damp and it’s uncomfortable for a short moment, until he tells you quietly that he’s going to get up and get a rag. He moves you softly onto your back and you sigh, a happy, contented sound, watching him move around your space so comfortably.

He returns from the water basin with a damp cloth, cleaning the remnants of your night from between your legs. You wince when he does, only because you’re tired and sore and the cloth is cold, but he apologises and kisses the inside of your knee.

“Eddie?”

He’s at the basin again, rinsing the rag. “Mhm?”

“Do you really think everyone will be gone until the afternoon?”

You catch him smiling at your question, like he knows what’s coming.

“If you want to play it safe, lets say noon.”

“And what time is it now?”

He looks over to the clock, which sits above your mantlepiece, ticking softly.

“Early,” is all he says. “Early enough.”

“Stay with me?”

He drops the rag over the side of the basin and pads over to you. The mattress dips as he rejoins you, this time lifting your sheets to bury the two of you beneath them.

“I told you,” he says quietly, kissing the peak of your shoulder and pulling you in, his arm around your waist, “I have all the time in the world for you.”

The castle is bustling. People rush here and there, carrying armfuls of floral arrangements, buckets of wine, heaving plates of food. Your home is lively and noisy and your mother is pacing, directing the placement of each bouquet and chair.

In your chamber, the noise seems far away. Your maids finish tying your corset and your shoe ribbons before filtering off to complete other tasks. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above your fireplace. Red really is your colour.

There’s a resolute knock at your door. The maids stand to attention and move out of your way as your knight pushes the doors open and you step through to the hall.

“Thank you, Dustin,” you say to him.

Your new knight, a replacement both for Eddie and for the man who took his place all those months ago, bows kindly at your regards. He’s young, younger than yourself and Eddie, but keen and worthy and you’re more than happy.

And then he appears, your beacon, a gorgeous vision of handsome beauty.

Eddie, Ser Munson, your knight. Or, rather, your former knight. He’s been promoted to fiancé.

He stands at the top of the stairs, looking back at you like you hung the stars. To him, you may as well have. You are all he has eyes for now, especially now, after giving up his duties and telling your father: Your daughter is my true and only duty.

“My god,” he breathes. You step over to him, too giddy to maintain any air of grace or class. Your step is more like skipping, your love for him giving you far too much energy to merely walk to him.

He holds his arm for you and you take it, leaning up on tip-toes to give him a chaste kiss to the cheek.

“How do you do it?” he says in a low voice, dipping his head so you can hear him as the two of you descend the stairs, Dustin in step behind you.

You’re smiling while you cling to his arm. “Hm?”

“How do you keep getting more beautiful?”

“Just think, Munson,” you say in a whisper, “By the time we’re one hundred, think of how beautiful I’ll be by then.”

“I dread to think,” he says sarcastically, squeezing your arm with his. You look up at him and the noise and fervour of the castle falls away. He looks back down at you and smiles, and it’s truly the only thing that matters.

The engagement party, your sisters, your parents, your birthright - what is any of it for, what does any of it mean, when you have the one thing you ever wanted?

author’s note Hey! Thanks for reading (or scrolling all this way). It's been so long since I uploaded my last fic and I’ve been lurking ever since - I miss u all but there isn’t really any room in my life for writing anymore. I have loved doing this and thank you all so so much for reading everything! I’ll be about, so the blog will stay and you can read whatever you want whenever you want. I love ya, I’ll miss ya, see ya l8r!

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swordsandholly · 7 months ago

Text

Across The Way

Ch. 2: And So It Begins

Retired!Ghoap x fem!plus size!Reader

MDNI

Ao3 | Previous - Next

Word Count: 2.6k

Summary: You go to Scotland with high hopes for your future. After all, you have the bakery you always dreamed of and a whole new life to live. Plus, the men who own the butcher’s shop across the street seem nice.

A/N: I got this out a lot faster than I thought I would. Hopefully my work doesn’t get too insane and I can get the next out in a timely manner - it’s going to be a bigger one!

“You were right.” Simon carefully cuts through the loaf with a serrated knife. He’s never lost his skill with them, despite their uses becoming increasingly more domestic over the years. It’s charming, in a way - the juxtaposition of where they started and where they are now.

“Right about whit?” Johnny asks.

“She is a pretty little thing.”

“Donnae tell me I need tae be worried about ye sneakin’ off at work.” He jokes. Simon would never, of course, but it’s fun to see the way his cheeks heat up at the implication. Without his mask he wears every expression with reckless abandon.

Simon settles his large frame into the seat across from Johnny at the dining table. It’s small, they don’t need much. The chairs always creak under Simon’s weight in an almost threatening fashion. He pushes a plate with two pieces of the bread and some eggs over to Johnny. There’s an odd tug in his chest when he picks up the slice - an urge to be gentle as he spreads butter over it. Gentility is not a compulsion he feels often.

“S’good.” Simon mutters around his bite.

Johnny nods along after taking one himself. There’s love in it - he can tell. A piece carefully crafted with only absolute perfection in mind. How strange that food can carry such a feeling.

“Was a wee bit worried we’d be stuck across from the nicest, worst baker in the world.” He mutters.

Simon huffs out a half laugh.

~~~

Your first week goes by in a blur. For a small town they sure do manage to keep you busy. It’s good, you remind yourself. Better than none. If you keep it up at this rate you’ll be able to hire help by the end of the summer quarter.

By Monday, the first day of your “weekend”, you’re overdone. Head dizzy and body exhausted, you spend the day in bed. It’s a gratifying exhaustion, one you hope to build more of a tolerance for. As of now, though, you elect to remain deeply buried under the covers.

When you wake for a second time the sun is already near setting again. The entirety of Monday slunk by with you in bed. You grumble to yourself angrily like an old man. You wanted to unpack today - to at least get your clothes and kitchen items put away.

“Stupid.” You grouse. At least you still have time to shower, you suppose.

As you stand the world blacks out for a moment, your body swaying in place. You allow yourself to fall back on the bed, sitting while your vision slowly comes back into focus. Blinking away black dots and off squiggles that dance across your eyes. On attempt number two you manage it, making your way to the bathroom.

The work is worth it. The pain is worth it.

This is what you always wanted, after all.

You are happy. You can feel it in your bones. They’re lighter than they used to be - your whole body thrums with excited energy even as you have to lower yourself with the upmost care into the shower seat. Even as you have to scrape one of the cheap fold out chairs you managed to get over to the stove while you cook a late night dinner. Thank god for low counters.

When you were arranging your schedule it took a while to get it perfected. To compensate for your body you have to have time to rest and be able to do a lot of baking preparation before the work week starts. Monday and Tuesday are for rest. Wednesdays are for prep. The shop is closed but you’re in the back working your ass off mixing and kneading and shaping doughs. As well as practicing new recipes you want to add to the store’s line up eventually. Your goal is to sell American biscuits, preferably in batches of six, but those take a lot of work and don’t keep as long. They’ll have to wait until you have hired help.

It’s all chance and whatever you can manage to make happen. You learned to be okay with that, though.

You’ve got plenty of spoons, you tell yourself. Just need to use them wisely.

When you finally close the fridge, now fully stocked with dough ready to proof and bake, you check the clock. It’s still the early afternoon. You finished sooner than you assumed you might. The thought makes you giddy - makes you feel accomplished.

It makes you feel normal.

As you exit into the warm spring sun you take a moment. Ever since you arrived you haven’t been able to just stop. To just take everything in - let the foreign air fill your lungs and the aura of the town sink into your bones.

It’s a lovely little main street that you’re located on. The building to your left is a large family owned pharmacy (very convenient for you) and to your right is an empty brick building. It looks like a former post office, but from what you know the current post office is a few blocks down beside the grocers. It’s quaint, the lot of it.

Your eyes settle on the shop across from yours housed in a simple brick building painted white. The upstairs is an apartment much like yours, you think, but from what you know it currently remains empty. The sign above the door reads A Cut Above the Rest. You wonder if that was Simon or Johnny’s doing.

Would it be weird to go in? You suppose not, after all they came to yours. It’s only fair you give them some patronage as well. Plus you need to ask how the bread was. Hopefully they liked it - you realized halfway through the night that you didn’t even ask if they like sourdough before shoving it into their hands.

That thought kept you up later than you’d like to admit.

You look both ways down the street. This particular spot doesn’t have a crosswalk but the road is so dead even when the downtown is busy you figure it’s worth risking. The lack of danger doesn’t stop you from fast-walking across, though.

The shop’s old-fashioned door bell chimes prettily as you push it open. For a butcher it smells extremely clean - almost clinical. It’s small, with an L shaped display counter and a register at the end nearest the door. Packages of sausage links and the like hang on displays across the back wall. Beside the wooden saloon doors that lead behind the counter is a little dog bed with a very well crafted name plate reading Riley hanging right above it.

So cute.

“Afternoon.” Simon appears from the back, wiping his hands on a rag. You jump a little, so lost in taking in your surroundings you forgot what you came here for.

“H-hi!” You smile. You forgot how intimidating Simon is. His gaze levels you - pins you underneath him like a fly under a swatter. Maybe that’s a bit dramatic. “I thought I’d come check your shop out and ask how the bread was?”

“It was good.” He replies bluntly. Totally monotone. The corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. You decide that’s it’s a smile - whether that’s the reality of his expression or not.

“It’s really nice in here.” You look around. There isn’t much for decoration. The walls are too covered in menus and diagrams of cuts to leave room for anything extra. There’s a shelf of odds and ends opposite the main counter full of high end mustards and condiments. Little things to go with whatever you could think to make out of the varieties of meat they offer.

“Thanks.” Simon nods. “One moment.”

You watch with curiosity and a slight frown as he makes his way into the back. He almost has to duck under the doorway. Old buildings with low ceilings and all that. The place definitely wasn’t made with a six foot plus behemoth in mind. You continue to look around, rocking back and forth on your heels. They have a perfect score on their inspectors plaque. You might not know Simon well, but he seems the type to be absolutely precise about everything. The score doesn’t surprise you.

Yours is almost perfect - some rules are different here than in the US. Next time, you swear you’ll get it top notch! You look across the street at your shop. You wonder if you made the wrong choice with The Honey Bun. It’s bit much now that you see it from afar but it still makes you smile. That’s what matters, you guess.

Simon comes back out with a small, nicely wrapped package. “You don’t ‘ave any dietary restrictions d’you?”

You shake your head and he pushes the package toward you. Your eyes widen - it’s a great cut of high end beef. Like, really good beef as far as you know. Something you’d never be able to afford even if your business wasn’t brand new. You stare between Simon and the little pack in your hands. “Th-this is so nice but I-“

“It’s only fair.” He cuts you off. “Neighbors, yeah?”

You can’t help the grin that splits your face, eyes misting up despite yourself. Kindness has not been a constant in your life - more of a rarity. Something you had to claw and fight to earn. Being given it so freely but such a taciturn man has you reeling just a bit.

“Thank you… I’ve got to head back but, uh, thank you. Really.” You press the small package to your chest. “Tell Johnny I said hi?”

“Course.” He nods.

“Thanks again!” You grin, giving a little two finger salute before practically skipping all the way back into your dingy little apartment. Happily, you pack away the meat to use later. It’s too nice to just make any dish out of - best to save it for a special occasion. Your first gift in your new life. Best to savor it.

~~~

“Afternoon, bonnie.” Johnny appears in your doorway while you sweep up from the Saturday rush, bell chiming upon his entrance. “Hope I’m not a bother.”

“Not at all.” You smile, resting the broom on the counter. “Hello to you as well, Miss Riley.”

She huffs out a quiet bark in reply, sitting dutifully at Johnny’s feet. You don’t have much experience with service dogs - other than the well known rule not to pet them while they’re working. They were always too expensive for you to get and your condition wasn’t labeled serious enough to warrant financial aid. (Despite the fact that you can, and have, passed out and hit your head on something hard.)

“Can I get you something?” You ask.

“Och, I’m a’right. Just wanted tae stop by an’ say hello before headin’ home.” He gives you that dashing, bright grin. “Simon always kicks me out of the shop at close.”

“He doesn’t need help?” You ask. Surely cleaning up a butchers shop is a huge task. You have your work cut out for you with all the flower - you can’t imagine cleaning that amount of blood and mess.

Johnny shrugs. “The cleaning chemicals trigger my migraines.”

You hum. “Well, you’re always welcome to stop by. Actually,” you turn on your heel, “I’ve got somethin’ I’d like you to try, if you want.”

“Never one to say no to food. Especially from a pretty girl.” Johnny says as he follows. He tells Riley to stay in front and she listens - the perfect little lady that she is. You nearly trip at his comment, keeping your back turned so that he hopefully doesn’t see the heat spreading from your face and down your neck.

“I-it’s, uh, you ever had American biscuits?” You ask, praying he doesn’t notice the shake in your voice. You have to get on your tip toes to reach the small basket you made the day prior - carefully lowering it and pulling back the gingham cloth you wrapped them in.

An image of home.

“Aye, had them once on a layover at some chain diner.” He nods. “Donnae think they were fresh, though.”

“Well these are proper biscuits.” You carefully cut one in half with ease. “Sometime I’ll have to make you some gravy to go with.”

“Yer gonnae make us fat, hen.” Johnny chuckles.

“There are worse things to be.” The words come out more defensive than you would have liked. An automatic mechanism - a harshness you've honed over the years.

You hate how easily you wield it, sometimes.

Johnny leans forward over the table, a furrow in his brow. “I dinnae mean-“

“Here.” You cut him off and hold out the biscuit on a napkin, smothered with butter in the middle.

Johnny lets your interruption go. Probably happy for an out. He takes the fluffy baked good slowly, cupping it in his large hand with care. You wonder if he always does that, touches things with such gentle love. Is it learned? Is it just natural to him? Does he touch Simon like that? Gentle caresses?

What’s that like?

Johnny takes a massive, enthusiastic bite. Somehow his blue eyes manage to sparkle even more, grinning as he chews. “Sh’gew!”

You laugh at his attempt to talk around the food. “Glad you like it.”

He swallows roughly. A full body gulp. “Why’d ye start bakin’ anyway?”

“My grandparents raised me.” You fold the biscuits back up in their little basket. “My grandma taught me how. She was the best in town - won the pie contest almost every year.”

“Tha’s lovely.” The smile he gives you is so genuine it makes your chest constrict.

“Mean old bat but she could beat anyone in the kitchen.” You laugh. “We swore she had some kinda magic. Like a green thumb but for cooking.”

“My mum’s like tha’. Can make anythin’ out of nothin’.” He nods along.

You fall into an easy back and forth - never breaching anything deeper than the most surface level of content as he eats. It’s manageable. Johnny doesn’t push and neither do you.

Riley barks from the front of the shop.

“Och, tha’s my queue.” Johnny brushes off his hands and checks the front of his shirt for crumbs. “Take care, aye?”

You smile. “You too.”

~~~

Johnny’s words keep ringing in your ears. You don’t know why. It’s nothing special. There’s no reason to attach to them. You raise a hand to wipe off the fog and stare in the small mirror hung above your bathroom sink.

Pretty girl.

You scoff. You’re not a pretty girl. You’ve never been a pretty girl. Fat girl. Stupid girl. Sick girl. Tired girl. Sad girl.

That last one you’ve heard more than anything else. Out of all the descriptors of you it stands out as the most used. By everyone from teachers to your own family. Always just a sad, sad girl.

You got it from your mom, they’d say. It’s not like you would ever know.

You rip your eyes away from the mirror and try to let the thoughts melt away as you sink into the comfort of your blankets. Those thoughts live back on the other side of the Atlantic. They don’t get to follow you here.

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marthawrites · 6 months ago

Text

Between the Covers

Modern Aemond Targaryen x girlfriend reader

Word count: 3.4k+

Can be read as a one shot but reads best as part two to Summer's End, Autumn's Beginning

About: During a cozy night in at your place, Aemond discovers your new taste for “literature”. Upon confronting you about it he makes a deal. Part of you wants to say no… but, you ultimately agree to his terms.

Includes: Established relationship, fluff, teasing, banter, and smut featuring breast play (reader is implied to have sensitive breasts), minor vampire play, pussy eating, vaginal fingering, Aemond loses his mind at the mention of blood sucking, dirty talk, vaginal sex, and reader and Aemond say 'I love you'

Note: Hello lovely reader! This might be ooc for Aemond but it's ic for the Aemond in my heart! My heart and pussy wrote this so if you have a problem with it up take it up with them!! Reader is non-descript! As always, I hope you enjoy this fic ♥

Autumn turned to winter, then winter to spring, and things with you and Aemond were better than ever. According to Aegon the two of you were “disgustingly cute”, and Helaena, on more than one occasion, admitted how she’d never seen her little brother so happy.

Alys, despite her best efforts, had been fully removed from the picture after the last big fight that had you and Aemond taking a long self-reflecting break.

Perhaps the universe really did do you a favor by making you face an ugly side of yourself–jealousy, distrustfulness, suspicion. Was it fun to look at in the eyes? No. Absolutely not. But, it made you realize things about yourself which ultimately lead you and Aemond to give the relationship another chance: a real honest chance.

He too was far from perfect and had his own baggage and scores to settle. But at the end of the day you two were fucking wild for each other. And that’s all that mattered.

While your third floor apartment wasn’t anything compared to the sprawling Targaryen estate, it was cozy and located in one of the nicer neighborhoods in King’s Landing. Any city had its slums and dark underbellies, but thankfully you didn’t have to deal with either of those. Inwardly you were convinced that if you did live in one of those shady places that Aemond would swoop you away to his own private quarter in his family’s mansion. The idea of moving in together had been hinted at a couple times and each time your belly–and heart–did flips. One day, sure, maybe. But, now? You hadn’t even been together for a year yet. Moving in together was a huge commitment.

Perhaps something to consider for your three-year plan.

Or, one-year plan.

You both had a free day tomorrow, so Aemond took advantage of it and stayed the night. After dinner you took a shower and he waited in your bedroom, searching for something to watch.

There were so many choices. Why was there always so many choices? It made it such a challenge to actually decide on something!

When you came out with damp hair and your favorite pajamas–a big shirt and cute underwear–you proclaimed, “I saw an A24 movie last night I think we’d both like!”

He looked over at you from where he lay lounging on your bed in black sweats and a white tee, barely contained amusement plastered on his face. “As much as I love those, I’m less interested in movies now that I’ve found this,” he said, holding up the latest book you’ve been reading.

Oh.

Oh no.

Did you forget to put it back on your shelf? Warmth flooded your face. “Baela was talking about it and she talked it up so much I had to check it out!” You admitted a little too quickly, hiding an embarrassed smile behind a hand.

“Uh-huh,” he smirked. “Vampire smut? If you’re so bored by The Two Towers all you had to do was say something.”

Your eyes–no, your whole face–brightened with shared amusement. “What! No, it’s not smut. There’s plot!” You said defensively (perhaps not convincingly, though, with the giggle), as you hopped on the bed and straddled him. His slim hips fit so easily between your bare, soft thighs, it was almost criminal. Mischief sent his eye twinkling. You took the book from him and cleared your throat, preparing to read the synopsis on the back. “Listen, ‘kay? This explains it really well.”

“Already read the back,” he said, sly. “And comments on goodreads. Seems to be extremely popular with women. There were… lots of caps, exclamation points, sweaty face and fire emojis… rave reviews.” Sometimes when he smiled–really smiled–he had little dimples; they were out on full display, now. He ran his wide, warm palms up your thighs, thumbs skimming dangerously close to that delicate space between your thighs he loved so, so fucking much. “Do you want to know what my favorite part is though?” He asked as if it were a secret.

Goosebumps tickled your skin as he teased you. You didn’t bother to put a bra on and you suddenly became acutely aware of your t-shirt’s texture as your sensitive nipples tightened beneath it. How easily your body reacted to his. “What’s your favorite part?”

He took the book from you and opened it. Smirking, he read Baela’s note she left for you on a post-it sticky, his voice an octave or two higher: “‘chapter 32 might be the hottest thing I’ve ever read in a book. It will change your life.’” He peered up at you with an arched brow. “Have you got to chapter 32 yet?”

You were blushing and giggling and trying so hard to not rip the book from his hands and smother his taunting face with one of your many pillows. “Oh my gosh shut up you are terrible!”

He laughed. “You’re the one reading vampire smut!”

“There’s plot!”

Aemond flexed beneath you and the next thing you knew you were on your back beneath him. His long silver-blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail and it hung over his shoulder threatening to tickle your face. “My pretty girl still hasn’t answered me,” he said as he pinned you down, lowering to nip your earlobe. “Or will I have to use compulsion to get it out of you, hm?”

You felt his grin against your neck, heard it in his question, and before you could stop yourself a little moan escaped your mouth because he bit you. Really bit you. His teeth, clean and sharp, clamped around a mouthful of your neck. He drew it into his mouth, sucking, and–fuck it was hot–you then understood why women in silly vampire books gave in so easily to the predator. You knew your pulse had to be jumping right there in the flesh he held between his teeth. All those giggles from before vanished and were replaced with small gasps. You squeezed your hands over his shirt-covered shoulders, answering, “n-no… I haven’t read that far yet.”

He relaxed his mouth and licked up the same bit of skin he’d been biting, kissing it softly. “Good,” he replied. “You can read it out loud to me now.”

That perked you right up. “Oh my god Aem! No!”

“But I’m sooo curious to know what happens when she goes inside the castle. I skimmed the last chapter you were on. Something about him loving the smell of her blood, barely able to control himself around her, and she’s stuck there with him now?”

You were laughing again. “You’re such an ass!”

“Those are very important plot points,” he said smoothly, matter-of-factly. “And it’s chapter 31. So all the tension will lead up to the famous chapter 32.” He kissed you as he spoke; your mouth, jaw, neck, collarbone, whatever he could reach.

You were still laughing, but his kisses relaxed you, too. You pushed your hands up beneath the front of his shirt and gently scraped your fingernails over his abdomen. His chest. You felt his muscles quiver slightly beneath your touch. You loved how his body reacted to you. While stroking between the patch of hair at the center of his chest, and the trail of hair below his navel, you asked, sheepishly, “what if I get embarrassed?”

It was his turn to perk up. Pulling back, he looked down at you with a mixture of deviousness and softness that had your heart flipping. “Let’s make a deal.”

“Why am I have scared to hear this deal? But… okay, let’s hear it,” you replied, smiling and biting your lip.

“As long as you keep reading, I’ll keep eating your pussy.”

Yet another wave of heat rushed to your face and along your spine. You really, really hoped Aemond couldn’t see the blush of your features. Knowing him, however, he probably did… or at least saw the spark of desire, excitement, and embarrassment in your eyes. “You really wanna hear me read this stupid book?”

He nodded. “Yeah. And I wanna eat you too. So, why not both?”

“Well, when you put it that way…,” you mumbled in agreement, grabbing your book and opening to where you last left off.

Aemond shuffled triumphantly and smiled one of those smiles that if he did indeed have fangs they’d certainly be showing. He kissed your throat as he pushed the bottom of your shirt up, grazing his fingertips along your belly as he did so, not stopping until the softness of your breasts melted against his palms. Squeezing the sensitive mounds, he gave your neck one last little nip before lowering to your bared tits. He made a noise in his throat at the sight of them–your pretty nipples peaked with need–and he held each in a hand. Looking up at you he asked, "how long do you think you’ll last reading?” He squished your tits together so your nipples were as close together as they could be. Hot mouth wrapped around one and he sucked, greedily drawing it into his mouth. He relished the sensation as well as your gasp of surprise. He relaxed his mouth and let your tit free only to repeat the motion to the other one.

Fuck. He’d barely started, you hadn’t even begun reading, and you already felt warm tension pull in your belly. Your breasts have always been sensitive. Sometimes when you were feeling especially needy, and Aemond especially wicked, he’d suck your tits until you came. Part of you wondered if he meant to do that now with how he lavished them. “Shit–Aem! Not long if you keep this up…!” You moaned, biting your lip again as your eyelids trembled closed. “Haven’t even let me start yet..!”

A laugh rumbled in his chest. “You’re right…,” he said, slowly circling his tongue around and between your nipples. “Go ahead and start reading then, baby. I’ll get nice and comfortable between these thighs.”

True to his word, he did. Your boyfriend meant to murder you. Without a fucking doubt. Straight up murder.

With a shuddering breath you began to read aloud.

Aemond kissed over your covered pussy, not yet bothering to move your underwear aside or take them off. He wasn’t trying to be especially distracting yet, but he loved knowing you were wet and eager for him. He kissed the insides of your thighs–that impossibly soft dip where your thigh met your pelvis–and even the underswell of your asscheeks as your legs spilled open. He knew right where your clit was. He licked over it through your panties. Teasing. Coaxing. Hoping to hear your voice warble with want.

It did. There was no way you’d be able to keep this up for the rest of the chapter as well as the next chapter. The main female character, a human, had just re-dressed into something suitable for dinner. In this case, a gown that complimented the color of her skin and shape of her body. And the main male character, a vampire, was waiting for her to finish. Before this, the tension had indeed been all over the place. Blood, desire, lust, everything sinful about the undying charisma of vampires. At the end of the chapter she walked downstairs only to make him utterly darken with lust. And, at the end of the chapter, Aemond pulled the front of your panties aside to finally give the full length of your pussy a hot, slow lick. You gasped in time with the main female character’s gasp.

“Think he sinks his teeth into her pretty neck and finally takes what he wants?” Aemond asked, low and somewhat muffled, as he turned his gaze up to your heated face.

You couldn’t believe this was happening. You half thought he was joking about the whole thing! But… then again, you knew Aemond pretty damn well by now and knew he wasn’t the prankster type. You moaned softly at the slow, wonderful feeling of his tongue on your clit. Then, you answered in a shaky breath, “it’s the temptation. He worships her. Or… at least her blood. He won’t tear her apart. He needs her.”

He made one of his classic little ‘mmm’s in thought. “Keep reading, baby. I’m dying to see what happens.” Another lick, another kiss to your most sensitive bud, and a gentle suck.

Fuck–if he kept this up?! Pleasure rippled up your body in goosebumps and your voice shook as you read into the new chapter.

Somehow the book tension intensified even further. Between that, and how Aemond continued to slowly eat you, your head felt dizzy. Really, honest to God, you didn’t know how much more you could take. Then, the next line started to crumble some of that tension: “The vampire lord kissed the top of the lady’s hand, and when he did his fingers grazed the delicate webbing of veins on the underside of her wrist. Her scent bloomed beneath him. A perfume. His jaw ached with the need to consume. To consume her.”

Aemond picked up pace, too, as did your pulse. He balanced you on the edge of bliss and wouldn’t yet let you go.

You began to stammer over words. You even left some unfinished. Because now you read a scene that was strikingly similar to your current situation. The vampire had his lady laid back and sprawled on the staircase, her skirts bunched high, his starved tongue feasting between her thighs.

Aemond groaned appreciatively. He worked you higher and higher, selfishly making it harder for you to read out loud, and savored each and every little dip and rise of your voice. His good girl. So fun, and playful, and willing to entertain his silly ideas. God, he loved you. He memorized all the signs of orgasm in your body. He could hear them. Feel them. He knew you were getting close, but he didn’t want you to come yet. There was still more to be read. Right before climax could claim you, he stopped.

“Aemond!” You squealed, near breathless. You looked down at him, accusatory, blissful eyes glaring. “Not fair!”

“Did I forget to mention I’ll only let you come when I want you to? Sorry, love, my bad.”

“How convenient of you,” you retorted.

“Do keep going though? I have a feeling he’ll need a taste of her blood now that he’s tasted her cunt.”

Begrudgingly, you did. And, as luck would have it… (did he read ahead while you were in the shower!?): “The vampire lord’s cock strained in his breeches, throbbing with a pulsing need that sent his mind to delirium. He never craved anything so badly as he did her.”

Aemond made more of those ‘mmm’s in agreement as he started to slowly work you up again. He pressed his tongue into you and let his nose rub against your clit. His hands rubbed and squeezed over any part of your body he could. Waist, belly, hips, thighs, anything; he loved all of it. He could lay here and do this all fucking night–vampire smut or no.

It became harder and harder to keep reading. Between little moans, whimpers, and firm bites to your lip, you kept trying. By now, the chapter progressed to both of them in various stages of undress on the staircase. “The vampire lord claimed her body with his hot, rigid manhood. At the same time he filled her with his cock, he sunk his teeth into her neck.”

After that you were no longer able to make words. A finger replaced Aemond’s tongue as his mouth lavished your clit. You dropped the book and neither of you seemed to care anymore. One of your hands gripped into his hair–more than likely making the sleek pull back of his ponytail a mess–while your other hand played with your breasts. Seemingly effortlessly, a second finger joined the first and your hips rolled in a desperate need for more. “A-ah yes!”

A soft dark laugh rumbled from him as he watched you from below. “You’re so fucking wet your pussy just sucked my finger in. I barely had to move it. Getting close again, my love?” He asked as those two deft, long fingers worked your inner walls with blinding precision. “I love how you were blushing and fumbling with your words when you read. Fuck–you’re so pretty with my fingers in you.”

A familiar tightness began to build in your legs. The inside of your thighs started to tremble. Your head, fuzzy as it already was, buzzed with your body’s anticipation. Pleasure. So much pleasure. Your fingers tweaked your nipples for that extra little push, and apparently that’s exactly what you needed.

Aemond’s tongue was on your clit again, quick and light compared to the harsh way he fingerfucked you. This time he didn’t edge you along.

Orgasm, beautiful and consuming, swallowed you into a starless dark. When you came back to yourself your head was heavy. The tips of your fingers tingled. Everything felt light. Like you weren’t quite inside your own body yet. “What the fuck Aems…,” you whispered, smiling like a dork.

That was one of the best orgasms and he fucking knew it. He had to know it.

He carefully rolled away from you to let you catch your breath. “Better than the book?”

“Without question.”

He grinned as he watched you regain yourself. Once he was sure you were okay he pulled you on top of his naked form. When did he take his clothes off? “Always so sweet to me,” he said with that same grin. “I can still taste you on my tongue and need to feel you on my cock. Now.”

You didn't need to be told twice. Your body was ready for him as soon as he moved you atop him. He looked so good, so handsome, so devastatingly perfect as he sat there against your headboard, your bodies meshing together so well. His lean arms wrapped around you, nails scratching down your back, as you lined up with him.

The stretch was unfuckingbelievable.

Moaning in unison, he rolled his hips up into you with one hand gripped on your waist. Your breasts squished against the firm planes of his. Your scent, your skin, your lust all around him. The squeeze of your cunt around his entire length had him half crazy. There wouldn't be any more teasing.

You ground onto him, desperate to fuck him as silly as he had fingered you.

One of his hands gripped the hair at the back of your head and tugged downwards, exposing the fullness of your throat to him. Your neck. He bit you again–all but sinking his teeth into your flesh–and fucked up into you with added fervor.

“God!” You squeaked, whimpering through your surprise. “Yes, yes, yes, keep biting me..!” You pleaded, bouncing on him in time with his upward rolls.

That's how you both stayed–his teeth on your neck, your fingernails leaving pink scratches on his pale skin, grinding and fucking each other with raw desire–until climax washed over both of you.

You were both panting, a little sweaty, and intoxicated by each other.

A couple minutes later, amidst pillow talk and teasing one another, Aemond asked, “would you read more to me another time?”

You looked at him cheekily. “Seriously?”

“Yes. I’m very interested in the plot,” he said with obvious innuendo. “And I don’t think you quite understand what you saying words like ‘cock’ ‘cunt’ and ‘blood sucking’ does to me.”

That sent you into another fit of giggles. “You’re insane!”

He rolled on top of you and smirked down at you. “Well?” He asked, grazing the tip of his nose against yours.

“Okay, okay. Yeah, I will.”

Pulling the blankets up around your bodies, you turned on the movie you mentioned earlier. Aemond laid on his back and scooped you against him, legs immediately intertwining with one another. Sated. Happy; even as your skin pleasantly burned where he left dark hickies behind.

“Thanks for that. It was a lot of fun,” he whispered against the crown of your head.

“Yeah it was,” you agreed. “I love you, Aem.”

“I love you too.”

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ♥

Masterlist

See comment section for my main taglist and Aemond taglist! To be added or removed from either, please hit me up!

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #modern aemond #aemond smut #aemond fic #aemond imagine #request

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mattscoquette · 8 months ago

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𝑶𝑯 𝑴𝒀 𝑴𝒀 𝑴𝒀 | 𝑴𝑨𝑻𝑻 𝑺𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑶𝑳𝑶

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉.. you are childhood best friends turned lovers with matt. based off of mary's song by taylor swift

kissing, slight arguing, no use of y/n

2.1k words

i was seven and you were nine

i looked at you like the stars that shine

and our daddies used to joke about the two of us growing up and falling in love

you were in the backyard, running around on the wooden play set your dad had built for your fifth birthday. it was an early evening in mid august, the heat of the summer day finally beginning to cool down. your family invited the neighbors over for a barbecue for about the third time this week, and it was only thursday.

“matty,” you giggled, brushing the dirt off your knees from the slight tumble you took, “i said no tag backs.” your mother had put your auburn hair into braids for today, which were beginning to fall out from all of your running around. you wore a light green sundress, bringing out the slight green specks in your usual blue irises.

matt laughed back down at you, running away once more, yelling you’re it. you watched as the taller blonde boy made his way down the slide, getting his washed out overalls wet from the sprinkler water that was spraying around the yard.

you two continued to run around while your dad was cooking, admiring the way the two children interacted.

“i bet they’ll get married on day.” he told matt’s dad.

take me back when our world was one block wide

i dared you to kiss me and ran when you tried

later that night, matt and his family stayed past dinner to have a bonfire. matt, being the big boy he said he was, convinced his parents to let him walk up the road to the connivence store with you to retrieve things to make s’mores with. he was nine now, after all. following thirty minutes of being told to stick together and don’t talk to strangers, you and matt made the quarter of a mile trek with the thirty dollars your mom gave you two.

although the walk wasn’t that far, it still was still exhausting seemed to take days, especially to your poor seven year old self. to make the time pass, you and matt threw rocks down the sidewalk, racing each other to see who’d get there first. matt won, but only because you were tired, or so you claimed.

you two began walking again, hands swinging next to one another.

“truth or dare, matty?” you spoke, grinning over at matt, flashing your new grown up teeth that were starting to grow in.

“hmmm,” matt began, already knowing his answer. he shuffled his feet on the sidewalk, trailing behind you slightly to make you look back and laugh. “dare.”

you thought for a moment, trying to come up with a dare. there wasn’t much to do seeing as you two were walking to the store.

“kiss me” you giggled, puckering your lips out at matt. when he began to pucker his back, you ran up the road to the store shrieking.

well, i was sixteen when suddenly i wasn't that little girl you used to see

you and matt stayed friends your whole childhood. constantly at each other’s houses, having after school play dates or movie nights during the weekend. you two were inseparable. over the years, you two began to change, both physically and mentally. you shot up when you were about 12, standing a few inches taller than matt, until he came home from summer camp taller than you again. you two went through the awkward teenage phases together, finally now growing out of it.

today was your sixteenth birthday, and matt was over at your house with his family for dinner and cake. you’d always been pretty to matt, but over the last year he’s watched you grow into the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. you’d grown tall, having long slim legs that seemed to be miles high. your hair stayed the same color, unlike matt’s who’s had turned brunette over time. you started wearing makeup recently, not much, but enough to accentuate your already stunning features.

matt watched you in awe as you blew out your birthday candles, silently hoping you wished for him. after dessert, the two of you found yourselves outside sitting on the swings of the play set you two used to once roam. you looked beautiful underneath the stars, wearing a brand new blue sundress you bought last weekend. you and matt gazed at each other, both secretly wanting more than you had now.

“remember when i used to give you birthday punches?” matt laughed, peering down into his lap and swinging ever-so-slightly.

you giggled, recalling the time he’d accidentally hit you so hard you’d bruised. he cried for days afterwards, he felt so bad.

“do i get any this year?” you asked him, leaning over into him more as he sat next to you, staring back into your blue eyes.

she shook his head. “i can give you something else.”

you didn’t realize how far you two leaned in until you felt his soft lips pressed to yours.

“one”

you smiled lightly as matt pulled away, suddenly feeling them again back on your own.

“two”

this went on well past sixteen, finally letting go of so much pent up feelings towards one another, as the both of you spent the whole night exchanging kisses back and forth on your old play set. at the end of the night he asked you to be his girlfriend.

take me back to the time we had our very first fight

the slamming of doors instead of kissing goodnight

you and matt had been together for two years now. it was late spring, and you got accepted into your dream college. the only problem was the school was on the other side of the country. matt had stayed home after graduation, deciding he wanted to pursue a career in youtube with his brothers. you two were currently yelling back and forth about the future of your relationship.

“it’s not fair for you to leave!” matt argues, running his hands through his messy hair.

“we’ll be fine, matt,” you assured him also sounding upset, “this is my dream we’re talking about here.”

“how do you know we’ll be okay? we’ve spent our whole lives together.” the brunette boy shot back.

you began to feel tears prick your eyes, blinking to keep them at bay. he was right, you didn’t know for sure if you two would make it.

“i waited my whole life to finally be with you, i’m not losing you now.” matt shouted, his eyes becoming red with tears as well.

“you won’t lose me!” you tried to plea, full on crying now.

matt huffed, walking out of your bedroom, slamming the door behind him. you spent the whole night sobbing into your pillow, hugging a sweatshirt you had of matt’s. he’d done the same thing, waking up extra early the next morning to show up to your front door with flowers.

upon seeing your poor boy at the door with red puffy eyes clutching a bouquet of daisies, you pulled him in for the tightest hug you had in you. “i’m sorry pretty girl” he kept muttering into the side of your head, repedealty kissing you over and over again. you spent the day with him cuddling on the couch, legs intertwined with one another as you watched the movie. you were both uncertain about the future, but you had right now, and that’s what was most important.

a few years had gone and come around

we were sitting at our favorite spot in town and you looked at me, got down on one knee

matt decided to go out west with you to school. he couldn’t bare the idea of not being together for four years. he got an apartment that you two shared together, finally being able to wake up next to your favorite person everyday. little mundane things showed the love you two shared. you would wake up early for class, making an extra cup of coffee you’d set out for matt while you both ate breakfast together. you two had shared drawers, often finding his t-shirts mixed into your clothes. matt would always shower while you were in the bathroom getting ready for the day. little things.

it was now the summer after your college graduation, and you and matt were home visiting your families. upon arrival, his mother had sneakily given matt her engagement ring to propose to you with. you had no idea, so when matt had dropped to one knee in front of the connivence store you bought marshmallows from all those years back, you couldn’t contain your excitement.

take me back to the time when we walked down the aisle

our whole town came and our mamas cried

you and matt decided to get married the next summer, right in your old backyard. the once sturdy playground was now old and rotting, so your dad broke it apart and rebuilt it as the archway you and matt stood under as you exchanged your vows.

you both stood facing one another, hand in hand as you listened to the officiant list off the promises you two swore to keep until death do you part. matt looked at you beaming, tears in his eyes as he imagined the future he would share with the girl next door he fell in love with so many years ago.

“you may kiss the bride.” the man spoke as matt pulled you in. he grabbed your waist, spinning you around so he was holding you up as you leaned backwards, kissing you like you were the air he needed to breathe. you both smiled as you shared the moment with your families and friends, something they had all been waiting for since you both were kids.

take me home where we met so many years before

we'll rock our babies on that very front porch

you ended up moving into matt’s old childhood home after his parents moved out of state to retire. you made it a whole project together, updating the wall colors and floorboards, making it your home. you two spent countless days and nights at the hardware store, buying and returning supplies to make sure your new home together was perfect.

you both sat in the center of the living room, the furniture covered in plastic as a fresh coat of burgundy was plastered on the walls. exhausted from the day’s work, you two ordered chinese takeout for dinner.

“when should we tell everyone about the girls?” you asked matt, taking a bite into a spring roll. a few months ago, you found out you were pregnant. at the last doctor’s visit, you two were informed you had twin girls growing inside you. you and matt were absolutely ecstatic, already beginning to prepare the nursery.

“i don’t know, i just hope they have your hair.” he smiled back at you tiredly but with love in his eyes.

after all this time, you and i

a quick six months after that, you brought two beautiful baby girls into the world, who did in fact have your hair. matt loved you three to pieces, constantly attacking you guys with bear hugs when he returned home from long days at work.

becoming a parent was easily the best thing that ever happened to you and matt. you both promised to raise and love your girls as best you could, and you two had absolutely delivered. everyone loved the twins, claiming them to be “angels sent from heaven.”

as time went on, your girls got older, until eventually they were packing up for college, going to the same school you went to. the first few months were rough, you two not being used the quiet in the once loud and booming house. the quiet reminded you of your time before you were a parent, and when it used to just be you and matt.

i'll be eighty-seven, you'll be eighty-nine

i’ ll still look at you like the stars that shine in the sky

you couldn’t have asked for a more perfect life. you spent all your time with the people who loved you the most, something a tangible item could never live up to. you and matt were sat on the porch of your house, waiting for one of your daughter’s to come home from the hospital with her first baby. you looked over at your husband, meeting the blue eyes you fell for so many years ago. you think about all the time’s you’ve shared together, both good and bad. you remember the big things, like being matt’s date to his prom, and the smaller things, like his promise to constantly keep your vases filled with fresh flowers.

you think to way back when you were seven years old, playing in your backyard with matt as your dad’s joked about you two growing up and getting married. oh my my my.

𝐚/𝐧: this is one of my fav taylor swift songs i hope u all enjoy reading this much as i did writing it !! matt is so mary’s song coded so i had to do this. i love u all ty for all the love i’ve been getting on my writing!

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: @alorsxsturn @sturniolossss @cammie4298 @bussybandit1 @amorttentia @franticroads @sturnsssbow @cams5sos @strombolilovr @st7rnioioss @junnniiieee07 @mattscurlygirly @simply-a-simper @sturnrc @sturnifyed @freshlovie

#© mattscoquette #writing 𓂃 𝜗𝜚 #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x reader #taylor swift #Spotify

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padfootagain · 4 months ago

Text

Love in Verses (I)

Chapter 1 : ‘And that orange, it made me so happy, as ordinary things often do just lately’

Hi, everyone!!! I’m so glad to finally start posting this series! I know I’ve been talking about it for a while, and I thank all of you for being interested and even excited about it! I hope you won’t be disappointed!

The first chapters will set the plot into motion, of course, we need to get the story going!

I hope you like this series! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3502

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

The Orange

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange— The size of it made us all laugh. I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave— They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy, As ordinary things often do Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park. This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

The rest of the day was quite easy. I did all the jobs on my list And enjoyed them and had some time over. I love you. I’m glad I exist.

Wendy Cope, The Orange and Other Poems, 2023

There was sunshine upon the Liffey that morning. A scent of new beginnings in the air, a whisk of excitement in the breeze.

You took a deep breath before entering the college grounds. This was what you had worked so hard for, for so long…

You were finally working in a university, you were a researcher, you would be teaching to younger generations about your passion. And every time you thought about that truth, that new reality, your heart made a happy jump, and a grin formed on your lips.

You were there. At long last. You had a teaching position, you had money for your research, and you had this at Trinity College, no less.

For now, there were no students, the grounds were empty, filled with nothing but old stones, bending trees and sunlight. The year had not begun yet, it was still the early days of August, filled with warm weather, summer storms and a tinge of sun here and there. It seemed that your first day was one of those sunny, warm days that felt too much like vacation time to work. A good omen, if you had ever seen one. A good omen for your life that seemed to fall perfectly into place these days. Professionally, you were achieving your goal today, with this position in the best university in Ireland. Your family was proud, and so were you. And on a personal point of view, you were engaged, to be married to a successful man. You glimpsed at the diamond on your finger. You didn’t have a date for the wedding yet, but you were aiming for spring of the coming year. Frank had proposed during the summer, while you were on a trip for your vacation in Wales. You smiled at the memory. You were lucky this year, your life was perfect, or at least, successful. You were ticking all the right boxes. What else could you ask for?

You walked between the still frames of Edmund Burke and Oliver Goldsmith, stepping finally on the grounds of Trinity College. And you took a deep breath as you stepped into the entrance hall, crossing the building to reach the first courtyard hidden inside. You gathered your thoughts, tried to slow down your beating heart that was pounding with nerves and excitement.

You were to meet one of the fellows of your department, Professor O’Connell. You had never met the woman, but she seemed kind enough on the phone, if strict in her tone. You checked your watch, but you were still seven minutes early. At least, you would not make a bad first impression because you were late…

You hurried under the archway at the centre of the yard, glancing at the forbidden green grass on both sides, and the tall buildings that surrounded it. You tried to calm yourself, thinking that you were an assistant professor already, even if this was your first stable job, that you knew what you were doing, that the papers you had already published were proof of your academic success and your worth as a researcher. You could do this. You could do this…

You walked towards the English department with hesitant steps, trying to follow directions on the various signs scattered across the grounds. A fifty-something woman waved at you from afar though, she seemed to be waiting in front of a building. You smiled, hurried towards her, hoping that you were not mistaken and that she was, indeed, the woman you were looking for…

“Y/N Y/L/N?” she asked, and you nodded your head with a grin.

“Yes! Professor O’Connell, I assume?” you answered, offering her your open hand, which she took with a smile.

“Oh, Lydia is more than enough. How are you?”

“Grand… grand…”

“Welcome to Trinity, I guess. I’ll guide you for a quick visit of our building, and then leave you in the competent hands of our HR department for you to sign off some paperwork. Come on, I’ll show you around.”

She guided you across the large stone building in which you would be working from now on. You easily got lost in the maze of corridors, staircases and halls you were crossing. Still, she showed you the cafeteria in which you were introduced to a few of your new colleagues, some of the classrooms, and finally she guided you to the HR, where a middle-aged woman gave you some paperwork to sign.

Lydia was waiting outside, ready to guide you to your office. A new maze of corridors opened before your feet, but you said nothing, figured that you would eventually get used to it. You took a turn to the right to another corridor, headed straight for the door a few steps ahead. Wooden, with two plaques fixed on its surface.

Dr. Andrew Hozier-Byrne

Dr. Y/N Y/LN

Your heart skipped a few beats at the sight of your name there, engraved in copper.

“You’ll be sharing your office with another of our assistant professors,” Lydia explained. “Andrew arrived last year, he’s working mostly on 20th century literature… but I’ll let him talk your ears off about his research.”

She knocked, didn’t wait for a response before opening the door.

The office was tiny, to say the least, but it was enough for the two desks and chairs set there, a wardrobe and a few shelves. There was a poster of Johnny Cash on one of the empty spots on the white walls, and a large window facing the door, behind one of the desks. The other desk was set on the left-side of the room, a tinier window behind it.

A man was sitting in the chair behind the desk in front of the larger window, and he looked up as the door opened and Lydia walked in, you following close behind.

“Good morning, Andrew,” Lydia greeted her colleague with a smile. “This is Y/N, our new assistant professor, who’s going to share your office this year.”

Andrew’s eyebrows arched slightly, although he still gave you a warm but shy smile, standing in a hurry. You couldn’t help your surprise as he stood up, towering you with an intimidating height. He seemed to have long hair, that he had tied in a bun. You studied his features, something kind and gentle made his hazel eyes shine, a short beard coloured his cheeks. He readjusted his glasses, as he quickly stepped around his desk. He was wearing a black turtleneck and dark jeans, there was a brown jacket thrown on the back of his chair.

You looked up at him as his smile widened just a little, still polite but with an extra-touch of kindness now. His body was intimidating though, and the fact that he was handsome wasn’t helping. He bent to avoid the lamp that was hanging from the ceiling.

“Of course! Erm… hi, nice to meet you,” he greeted you, offering you his open palm, avoiding eye-contact. You weren’t expecting how soft his voice was, how quiet his tone sounded. If his height gave something intimidating to his appearance, his voice countered that feeling, and you immediately felt more at ease.

“Hi! It’s very nice to meet you too, Andrew!”

“Alright, I’ll leave you to settle,” said Lydia, addressing you. “My office is down the corridor, if you need anything. But I’m sure Andrew can help you with the rest. The HR gave you everything you needed to access a computer?”

“Yes, I’ve got everything.”

“Good. Settle this morning, we’ll have a talk about your research this afternoon. The meeting for the upcoming year and classes is set later this week, you’ll get all the information you need for your teaching then.”

“Alright, thank you so much.”

She gave you a bright smile, before walking out of the room.

You were left alone with Andrew, who gave you another shy smile, rubbing at his palms.

“Erm… right… obviously, there is a large selection of desks you can choose from in this room,” he joked, his tone still stern, and you noticed how he was biting the inside of his cheek.

But you laughed good-heartedly at his joke, and he raised his eyebrows at your reaction.

“Hmm… I guess I’ll take this beauty over there,” you said, dropping your bag on your desk.

“Good choice,” he nodded, fleeing your gaze again. “Erm… I’ve emptied a couple of shelves over there for you too, and made some room in the wardrobe as well.”

“Thank you,” you smiled up at him and caught his eyes again, noticed their pretty hazel shade.

You turned on your computer, looked through your papers for the password that had been given to you so you could log in.

“So… what’s your research about?” he asked, a little awkward, shifting his weight while burying his hands in his pockets.

You noticed how he was bending his head and shoulders a little, as if to look smaller than he was.

“I work on feminism and the use of the female gaze in literature, as opposed to the male gaze.”

He raised an eyebrow, and you noticed how his gaze lit up with interest.

“Oh… that’s so interesting!”

You were surprised by the earnestness in his tone. The academic world was a particularly misogynistic one, after all. Most men in your field were enemies rather than allies.

“Yeah… I… I think so too,” you smiled, cursing yourself for your naïve answer. “I mean… If I chose to work on that, it means that I’m interested in it, but…”

He chuckled, the sound as quiet as his voice. You were still surprised by it, by the contrast it offered to his intimidating stature.

“Totally, yeah…”

“What about you?”

“20th century literature… mostly modernism and contemporary poetry. So… Lots of Joyce, Woolfe, Heaney and the likes.”

“Nice! That sounds interesting.”

“I mean… I teach a lot about modernism, but my research is more focused on poetry, especially poets who are currently writing.”

“That’s pretty rare, to have scholars studying contemporary art, instead of… dead people.”

You both chuckled at that.

“Yeah… but I… I mean… I value a lot the political weight of art, so… I find it more interesting to study something that talks about our current problems, rather than the problems from… four centuries ago or something...”

“Can’t argue with that,” you nodded.

You exchanged a smile, noticed that Andrew was relaxing as well by now.

“Erm… I’ll let you settle down, but… tell me if you need anything. Oh, and…”

Andrew nodded towards an empty frame tugged away against the wall, in a corner of the room.

“There’s an empty spot on the wall, feel free to hang something you like in it. As long as it’s decent enough.”

“Oh… I will refrain from a poster of my naked celebrity crush then,” you joked, making Andrew laugh again.

“Please, refrain. Although, I will accept your latest pagan ritual to summon Chtulhu or something…”

He tensed again, bit the inside of his cheek, as if he regretted his joke, but you laughed, and he seemed a little surprised by it.

“Dully noted… so, I can bring my pentagrams at work?”

His smile widened.

“Feel free to do so. I can produce the goat for the sacrificial ritual, if you need.”

You chuckled again, and Andrew bent his head, but you noticed the way his shoulders relaxed.

“Right, sorry for the weird humour,” he apologised anyway, and walked back to his desk. “Tell me if you need help with anything. I have a couple of things to take care of, but I can show you around if you need.”

“Okay, thank you! Yeah, that would be grand! And no need to apologise, I have a rather dark humour too.”

You exchanged a smile, before both of you would focus on your computers. You managed to log into almost everything, started to create documents and files for your research, downloaded a few articles that you needed to read this week.

It was almost noon when Andrew looked up from his screen again.

“Erm… is everything alright for you?” asked Andrew, his voice still as quiet.

“Yeah… erm… I just can’t log into something.”

Andrew stood up, bent to avoid the lamp again.

“Can I take a look?” he asked softly, and he walked around your desk when you nodded.

He helped you log into the software you needed, showed you a couple of things that you would need to use often.

“Would you like to get lunch?” he asked you with a timid smile.

You answered with a bright smile.

“Yeah, sure!”

“Did you bring some food?”

“Erm… no…”

“That’s fine, no worries,” he chuckled at your sudden hesitation. “We have a cafeteria in our building, for the staff. But it’s more suited for a coffee break than anything else. You can’t buy food there, except for a few snacks from a vending machine. There’s an electric kettle, a coffee machine… there’s a microwave and fridge too, if you… like… want to bring your own food. But nothing to make proper food. We can go to the cafeteria on the campus, though.”

“Okay, that would be nice! Are you waiting for anyone else for lunch?”

But Andrew shook his head.

“Most people in the department are gone to a conference in Cork for three days,” he explained.

“How come you didn’t go?”

But Andrew merely shrugged.

“I wasn’t invited to be a speaker, and to be honest, it was mostly about subjects I’m not particularly interested in. Besides, someone had to stay behind to keep the new lecturer company,” he smiled with a tinge of mischief, and you liked the sight.

He waited for you to gather your things, and you walked together out of the building. Andrew showed you around the campus a little bit, mainly the library and a couple of buildings where you could be asked to teach. You followed him to the cafeteria as well.

“Do you eat here often?” you asked, as you took a look at the food that was available that day.

“When I can. It’s not bad. But students come here too, so you should come only if you can avoid the worst of the crowd. As this year hasn’t started yet, we’re in the clear for a few more weeks.”

You ordered a sandwich, while Andrew bought a salad, and you walked together to one of the many empty tables.

“Lydia told me it was your first job as a professor?” asked Andrew, before sipping on a glass of water.

“Yeah. I mean, I’ve obviously been teaching and working in research for a while, but it’s my first year since I got that title,” you answered with a smile.

“Have you talked about your classes with Lydia yet?”

“No, not too much. I should be able to create a couple of lectures based on my research, but for the more… general stuff, nothing.”

Andrew nodded.

“Yeah, you might inherit some of the classes no one really wants to do, as you’re the newbie.”

“Did it happen that way for you?”

Andrew nodded again, but shrugged right after, swallowing a mouthful of salad.

“I mean, you’ll stay in something you’re used to, don’t worry. But a lot of people are holding the classes they enjoy teaching. You’ll have a limited choice in your field.”

“Any class that you’re hoping to drop?”

“One of them is bound to religion and religious references. I should be able to pass it to someone else this year. We’re exchanging. I’ll get a class on Yeats instead, which is much more in my area of expertise… and interests.”

“Not a religious guy, are you?”

He chuckled.

“Not really, no.”

He didn’t elaborate on the subject, and you didn’t want to push him, happy enough that your colleague and office-roommate was talking to you and acting with benevolence.

“Where did you teach before Trinity?” you asked instead, changing subject.

“Cork for a while, but my partner works in Dublin so I really wanted to move back on the west coast. And then I had the opportunity to come to Trinity last year, when I got the rank of assistant professor, so I didn’t really hesitate. What about you?”

“I taught for a while in Belfast, and they offered me a job when I became assistant professor. But I really wanted to teach at Trinity, so I applied and… got the job! My fiancé is working about halfway between Belfast and Dublin anyway, so it didn’t change much on his side.”

Andrew nodded.

“Relationships can be tricky with academic jobs, especially with how few the teaching positions can be.”

“Yeah, that’s for sure.”

You had gotten a yoghurt for dessert, and Andrew some dry fruits. He handed you the packet, a questioning rise of his eyebrow as a silent enquiry. You smiled, opened your hand and he poured some fruits in your palm.

“Anyway, I hope you’ll get interesting classes, and especially that you can teach about your research. Aside from being interesting for you, I think it’s important to develop what you’re working on in our field.”

You smiled, and he seemed to notice, giving you an awkward smile of his own in exchange.

“Thanks. I think so too.”

“But I have a more important question to tackle.”

You raised a questioning eyebrow, inviting him to go on.

“What poster are you going to put in that empty frame?”

You couldn’t refrain a laugh.

“I have no idea,” you admitted.

“Well, think about it. The decoration of our office is at stake, that’s serious business.”

“Of course, of course. Definitely my number one priority.”

“Good, it should be. My Qi is very sensitive to that kind of stuff.”

You both laughed, and you felt yourself relax again.

You had a good feeling about Andrew, about your shared office, about your new job, about this whole life that was ahead of you.

The world was smiling to you, even the weather was on your side. What could possibly go wrong?

You were so excited to go home and tell everything to your fiancé. Frank got home before you did, you lingered a little longer than anticipated because you asked Andrew questions about how the university worked, the power dynamic in the department, the people you should avoid and those who were nice to talk to. And you wanted to tell Frank about Andrew too. You were so relieved that the colleague sharing your office was nice, kind even.

When you stepped inside, Frank was watching TV. He had ordered some takeaway, and was eating in front of a stupid show that was on, more focused on his phone than on the tv anyway. He jumped when you entered, put his phone away in a hurry.

“Hey, babe!” you greeted him with a grin, bending to kiss him as he sat on the couch.

“Hi! I ordered food for tonight,” he said, nodding towards the Indian food that was scattered across the coffee table.

“Nice!”

“You’re home late.”

You grinned, nodding your head.

“It went amazing!” you jumped up and down excitedly. “First, a senior professor, Lydia, came to pick me up and showed me around. She seems very strict, but nice as well. Apparently, as long as you do your job well, she’ll be on your side. I went to the HR to sign some papers, and…”

You noticed that Frank wasn’t paying too much attention anymore, so you rushed your explanation.

“Anyway, I’ve met a few colleagues, and especially Andrew! We’re sharing an office. He’s been of great help throughout the day, and he’s very sweet! Which is surprising given that he is quite literally a giant!”

“You’re sharing your office?”

“Yes!”

“With a guy?”

“Yes. His name is Andrew! He’s been teaching at Trinity for a year.”

You noticed the way Frank refrained from making a comment, knowing you would call him out for being jealous. You refrained a sigh.

“He lives near Dublin with his partner too. He’s specialised in poetry.”

Frank seemed to relax, and you struggled not to be annoyed by his reaction.

“It’s grand that your first day went fine, babe,” Frank gave you an earnest smile.

“I’m just so relieved that the guy sharing an office with me is not some… misogynistic gobshite. I mean, I don’t know Andrew very much, but he seemed to be more on the feminist side of the spectrum, so I’m sure we’ll be able to get along.”

“That’s nice.”

He didn’t ask any further question but he was still looking at you. You sat down next to him, and he handed you some food he had ordered for you. It wasn’t your favourite, but you liked it.

He opened his arm for you to settle against his shoulder, and you happily obliged. You thought about all the details you wanted to say, but knew would bore him. You chose another question instead.

“What are you watching?”

#hozier #andrew hozier byrne #the hoziest #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #hozier x fem!reader #hozier fanfiction #hozier professor!AU #hozier au #hozier fanfic #hozier series #hozier imagine #writing #fanfiction #fanfic

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greenwitchcrafts · 4 months ago

Text

August 2024 Witch Guide

New Moon: August 4th

First Quarter: August 12th

Full moon: August 19th

Last Quarter: August 26th

Sabbats: Lughnasadh/Lammas- August 1st

August Sturgeon Moon

Also known as: Barely Moon, Black Cherries Moon, Corn moon, Dispute Moon, Harvest moon, Herb Moon, grain moon, Mountain Shadows Moon, Red moon, Ricing Moon, Weodmonath & Wyrt moon

Element: Fire

Zodiac: Leo & Virgo

Animal spirts: Dryads

Deities: Diana, Ganesha, Hathor, Hecate, Mars, Nemesis, Thot & Vulcan

Animals: Dragon, lion, phoenix & sphinx

Birds: Crane, eagle & falcon

Trees: Alder, cedar & hazel

Herbs: Basil, bay, fennel, orange, rosemary, rue & St.John's wort

Flowers: Angelica, chamomile, marigold & sunflower

Scents: Frankincense & heliotrope

Stones: Carnelian, cats/tiger's eye, emerald, fire agate, garnet, jade, moonstone, peridot, red jasper, red agate, sardonyx, topaz & tourmaline

Colors: Dark green, gold, orange, red & yellow

Energy: Abundance, appreciation, authority, courage, entertainment, finding your voice, friendship, gathering, harvesting energy, health, love, pleasures, power, prophecy, prosperity, vitality & wisdom

The name Sturgeon Moon comes from the giant lake sturgeon of the Great Lakes & Lake Champlain; this native freshwater fish was readily caught during this part of summer & an important food staple for Native Americans who lived in the region. At one time the lake sturgeon was quite abundant in late summer, though they are rarer today.

• August's full moon is the first Supermoon of the year, which means that it will appear bigger & brighter than the full Moons we have seen so far!

Lughnasadh

Known as: Lammas, August Eve & Feast of Bread

Season: Summer

Element: Fire

Symbols: corn, grain dollies & shafts of grain

Colors: Gold, golden yellow, green, light brown, orange, purple, red & yellow

Oils/Incense: Aloe, apple, corn, eucalyptus, safflower, rose & sandalwood

Animals: Cattle (bull & calf)

Birds: Chicken/Rooster

Stones: Aventurine, carnelian, citrine, peridot, sardonyx & yellow diamond

Food: Apples, barely cakes, berries, berry pies, breads, colcannon, cider, corn, grains, honey, lamb, nuts, potatoes, rice, sun-shaped cookies & wild berries

Herbs/Plants: Alfalfa, aloe, blackberry, bramble, corn, cornsilk, corn stalk, crab apple, fenugreek, frankincense, ginseng, goldenseal, gorse, grape, medowsweet, oak leaves, pear, rye, sloe & wheat

Flowers: Clyclamen, heather hollyhock & sunflower

Trees: Acacia, apple, myrtle,oak & rowan

Goddesses: Aine, Alphito, Bracacia, Carmen, Ceres, Damina, Danu, Demeter, Ereshkigal, Freya, Frigga, Gaia, Inanna Ishtar, Kait, Persephone, Sul, Taillte, Tea & Zaramama

Gods: Athar, Bes, Bran, Dagon, Dumuzi, Ebisu, Ghanan, Howtu, Liber, Lono, Lugh, Neper, Odin & Xochipilli

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Accomplishment, agriculture, challenges, darkness, death, endings, release & transformation

Spellwork: Abundance, bounty, fire magick, rituals of thanks & sun magick

Activities:

• Bake fresh bread

• Weave wheat

• Take walks in nature or along bodies of water

• Craft a corn doll

• Learn a new skill

• Watch the sunrise/sunset

• Leave grains and seeds in a place where birds, squirrels and other small animals can appreciate them

• Eat outside with family/friends/coven members

• Donate to your local foodbank

• Prepare a feast with your garden harvest

• Give thanks & offerings to the Earth

• Trade crafts of make deals

• Gather and/or dry herbs to use for the upcoming year

• Celebrate/honor the god Lugh by hosting a competition of games

• Participate in matchmaking or handfasting ceremonies

• Decorate your altar with symbols of the season

• Clean up a space in nature

• Plant saved seeds or save seeds to use in the future

Lughnasadh or Lammas is a Gaelic festival marking the beginning of the harvest season. Historically it was widely observed throughout Ireland, Scotland & the Isle of Man. Traditionally it is held on 1 August, or about halfway between the summer solstice & autumn equinox. In recent centuries some of the celebrations have shifted to the Sunday nearest this date.

Lughnasadh is mentioned in early Irish literature & has pagan origins. The festival is named after Lugh the god of craftsmanship. It was also founded by the god Lugh as a funeral feast & athletic competition/funeral games in memory of his foster-mother Tailtiu. She was said to have died of exhaustion after clearing the plains of Ireland for agriculture.

• Tailtiu may have been an earth goddess who represented the dying vegetation that fed mankind.

• Another tale says that Lugh founded the festival in memory of his two wives, the sisters Nás & Bói.

In the Middle Ages it involved great gatherings that included ceremonies, athletic contests (most notably the Tailteann Games which were extremely dangerous), horse racing, feasting, matchmaking & trading.

• With the coming of Christianity to the Celtic lands, the old festival of Lughnasadh took on Christian symbolism. Loaves of bread were baked from the first of the harvested grain & placed on the church altar on the first Sunday of August. The Christianized name for the feast of Lughnasadh is Lammas which means “loaf mass”.

Some believe this is the time where the God has weakened & is losing his strength as seen in the waning of the day's light. The Goddess is pregnant with the young God who will be born on Yule.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

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herejusttosufferalong · 3 months ago

Note

I have a theory regarding the Spain trip. As a preface, I'll say I believe for various reasons L and A are done since at least after the Italy trip.

So, a photo of L and A from the GQ event, the day she was wearing a tight long black dress and he a black silky shirt, appeared on my ig fyp today. I noticed that their haircuts there match their haircuts in Spain. Hers hasn't changed significantly during the whole summer but his hair grew quite a lot. In Spain it appears longer than after the WT but shorter than in Italy. After looking a bit, I found another photo of L from GQ (https://www.instagram.com/p/C9FoNwaxm7j/?igsh=aXNybjRmcTNuNmZy - pic 4) where a few strands of his hair fall on his forehead the same way they do in the cake selfie. As he probably grows his hair for s4, I don't think he'd cut it again after Italy. This made me think they went to Spain in close proximity to GQ, perhaps right after.

One of the TT creators shared she spoke with someone who works in PR, who said this kind of deals with hotels can be flexible but usually the celeb will have to post within the same quarter, so it means L could have been there anytime since the beginning of July. The GQ event was 3-5 of July, L posted the photos from Spain on September 7.

Why post now and not closer to the actual trip in the high of the vacation season? And if L and A are done how did she know to post her story a day before him? His last post before Spain was on July 6 and then he disappeared due to all the hate. I think this is when he went to Spain, exactly 2 months before he posted the photos from the vacation, which makes sense as a deadline deal-wise. As he wouldn't have wanted to receive hateful comments on a promo post, it also makes sense that he waited the longest he could before posting it, so the hate would die down. The last few weeks we witnessed L slowly coming back to sm - the bloopers stories, MD's posts, N's post - and he indeed started to get nicer comment, so safer time for him to finally post it. A must have known the deadline so she posted a day before him to let us know she was there with him. However, as I believe they are no longer together, he made sure to choose photos that make it look like he was there alone or at the very least not on a romantic vacation.

I’m intrigued!!!

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thornsnvultures · 1 year ago

Text

laundry day

eddie munson x plus size!fem!reader

summary: eddie catches you reading something saucy at the laundromat while you wait for your load to finish.

cw: smut (18+, no minors), mutual pining, nipple play, fingering, lil bit of edging, teasing/cocky!eddie (in like a playful way, he's not mean)

a/n: thanks to @ozarkthedog for being super encouraging as always ❤

Just imagining running into Eddie at the laundromat. It's hot outside, a muggy 80 degrees, and he's in cut off jeans that he chopped himself and an Iron Maiden tee. There's industrial size fans blasting from the corners of the room, hanging from the ceiling. They feel like they're blowing hot air around the room more than anything.

When you walk in with your basket he's already there, playing with the claw machine they inexplicably installed at the beginning of summer. Like they didn't have enough machines here already that ate up all your quarters. His head turns briefly when you walk in and you awkwardly wave and say hi out of courtesy. Of course you almost drop your laundry bag but Eddie's surprisingly quick, catching it before it slips out of your hands.

"Careful there." His boyish grin is surprisingly disarming. You find yourself staring at his dimples for a moment too long.

"Right, sorry," you force out a laugh and try not to cringe. Eddie's a bit weird but hot in a way that makes you act a little stupid.

You pick a machine far away from the one that's already running, presumably his, so you don't have to sort out your under-things with him right next to you.

"C'mon, c'mon...Dammit!"

Looking up from your pile of clothes you see Eddie squat in front of the claw machine to put more coins in, the black bandana hanging from his pocket drags on the floor. You can't help but to watch, it's kind of entertaining. His tongue is poked out in concentration, his ringed fingers tapping the stick ever so slightly to nudge the crane into the perfect position. Eddie looks around the sides of the glass box to make sure he's lined up just right and smacks the button to make the grabber drop. He curses when it snags the plushie's arm but doesn't pull it free.

It's been a full minute and a half and you've been standing there holding the same pair of panties, watching him and not sorting a damn thing. You don't have anything else to do today but you can't stand there and ogle either. So you shake your head and get back to it, finally tossing in a load as he loses for the third time since you got here.

You sit down and crack open the book you brought. It looks like he's out of quarters now. You feel kinda bad, he seemed pretty excited about whatever's in there.

He's pacing around the room now, sitting still and waiting for something doesn't seem like a skill he has, and singing to himself. You never thought of Eddie Munson as a singer but you can hear him enough over the machines and he sounds...good.

It's impossible to read with him pacing the room looking like that. With his short sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, showing off all his tattoos. And the one on his thigh that you didn't see when you walked in, that one had to be new. You were starting to zone out, thinking about Eddie and his tattoos and your long, long week of working doubles. It was hard saving up enough to get out of this town but you were determined to do it. Even if it left you drained at the end of every week.

A loud bang in front of you had you nearly jumping out of your skin.

"Whatcha reading?"

Eddie smiled at you from atop the washing machine he was now sitting on. You looked down at the cover that he could clearly see, the racy cover showing a fair maiden being ravished by a swoon-worthy, shirtless pirate. With a gasp you closed the book and put it face down in your lap.

"Nothing. It's- I'm not even reading it really, just skimming."

"Looking for all the steamy bits, huh?"

Eddie's shit eating grin made your face feel hot and you sputtered, trying to think of anything that wouldn't make you seem like a weirdo basically reading porn in public.

"Is it any good?"

"What?"

"The book. Is it any good?"

"I, uh...it's okay," you mumbled, messing with the hem of your shorts instead of looking at him. You couldn't. Not with that blinding smile, those dimples and pretty brown eyes making your stomach flip more than any of the bodice-ripping going on between the pages in your lap.

"Just okay? What would make it better?"

Oh god, why is he doing this. You wish he had won the toy from the machine so he could play with that instead of you right now.

When you don't answer Eddie jumps down off the machine and grabs the book from your lap. He ignores your protests as he leafs through the pages.

"You're mine now," the Captain growls at my ear. "Not a prim, proper lady of society. Not aboard my ship."

Eddie's voice changes to that of a grissled pirate as he reads. It's shocking, at first the horror that he's actually reading your book out loud, then how you respond. Your thighs tighten and you swallow, your mouth suddenly gone dry. Eddie's whole posture changes. He stands taller, more confident, like he truly is a grim, dominating pirate who kidnapped Lord Quimbly's only daughter.

Captain Blackburn roughly pushed up my skirts, bending me over his massive oak desk. I'd never felt more exposed and completely at someone else's mercy. Before I knew it, his manhood was pressing into me there, breaking me, ruining me for all others.

"Okay, wait, hold on," Eddie's teasing grin and dramatic tone vanished by the end of the passage. His brows furrowed as his finger traced the page and he read it again to himself. "That's it? He's just whipping it out and going to town? Breaking and ruining her? Fuckin' hell. I see what you mean." Eddie shook his head, flipping through more of the book.

"I mean, it's not great. But aren't most dudes like that anyway?" You laugh but it's true, the dudes you've been with in the past haven't cared much for seeing to your needs. Eddie, however, looks personally offended.

"They shouldn't be."

Eddie handed you back your book, not that you wanted to go back to reading it now anyway.

"Are you like that?"

The question slipped out before you could stop it. And you felt like you already knew the answer.

"Am I like what?"

"Other guys."

Eddie's playful smirk was back. Maybe you did want to be a toy for him to play with after all.

"Want me to show you? Hmm?" Eddie reaches out with one ringed finger and tips your chin up to look at him. "Want me to take care of you like those other guys couldn't?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." Your eyes search his, for what you don't know. For him to tell you what you want so you don't have to admit to yourself you want him to rail you at the laundromat while no one's around? Maybe.

"Tell me. Tell me you want me to make you come."

"Yes. Please."

Your desperate little plea is all he needs to hear apparently because in the next second he's pulling you up on your feet and kissing you. Eddie's mouth is hungry on yours, devouring yours. Turning in his arms, you jump up on to the washing machine and pull him closer. The metal is a welcome cold against your sweat slick thighs and Eddie's even more welcome between them. You scoot to the edge of the machine to grind against the bulge pushing against his zipper.

"Please, Eddie." You don't mean to sound so whiny, but you want him to keep his promise. You want him to make you feel good, to make you come.

"Shh, I'm here. There's no one else. I've got you," his words whispered in between kisses along your neck makes your spine tingle. He's got that same air of dominance as when he was reading your book and it's got you soaking through your cotton shorts.

Eddie's hands massage your breast, tugging at your nipple until your writhing against him. The ridge of his denim covered cock provides just enough friction for you to come from just this. His lips leaving love bites where anyone can see, his fingers pulling and squeezing to the point of pain, a pain that shoots straight to your clit. Just one more second and he'd have you screaming, but all at once he pulls away.

"Eddie," you sob, "don't stop, please."

"I've barely touched you and you're almost in tears," his mocking tone would piss you off if his touch wasn't so gentle. Holding your face so delicately, pressing soft kisses to your jaw like he didn't just bring you to the edge only to pull you away.

"Please, Eddie."

"Love the way you beg for me. So pretty when you beg."

Eddie's nose rubs against your jaw, nuzzling against you like a cat. You wouldn't be surprised if he started purring.

He nudges your thighs open a little wider, squeezing them and groaning at the way his fingers dig into your flesh.

"Next time you're gonna let me get my face between these thighs, princess. It's already killing me not to sink my teeth into 'em."

"Next time?"

Eddie looks you dead in the eyes, watches them roll back, and cups your pussy over your shorts.

"Next time. Because this is mine now."

You kiss him again then because, fuck, no one's every looked at you like that. Like you were worth keeping, like you were worth a next time. No one's fucked you in an empty laundromat either, but it looked like Eddie was full of surprises.

"It's yours," you press your forehead to his, trying to stop your head from spinning. "Make me come."

Eddie slips his hand into your shorts and curses.

"No panties? You've been sitting here this whole time with no panties on?"

"Stop saying panties. And yes, it's laundry day," you shrug like it's no big deal, which it isn't, but Eddie looks like he's about to pop five different blood vessels.

"You're in so much trouble," he groans as his fingers slip down to your soaked cunt. Your hole clenches around his finger tip like it's begging for him to push it in and he listens. Eddie fills you up with one, then two of his thick fingers. Teasing, spreading, stretching you open until you're writhing again. Your hips twist in time with his palm rubbing against your clit and it's heaven. He feels so fucking good and you tell him over and over until you're not sure you're saying words anymore.

Anyone could walk in and see the two of you at any time and it only makes you squeeze tighter around his fingers. Getting caught like this, spread open for Eddie like a whore while he bullies your cunt with his fat fingers. You're ruined for anyone else. Not like your book, with its heroine terrified of ruination, of being seen as dirty or less than. No you're ruined for ever being treated as less than, for accepting that no man will take the time to make you feel as amazing as you feel right now.

"Eddie, I'm gonna- oh god."

Your legs shake, you're right there. Eddie pulls his soaking wet fingers from inside you and you want to fucking scream, but he taps your clit and starts rubbing furious circles over the oversensitive nub.

"Come for me, show me."

His deep voice in your ear and the relentless pressure on your clit have you flying off the edge. Your body tensing, folding in on itself, all the air rushing out of your lungs as you implode from your release.

And Eddie holds you and kisses you and wipes his fingers on his shirt which should be gross but you don't care. It's laundry day, anyway.

"I meant it. You're mine. Not letting you tiptoe around me anymore."

"I don't tiptoe," you mumble into his neck. Your legs wrap around his waist as he settles between your thighs again. He's still painfully hard but it seems like he's fine with you clinging to him like a koala for now.

The washer buzzes under you, making you jump. Eddie doesn't want to let you go at first, but you give him an ultimatum that kicks his butt into gear.

"Help me finish my laundry and I'll blow you in your van." You look up at him through your lashes and laugh when he scrambles to pull you off the machine.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x plus size!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson headcanon #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson imagines #my fics

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urdreamydoodles · 8 days ago

Text

X-Men x Reader (Part.1)

You are being mind-controled by a villain and you believe your lover cheated on you (Part.1)

A fog has settled between you, a cruel illusion woven by unseen hands. You now look at your beloved with wounded eyes, twisted by whispers that cloud your trust.

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier & Bobby Drake

Logan Howlett aka. Wolverine

- You stormed into Logan’s quarters, your heart pounding and your fists clenched, fury mingling with disbelief. You’d seen what you thought was proof—evidence that he’d betrayed you with someone else, leaving your heart cracked and bleeding. Logan’s stoic expression softened the moment he saw your face, but the pain and mistrust in your gaze threw him off. The look in your eyes seemed to strip him of his tough demeanor, revealing a wounded vulnerability as you accused him of something he couldn’t even fathom.

- “Darlin’, you know me better than that,” he said, voice rough with confusion and the beginning tremors of hurt. His hands were up in a calming gesture, yet you took a step back, unable to bear the thought of him reaching out to you. The raw agony in his voice almost made you falter, but the accusations burned too brightly in your chest. His face contorted with frustration and sadness, but he let you finish, taking each verbal blow without pushing back.

- Days passed, and the silence between you two felt like an endless canyon, too wide to cross. Logan tried reaching out once, showing up near your room or during training, but you brushed him off coldly, unwilling to let him anywhere near your heart again. You knew you’d hurt him, but the thought of betrayal consumed you, filling your mind with a vicious loop of lies you’d unknowingly been fed. Logan’s presence felt like a haunting reminder of the love you’d once shared, now tainted by supposed deception.

- When the mind control lifted a week later, the weight of the truth came crashing down, leaving you stunned and guilt-ridden. The realization hit hard: he’d never betrayed you; he’d never once given you a reason to doubt him. The villain’s twisted manipulation had clouded your mind, robbing you of the trust you had once shared so naturally with Logan. Shame settled like a stone in your stomach as you processed the damage you’d caused, your accusations like knives you’d driven into him.

- You found him in the training room, his shoulders tense as he focused on striking a dummy with restrained but undeniable fury. He paused when he noticed you, his hardened expression flickering with something softer, perhaps hope, though it was tinged with hurt. As you approached, your voice came out small, shaky, an apology tangled in each word as you tried to explain the manipulation you’d been under. “I’m so sorry, Logan… It wasn’t real, I—” you stammered, voice thick with remorse.

- Logan didn’t respond right away; his jaw clenched as he looked down, processing your apology in silence. But then, with a heavy sigh, he pulled you into his arms, the warmth and familiarity of him enveloping you, melting the tension from your body. He whispered, “Next time, come to me first, darlin’. I’d fight the whole world before I’d ever hurt you.” There was forgiveness in his voice, even if the pain lingered, but he held you close, and you felt the pieces of trust slowly knitting back together.

- That night, you lay beside him, listening to the soft rumble of his breathing, finding comfort in his closeness as he traced gentle patterns along your arm. He didn’t speak much, but his steady presence reassured you that, though scarred, your relationship could heal. You both knew it wouldn’t be easy, but Logan’s quiet strength gave you hope, his forgiveness a balm for your wounded heart.

Remy LeBeau aka. Gambit

- You barged into Remy’s room, the image of him with another woman branded into your mind, his playful smirk twisting into something cruel as you confronted him. Your heart ached, not understanding how someone who’d once held you so gently could betray you like this. Remy’s easygoing demeanor faltered as he met your gaze, surprise replaced by hurt when you spat accusations, your voice trembling with sorrow and anger.

- “Chère, I swear to you, it ain’t true,” he tried to insist, his tone serious, stripped of the usual teasing warmth. But you didn’t let him finish, words spilling out like poison as you described the pain his supposed betrayal had caused. Remy listened, mouth set in a line, his dark eyes clouded with anguish, but you turned away before he could respond, ignoring the way his outstretched hand dropped back to his side, fingers curling in frustration.

- A week went by, each day feeling like a splinter under your skin as you avoided him, memories of his charming smile now laced with bitterness. Remy, ever the gentleman, respected your space, though you often caught glimpses of his devastated expression from afar. You overheard others speak of how he’d thrown himself into training, his usual flair dulled, his laughter absent. Yet, every time you passed him, his gaze still followed you, a silent plea hidden beneath his usually confident gaze.

- When the villain’s hold on your mind finally dissipated, clarity returned, bringing with it a crushing wave of guilt and self-reproach. You realized the image of his “betrayal” had been a malicious trick, a deceitful seed planted to tear you apart from him. The weight of your harsh accusations pressed on you, a constant reminder of the pain you’d inflicted on him without cause. Heart pounding, you steeled yourself and set out to make things right.

- You found Remy in the rec room, the lights low as he tossed a deck of cards absentmindedly, flipping each one into the air with his usual deftness. He didn’t look up right away, but when he did, his gaze softened, and his lips curved slightly, though you could see the shadow of hurt still in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, you poured out your apology, explaining the mind control that had twisted your perception, your voice filled with regret.

- He listened in silence, watching you with an unreadable expression until you finished. Then, a small smirk crept onto his lips, though his eyes were still vulnerable. “Chère, you broke my heart, y’know,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. But then he pulled you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his embrace as warm as it had always been. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna make me stop lovin’ you, though. Just don’t make me wait so long to fix things next time.”

- That evening, as you curled up in his arms, Remy gently traced circles along your back, his familiar scent and warmth calming your guilty heart. His fingers laced with yours, and the soft whisper of “I love you, chère” melted away the last remnants of doubt, grounding you in his unwavering affection.

Kurt Wagner aka. Nightcrawler

- You found Kurt in his room, your voice trembling as you confronted him, eyes filled with tears. The image of his supposed infidelity haunted you, the kind-hearted, compassionate Kurt you loved now tainted by betrayal. His golden eyes widened as he listened to your accusations, his expression crumpling with shock and heartbreak. He reached for you, his voice soft and pleading, “Liebchen, please… I would never…” But you pulled back, too hurt to listen.

- Kurt stood there, his tail swishing nervously, torn between reaching out to comfort you and respecting the painful distance you’d created. He watched helplessly as you turned and walked away, leaving him alone, his prayers for understanding left unanswered. The sadness in his eyes stayed with you, even in your anger, like a haunting reminder of what you’d shared, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal weighing on your heart.

- Days passed in agonizing silence, Kurt’s usual warmth missing from your life, replaced by a cold emptiness. You avoided him, and he, respecting your wishes, didn’t try to bridge the gap. Yet, you could feel his sadness from afar, a sense of sorrow that tugged at you each time you caught a glimpse of his shadow in the halls or heard his voice. The playful spark you’d once shared was gone, and the regret began to gnaw at you, though the pain of betrayal still held you back.

- Then, the fog lifted, and the truth of the mind control emerged, crushing you beneath a tidal wave of guilt. You realized how the villain’s manipulation had poisoned your mind, distorting the love Kurt had shown you into a twisted illusion. Heart aching, you felt the sting of your unfounded accusations and the weight of the hurt you’d caused him, each memory of his pained gaze lancing through you.

- You found Kurt in the chapel, praying, his silhouette outlined by soft candlelight. He looked up as you approached, his face a mixture of hope and trepidation, his usually joyful smile subdued. As you explained everything, your words laced with remorse, he listened intently, his golden eyes shining with unspoken forgiveness. The apology spilled from you, a torrent of sorrow and regret.

- Kurt took your hand in his, squeezing it gently as he spoke, “I forgive you, liebchen. My heart knew it wasn’t true.” His voice was tender, each word a balm to your guilty heart. He pulled you into a tight embrace, his warmth soothing the ache of your mistake, and you felt the comfort of his unconditional love envelop you. “Let us leave this behind us,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

- That night, as you lay beside him, your fingers entwined, Kurt’s laughter returned, soft and comforting. His playful smile reappeared, and the joyful glint in his eyes sparkled anew. His forgiveness, given so freely, renewed the light in your relationship, reminding you of the deep, unshakeable bond you shared.

Scott Summers aka. Cyclops

- When you stormed into the war room, your anger boiled over as you accused Scott of betrayal, the stoic leader you’d trusted having seemingly shattered your faith in him. Scott’s face fell, his usually composed demeanor shaken as you poured out your pain, describing how you’d seen him with someone else. His lips parted in surprise, but you didn’t give him a chance to explain, too hurt by the thought of him being with someone else.

- Scott’s initial shock shifted to pain, his jaw clenching as he listened, unable to find the words to defend himself against accusations he didn’t understand. His eyes—so often shielded behind his visor—seemed to reveal a vulnerability he rarely showed. He tried to reach out, his voice low and steady as he denied your claims, but your trust had been severed, leaving you feeling distant and alone.

- The following days felt like a hollow void, each passing moment amplifying the absence of Scott’s steady presence in your life. Scott continued his duties with the X-Men, though his usual precision and focus seemed dimmed. You caught glimpses of him, his shoulders tense, his face etched with a sorrow he tried to hide, and though a part of you ached to believe him, your mind remained clouded by distrust.

- A week later, the fog lifted, and with it came the crushing reality of the villain’s manipulation. Realizing you’d been deceived into doubting Scott tore at you, guilt consuming you as you remembered each harsh word you’d thrown at him. You’d wounded him deeply, casting him out in your pain, and now the weight of that regret sat heavily on your heart as you prepared to make amends.

- You found Scott in the danger room, his focus intense as he trained, his body moving with practiced precision, though there was an underlying tension in every motion. He paused when he saw you, his face a careful mask as he waited, giving you the space to speak. Your apology tumbled out, words spilling over each other as you explained the mind control you’d been under, your voice breaking with regret.

- Scott’s face softened as he took in your words, nodding slowly, though a hint of hurt remained in his gaze. “I understand,” he said quietly, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his embrace. His hold was gentle yet reassuring, a reminder of the unshakable trust he placed in you. “Next time, talk to me first,” he added, his voice a mix of relief and gentle admonishment, and you nodded, knowing the advice was well-deserved.

- That night, as you lay with him, his calm, steady breathing beside you, Scott’s familiar hand rested over yours, anchoring you in his quiet strength. He leaned down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, and with that simple gesture, the sense of peace returned, his unwavering loyalty rekindling the trust you’d thought you’d lost.

Jean Grey aka. Marvel Girl / Phoenix

- When you confronted Jean, the weight of betrayal and disbelief surged through you, making it hard to catch your breath. Your accusations spilled out, each word sharpened by hurt, as you described seeing her with someone else. Jean’s emerald eyes widened, her expression reflecting your own pain as you accused her of infidelity. Her mouth opened as if to defend herself, but the words didn’t come. You could feel her shock and sadness pulsing back at you, a faint psychic echo that only deepened the ache in your heart.

- “Please, you have to believe me, it’s not true,” she murmured, her voice gentle but edged with hurt. Jean tried to reach out, fingers trembling as they stretched toward you, but you pulled back, retreating from her touch. Her face fell as you turned away, her pleading expression remaining etched in your mind as you left her there, feeling shattered and alone. The telepathic bond you once shared now felt cold, a reminder of the trust you thought had been broken.

- For days, Jean kept her distance, though you’d catch her watching you with a quiet sadness whenever you passed each other. Her usual warmth, the fiery passion she radiated, seemed dimmed, like she’d wrapped herself in a barrier to shield from the hurt. You tried to push her out of your mind, but her absence left a hollow ache, one that only deepened each time you remembered the way her eyes had softened as you walked away.

- When the villain’s manipulation lifted a week later, the truth hit you like a tidal wave, leaving you reeling with guilt. You’d been tricked into believing Jean had betrayed you, but in reality, she’d been loyal to you, her love unwavering. Shame washed over you, knowing that you’d hurt her without reason, tearing apart the trust she’d cherished. You could only hope that it wasn’t too late to make things right.

- You found Jean alone in the gardens, her gaze distant as she sat in silence, a small frown creasing her forehead. Her shoulders tensed as you approached, but she didn’t look up. Heart pounding, you poured out your apology, explaining the mind control that had twisted your perception. She listened, her expression unreadable, though a glimmer of hope began to soften her gaze as you continued.

- After a long pause, Jean reached for your hand, squeezing it gently as tears brimmed in her eyes. “I wanted to reach out, but I could feel your pain too deeply,” she whispered, voice trembling. She pulled you into a soft embrace, her presence like a warm blanket around your heart. “Please, let’s promise to trust each other from now on, no matter what,” she added, and you nodded, feeling the first glimmers of relief.

- That night, as you held each other, Jean’s fingers gently traced along your arm, her psychic presence soothing and warm as she shared her feelings with you. The silent bond between you two, once bruised, began to heal, mending the hurt that had divided you. You found comfort in her arms, her forgiveness a balm that promised a fresh start, her love as unbreakable as ever.

Ororo Munroe aka. Storm

- Your voice shook as you confronted Ororo, disbelief and betrayal twisting inside you as you accused her of infidelity. Ororo’s calm gaze held your own, her eyes wide with shock and a hint of sorrow as your words struck her like thunder. You saw her usual composure flicker, her regal presence momentarily faltering as you laid out your accusations, heart aching with each word you threw at her.

- “I… I don’t know where this is coming from,” she replied, her voice soft, laced with heartbreak. She reached for you, a gentle attempt to reassure you, but you stepped back, hurt mingling with anger as you turned away. Ororo watched you go, her hand still outstretched, her usually warm expression now marred with the anguish of unspoken words. Even as you walked away, a part of you felt the sorrow radiating from her like a storm brewing in the distance.

- Days passed with silence filling the void between you two, the peacefulness she usually brought into your life now replaced by a cold emptiness. Ororo respected your space, though you’d catch glimpses of her from afar, her shoulders tense, her face etched with the sadness she struggled to conceal. Every time you saw her, it felt like the calm before a storm, the ache of loss lingering as the reality of her absence settled around you.

- When the fog of mind control finally lifted, understanding hit you like a gust of wind, and you felt the weight of guilt pressing down on you. Ororo had never betrayed you; her loyalty and love had remained steady. The villain’s manipulation had twisted your perception, turning the warmth you shared into bitter suspicion. Heart pounding, you knew you had to find her, to make things right and ask for her forgiveness.

- You found her in the garden, surrounded by blooming flowers and a soft breeze. She stood with her back to you, eyes closed, as if in quiet communion with nature. When she sensed your approach, she turned, her expression unreadable, a mixture of hope and lingering hurt. Words tumbled from your mouth, the apology spilling out as you explained the mind control that had manipulated your mind, your voice breaking with remorse.

- Ororo’s expression softened, her serene gaze meeting yours as she listened. After a moment of silence, she placed a gentle hand on your cheek, her touch soothing as she whispered, “I forgive you. I know the heart can be clouded by lies, but our love is stronger than that.” Her words were a calm reassurance, her forgiveness like a gentle rain that washed away the doubt and guilt that had lingered in your heart.

- That night, you sat together beneath the stars, her hand entwined with yours as she told stories of her childhood under the open sky. The peaceful presence she exuded settled around you like a comforting blanket, and as you rested your head on her shoulder, you felt the scars of your doubt fading, replaced by the steady strength of her love.

Anna Marie aka. Rogue

- You stormed into Rogue’s room, accusations slipping out before you could even consider the impact of your words. Rogue’s eyes widened in disbelief as you described what you’d seen, your voice laced with pain and anger. She shook her head, stepping back as you continued, your heart aching as you accused her of something you never thought she’d do. Her lips parted, her shock transforming into sorrow, as if each word was a blow that left her more vulnerable than you’d ever seen.

- “Ah wouldn’t ever do that t’ you,” she whispered, her voice thick with hurt, her Southern accent laced with a trembling sadness. Rogue reached out instinctively, her gloved hand hovering as if to reassure you, but you pulled away, the ache of betrayal too fresh. The sight of her slumping shoulders haunted you as you walked out, her sadness lingering in your mind even as you tried to push her from your thoughts.

- The following days felt hollow, the vibrant spark that Rogue usually brought into your life now replaced by a dull ache. Rogue didn’t try to push her way back in, though every time you saw her, her gaze lingered, a mixture of hurt and confusion visible in her green eyes. You’d catch her in training, her laughter absent, her confidence dimmed, each glance at her a reminder of the trust you’d once shared, now seemingly fractured.

- A week later, the villain’s hold on your mind lifted, leaving you reeling with regret. The image of Rogue’s “betrayal” had been nothing but an illusion, a trick meant to sever your bond. The guilt weighed heavily on you as you remembered each accusation, each moment of doubt you’d forced on her. The damage was done, but you knew you had to try to mend the hurt you’d inflicted, to apologize and hope that she’d understand.

- You found her on the mansion’s balcony, gazing out at the sprawling landscape, her expression pensive. She turned when you approached, her gaze wary, the pain still fresh in her eyes. Taking a deep breath, you offered a heartfelt apology, explaining how you’d been manipulated, each word laced with sorrow and remorse. Rogue listened, her expression softening as you spoke, though a hint of hurt remained.

- She was quiet for a moment, studying you, before her lips quirked in a sad smile. “Ah figured somethin’ was off, but it hurt, sugar,” she murmured, her voice raw with the vulnerability she rarely showed. But then, in true Rogue fashion, she pulled you into a tight embrace, the warmth of her hold seeping through your guilt. “Just promise me you’ll trust me next time, alright?” she whispered, her voice thick with forgiveness.

- That night, you lay side by side, the moon casting soft light across her face as she told you stories of her past, her gloved hand tracing gentle patterns on your arm. She forgave you with a grace you hadn’t anticipated, her love steadfast and undiminished. As you held her, you felt a renewed trust blossom between you, a bond that had withstood the storm, now stronger than ever.

Erik Lehnsherr aka. Magneto

- When you confronted Erik, anger and heartbreak mingled in your words as you accused him of betrayal. His normally sharp, guarded gaze softened, showing a flicker of vulnerability you’d rarely seen as he absorbed your accusations. Erik’s face darkened with pain as he denied your claims, his usual calm and confidence faltering as you recounted what you’d seen. He reached out, trying to make you understand, but the hurt clouded your judgment, leaving you feeling shattered and disconnected.

- “You know me better than that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, a hint of desperation in his tone. Erik’s hand dropped to his side as he watched you turn away, his shoulders tense with a restrained sorrow that only deepened the ache in your heart. He didn’t chase after you, respecting your choice to walk away, though the look in his eyes haunted you, a mixture of regret and confusion that lingered long after you’d left.

- In the days that followed, Erik returned to his usual demeanor, his powerful presence now tainted by an unspoken sadness. Though he resumed his work, his moments of quiet solitude grew longer, the stoic mask he wore cracking slightly under the weight of the distance between you. You saw him standing alone on the mansion grounds more often, his expression hardened but with a flicker of sorrow that betrayed the pain he carried within.

- A week later, as the fog of mind control finally dissipated, the truth hit you with a crushing force. The betrayal you’d seen had been nothing more than an illusion, a cruel trick meant to drive a wedge between you and Erik. Regret flooded through you, the weight of each harsh word you’d thrown at him settling heavily on your heart. Determined to make amends, you knew you had to find him, to confess the truth and ask for his forgiveness.

- You found Erik in the metal workshop, his focus intense as he worked, manipulating metal with quiet precision. When he noticed you, his hands stilled, his face carefully guarded as he met your gaze, waiting for you to speak. Taking a shaky breath, you apologized, explaining the mind control that had twisted your perception and pushed you to doubt him. Erik listened silently, his eyes never leaving yours, a mix of hurt and understanding etched on his face.

- Erik stepped closer, his hand reaching out to rest against your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I know the world often gives us reason to doubt, but I hoped you’d trust in me,” he murmured, his voice heavy with both forgiveness and a lingering sadness. He pulled you into a strong embrace, his arms wrapping around you in a way that felt protective, as though he’d keep you close, despite the pain you’d caused.

- That night, as you lay beside him, Erik’s fingers traced gentle patterns on your arm, a soft reminder of his silent devotion. He held you close, his presence both reassuring and grounding, a quiet promise that your bond was stronger than any villain’s lies. In his arms, you felt the forgiveness you’d feared you’d lost, a renewed trust settling between you as the weight of doubt faded away, replaced by a love that defied all odds.

Charles Xavier aka. Professor X

- When you confronted Charles, the words spilled out in a painful rush, your heart aching as you accused him of something you’d once thought impossible. His calm blue gaze wavered as he listened, the hurt in his eyes clear as he took in each painful accusation. Charles tried to reach out telepathically, his gentle voice brushing against your mind, but the hurt pushed you to block him, leaving him standing there, stunned and sorrowful.

- “Please, if you’d just let me explain,” he pleaded, his usually steady voice faltering as he took a step toward you. Charles’s outstretched hand fell back to his side when you backed away, his face softening with regret and a sadness that tugged at your heart. He watched you leave, his expression a mixture of sorrow and helplessness, a silent question lingering between you that neither of you could answer.

- In the days that followed, Charles kept his distance, his presence around the mansion more subdued than usual. Though he carried on with his responsibilities, his usual warmth and reassuring smile seemed dimmed, a hint of sadness in his eyes whenever you passed each other. You noticed him sitting alone in his study more often, his gaze distant, as though wrestling with the hurt of your accusations in his own quiet way.

- When the villain’s manipulation finally lifted, the realization of the truth hit you hard, guilt flooding your heart. You’d been deceived, twisted into believing a betrayal that had never happened, and in doing so, you’d hurt the man who had trusted you so deeply. Shame filled you as you remembered each accusation, each cold look you’d given him, and you knew you had to make things right.

- You found Charles in his study, his gaze focused on a book but distant, lost in thought. When you entered, he looked up, his expression a mixture of surprise and guarded hope. Stumbling over your words, you explained the mind control that had been used to deceive you, your apology spilling out as you begged for his forgiveness. Charles listened, his expression softening as he absorbed your words, though a trace of hurt lingered in his eyes.

- “I understand, my dear,” he replied gently, reaching out to take your hand in his. His touch was warm, comforting, as he squeezed your hand reassuringly. “The mind can be a fragile thing, easily manipulated. But I believe in us,” he added, his voice a gentle reminder that trust, once broken, could be rebuilt. Charles pulled you into a soft embrace, his forgiveness radiating through you like a quiet, calming balm.

- That night, as you sat by the fire, Charles shared memories of times you’d spent together, his voice soothing and full of love. With each story, he reassured you of his unwavering trust and commitment, your bond gradually healing in the warmth of his presence. The quiet strength of his forgiveness wrapped around you, giving you a renewed faith in the love that had weathered even the darkest of manipulations.

Bobby Drake aka. Iceman

- You confronted Bobby with a whirlwind of hurt and frustration, accusing him of betrayal with an intensity that left you both shaken. Bobby’s usual carefree grin vanished, replaced by a look of shock as he absorbed your accusations, his blue eyes wide with disbelief. He tried to protest, to deny what you were saying, but the pain in your voice silenced him, leaving him looking lost and wounded.

- “I would never do that to you,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with sincerity, hurt flickering in his eyes as he searched your face for any sign of belief. He reached out, his hand trembling as he tried to reassure you, but you pulled back, the ache of distrust making it hard to accept his words. Bobby’s shoulders slumped as you turned away, his usual bright spirit dampened by the weight of your accusations.

- For days, the once lively mansion felt colder, the warmth Bobby usually brought replaced by an uncomfortable silence. He withdrew, giving you the space you needed, though his gaze would linger sadly whenever you passed each other. You missed his humor, the lighthearted moments that had once filled your days, but the cloud of suspicion remained, leaving a hollow ache that only grew with time.

- A week later, the villain’s hold on your mind finally lifted, and with it came the realization of the truth. Bobby’s supposed betrayal had been nothing more than a cruel manipulation, meant to tear you apart. The guilt was overwhelming as you remembered the hurt in his eyes, the way you’d rejected him despite his protests. Heart heavy, you knew you had to find him and apologize, to explain the lies that had clouded your mind.

- You found Bobby in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, his posture tense as he focused on an ice sculpture he was absentmindedly creating. He looked up when you entered, his expression guarded, a flicker of hope in his gaze as you began to apologize. Your words tumbled out, explaining the mind control that had twisted your perception, the regret heavy in your voice.

- Bobby’s expression softened, his usual playful spark returning as he let out a soft laugh, though there was a hint of lingering hurt in his eyes. “Guess I can’t stay mad at you,” he said, a playful grin breaking through the sadness as he pulled you into a tight hug. He held you close, his embrace warm despite his powers, a silent reassurance that he forgave you and that he’d missed you too.

- That night, as you lay together on the couch, Bobby’s arms wrapped around you, he cracked jokes, his usual humor returning in full force as he playfully teased you about your suspicions. The lighthearted banter soothed the remaining tension, reminding you of the joy he brought into your life. In his laughter and his forgiveness, you found the comfort you’d missed, the love between you rekindled with a warmth that melted away all doubts.

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formulauno98 · 5 months ago

Text

Yacht Girl Summer - Chapter Nine / Thursday, Four Months Later - George Russell x Reader, Toto Wolff x Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: Angst!!! 🌶 This one is spicy. 18+ only. This is going to be a slow burn and if you're uncomfortable with the idea of two-timing don't read this.

Author’s Notes: Disclaimer, purely fiction. No use of Y/N and minimal descriptions because I want everyone/anyone to be able to enjoy this.

I do not give anyone permission to replicate or translate my fic.

THURSDAY EVENING, FOUR MONTHS POST-BREAK-UP

Bouncing up and down, straddling the handsome man lying on the bed beneath you, your hips rolled together in unison as he thrust up into you, moaning. His familiar hands held your hips in a vice-like grip, lifting you as he filled you over and over again, each thrust bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Take it.” he rasped, pulling you down for a breathy, passionate kiss as he pressed his cock deeper. You’d never felt so full and it wasn’t long before you were almost there.

“Cum for me.” he said, “Cum on my cock.”

“Fuck!” you screamed as your companion flipped you over onto your back once more, pushing in relentlessly, leaving you gasping as you shuddered out your second orgasm of the night. The man on top of you wasn’t far behind, expertly pulling out as he too reached completion, splattering your stomach.

“Fuck, that was good,” he said, rolling over to lay beside you, “Why did we not do this again sooner?”

You rolled over to lean on your elbow, your eyes finding his, “Really?” you said.

“A figure of speech.” he said, propping himself up to face you fully, “We should clean up, come and shower with me?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” you said, grinning at your charming lover. This was not how you had expected the evening to go when you’d accepted an invitation to a friend of a friend’s art exhibition. But you were not one to complain. Life always had a funny way of working out.

REWIND TO A TUESDAY AFTERNOON, TWO MONTHS POST-BREAK-UP

Days had turned into weeks that quickly stretched to two months as you tried your best to piece your life back together following your split from George. The pain of the break-up still hit hard but was slowly dissipating with each passing day. It wasn’t easy, the press having gotten wind of the split and done their utmost to link George to numerous other women in the wake of your separation, his photo constantly splashed unceremoniously across the gossip pages.

To begin with, seeing articles and photos of him with other women had upset you but the saying that time heals all wounds was starting to ring true and the more time passed, the less it was affecting you. You were starting to feel like yourself again, no more worrying about what people thought of you, enjoying being your own person once more, no longer just George’s girlfriend.

Although brutal, the break-up had brought the clarity that you had long been seeking. Of course, you regretted how it had come about but you didn’t regret it happening. You wished you hadn’t hurt George in the process and you somewhat regretted sleeping with Toto but you couldn’t turn back the clock, you could only learn from your mistakes.

On the matter of Toto, you had felt torn. Despite the clandestine way you had found each other, there was a real connection and you had toyed with the idea of exploring it. True to his word, he had sent you a text asking if you’d like to go for lunch but it had felt too soon so you’d politely declined. A few weeks later, he’d invited you for drinks, but again it felt all too quick. You needed space to heal, to figure out if your attraction to him had been genuine or was just a product of the yacht’s close quarters, fueled by your unhappiness with George.

In a surprising turn of events, Cara had also checked in with you regularly, the older woman sympathetic to your plight. The unexpected blossoming friendship had become a comforting constant, with the two of you meeting every few weeks for coffee or brunch and Cara making you privy to George and Toto’s workplace comings and goings. According to James, their relationship was still frosty but both were professional enough to keep it out of the workplace and the wider team were none the wiser.

You hadn’t heard from George, save for a short text telling you that someone was coming over to collect his things from your apartment. It had been emotional packing up George’s possessions but somewhat cathartic once they were gone. Out of sight, out of mind and it had helped you begin to fully move on.

TUESDAY EVENING

That was until one fateful evening. You’d been invited to a charity auction, auctioning off racing memorabilia for a good cause. You had RSVP’d months ago and forgotten until a reminder popped up in your calendar the day before. It was too late to back out and all you hoped was that George would not be there.

On arrival you scanned the room, looking out for the familiar mop of brown hair. Breathing a sigh of relief, you saw he was nowhere to be found and milled about, sipping on champagne and chatting with your former acquaintances from the paddock. Ready to grab another flute of champagne, you jumped as a hand suddenly wrapped around your arm, a deep, all-too familiar voice booming from behind you.

“I didn’t know you would be here.”

It was Toto. Fuck. Your heart skipped a beat, but you steadied yourself, turning to face him.

"Hi," you replied, feeling a mix of emotions. "How have you been?"

"Busy, as always," he said with a small laugh. "And you?"

"Good. Work’s been busy too and I’ve been trying to get out for some hikes every weekend. Take my mind off things, you know?"

There was an awkward pause, a moment of unspoken understanding. "I’m glad to hear that," he said finally. "You look well."

"Thank you, so do you," you replied. "I’ve also had a lot of time to think lately."

"About us?" he asked, keeping his voice low, his eyes searching yours.

"About everything," you admitted. "What happened… it wasn't fair to George, to you, or to myself."

Toto nodded. "I understand. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for my part in it."

"Thank you," you said, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. “What’s done is done and we can only move on.”

"I agree," he said, his tone respectful. "And if you ever need a friend, I’m here."

You smiled, appreciating the gesture. "I’ll keep that in mind."

– – –

As the evening progressed, you felt a sense of closure. The chapter with George and Toto was over and you were ready for new beginnings. Your future was uncertain, but you felt ready to embrace it for the first time in a while.

You didn’t see Toto again that night and thankfully George didn’t show up. You were able to slip out early, knowing that this was a world you were finally no longer part of. It was cathartic and as you walked into the night, you savoured the promise of new adventures and the lessons learned from your past mistakes.

SATURDAY EVENING

As the days passed following the auction, the memory of your encounter with Toto at the charity event lingered. You found yourself replaying the conversation in your mind, wondering if you should have said more. The closure you felt that night started to feel incomplete and you couldn't shake the feeling that there could be more to explore between you and Toto.

Late one Saturday evening, as you sat alone in your apartment, you decided to bite the bullet and reach out. With a deep breath, you picked up your phone and typed out a message.

"Hey, it was good to see you the other day. Would you be up for coffee? I’ve been thinking a lot and would love to talk."

You hesitated before hitting send, but you figured what the hell. The message was sent and all you could do was wait and see what he had to say in response - if he responded at all.

SUNDAY MORNING

Fortunately, you didn’t have long to wait when early the next morning, Toto’s reply came.

"Of course. I’m in town today, I can do this afternoon if that’s not too short notice?"

You replied quickly, texting back and forth as you made concrete plans for the location and timing. Your stomach was already filled with butterflies, you weren’t sure what you were going to say to Toto but all you knew was that your heart had thumped at the sight of him at the auction. He was a striking man and a single flash of that dimpled grin had your heart melting once more.

Arriving at the café, you spotted Toto seated at a corner table, looking pensive. He smiled warmly as you approached and you were struck by how natural it felt to see him again, albeit surreal to see him sat down at a regular table, away from the glitz and glamour you typically met him in.

"Hi," you said, sitting down across from him.

"Hi," he replied. "It’s good to see you."

"You too," you said, taking a deep breath. "I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since the auction."

"Me too," Toto admitted, his expression serious. "That week was…something. I’ve found myself missing you."

"Same here," you said, feeling a sense of relief. "Seeing you the other night made me realise that. Maybe, if you wanted, we could see each other again?”

Toto leant forward, his eyes searching yours. "What are you saying?"

"I’m saying that I know this came about in not the best way but maybe we could see where things go?"

Toto’s face softened, and he reached across the table to briefly take your hand in his, conscious you were in public. "I’ve felt the same way. I didn’t want to push you, after everything that happened. But if you’re willing to give me a chance, I’d like that too. Let me take you out to dinner."

You smiled, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. "I’d love that. Let’s start again, no pressure.”

"Absolutely," Toto agreed, his dimpled grin returning, chocolate eyes crinkling. “No pressure.”

THREE MONTHS POST-BREAK-UP

Over the next few weeks, you and Toto spent more time together, enjoying a cosy dinner, a trip to an art gallery and a walk around the park, dropping back into easy conversations as if no time had passed at all. Toto had behaved like the perfect gentleman, not taking things beyond a relatively chaste goodnight kiss following your dinner. He knew that you were still healing and when you were ready to take the next step you’d be sure to let him know.

With Toto now away for three weeks on a triple header, you kept in touch digitally, dropping each other occasional texts throughout the day, Toto calling you on the odd quieter evening. When he did call, you found yourself chatting away the hours, it was easy and you felt as if you’d known him for years.

Although you were taking things slow this time, you couldn’t wait for Toto to return and swoop you up in those strong arms. You craved his touch and couldn’t wait for the opportunity to get close once again.

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, FOUR MONTHS POST-BREAK-UP

The day Toto was set to return had finally arrived. You woke up with an excitement you hadn't felt in a long time, a spring in your step as you went about your morning routine. You texted him good morning, and he replied almost instantly.

"Can’t wait to see you tonight. Dinner at 8?"

"Perfect, Can’t wait," you replied, smiling at the thought of seeing him again.

You spent the day preparing, tidying up your apartment just in case anything were to happen and spending some time pampering so you looked and felt your best. You were tingling with anticipation at the promise of what the evening held.

WEDNESDAY EVENING

When eight o’clock finally came, you arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early, nervously checking your reflection in the window before stepping inside. Toto was already there, ever the gentleman, standing up from the table to greet you with a warm smile.

"You look beautiful," he said, his voice deep and sincere.

"Thank you," you replied, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks. "You look good too."

Dinner was filled with easy conversation and shared laughter, Toto sharing stories from his action-packed travels and you telling him about the new hobbies you'd picked up during your time alone. There was an unspoken understanding between you, a mutual respect that you knew had not been present in your relationship with George. You found yourself once again falling for the older man’s rakish charm, such a stark contrast from the grumpy persona he seemed to adopt in the workplace.

After dessert, Toto offered to walk you home and you eagerly agreed. The evening was cool, the stars just beginning to peek out from the darkening sky as you strolled through the dark streets. Toto’s hand brushed against yours and you felt a spark return, a connection that was impossible to ignore.

"Can I confess something?" he asked, stopping to look at you, his dark eyes serious.

"Of course," you replied, your heart racing.

"I’ve thought about you every day since that week on the yacht," he said, his voice soft. "I know it wasn’t the best of circumstances, but it is what it is."

You took a deep breath, the honesty in his words touching you deeply. "I feel the same way, Toto."

He smiled, stepping closer and taking your hands in his. "These last three weeks have been torture. All I wanted was to come back and see you. It’s been driving me crazy.”

You nodded, feeling a wave of relief and happiness wash over you. "I missed you too."

As he leaned down to kiss you, the world seemed to melt away. His lips were soft and warm, and you felt a sense of rightness as if this was where you were meant to be all along. When you finally pulled away, he kept you close, his forehead resting against yours.

"Let’s take it slow," he suggested. "No pressure, just us."

"Just us," you repeated, feeling a sense of peace you hadn’t felt in a long time.

As you walked towards your apartment, hand in hand, you knew that this was the start of something new. It wouldn’t be easy, and there would be challenges ahead, but for the first time in a long while, you felt hopeful. More mature than George, Toto was different, the breath of fresh air that you had needed.

THURSDAY MORNING

The next morning, you woke up with a smile on your face, the memory of Toto’s kiss still fresh in your mind. Something about it felt right and you couldn’t wait to see him again.

You rolled over and checked your phone, pleased to already see a message from him.

"Good morning beautiful. Last night was wonderful. Looking forward to seeing you again soon."

You replied quickly, your heart fluttering.

"Good morning! I had a great time too. Can’t wait to see you again."

Toto was straight to the point, playing no games. He had told you exactly how he felt and you believed him. You had heeded Cara’s warning of him being a playboy but he had given you no reason to fear so far.

As you set about your day, you kept catching yourself smiling for no reason in particular, glowing from your evening with Toto. You had been invited to a friend of a friend’s art exhibition that evening and you were looking forward to spending time with your girlfriends and spilling the details of your budding romance. You hadn’t shared what had happened on the yacht with many but you knew if your relationship with Toto was to grow, you couldn’t keep him a secret.

THURSDAY EVENING

Walking through the doors of the small gallery, the room buzzed with conversations, the walls adorned with large, vibrant pieces. Your friends were yet to arrive so you decided to take a look around. As you moved from painting to painting, you heard a familiar voice behind you. Turning around, you saw George standing there, looking as surprised as you felt.

“Hi,” you greeted him, a bit unsure of how to proceed, aware that you were exposed in public.

“Hi,” he replied, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same,” you said, forcing a small smile. “How have you been?”

“Busy,” he said with a shrug. “You?”

“Good. Just taking things one day at a time,” you replied.

An awkward silence hung between you, and you decided to break it. “This is weird. Do you want to talk somewhere else?”

George hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

Dropping a hasty text to your friends, telling them a white lie that you weren’t feeling well, you found yourself outside, alone with George. The evening air was cool and refreshing and as you walked side by side in silence through the quiet streets, the city lights cast a soft glow around you.

“I’m sorry, George,” you said, breaking the silence. “I’m so sorry for everything. For cheating on you, for hurting you. You didn’t deserve that.”

George looked at you, his expression softening. “I know I wasn’t the best boyfriend. I got caught up in my career and forgot about us. I’m angry, yes, but I also understand that we both made mistakes.”

You shook your head. “It’s not at all your fault George, please never think that. It was my fault entirely and I just hope we can both move on from this and find happiness.”

“I hope so too,” George said, his tone softening. “I did love you, you know. A part of me always will.”

Tears welled up in your eyes. “I loved you too, George. I still care about you and I want the best for you.”

He gave a small smile, a hint of the old George you knew. “Same here. Let’s just try to be better for ourselves and whoever comes next.”

“Agree.” you said, “Whoever that is is a lucky girl.”

“I appreciate that,” said George, “And likewise, although I think we both know who that is.”

You raised your eyebrows, George interrupting you before you were able to deny his suggestion, “I know you’re seeing Toto. We’ve spent the last few weeks together and I’ve seen him glued to his phone when he’s not working. He’s been grinning like an idiot.”

Smiling weakly, you shrugged, “We’re just friends. It didn’t feel right to do anymore.”

Looking unconvinced, George turned to face you, “Look, I’m sure we’ll run into each other, I hope we can be friendly?”

Surprised that George was being so amicable, you reached around to hug him, his arms wrapping around you in return, “Deal.”

Stood in George’s embrace, you felt a sense of relief and closure wash over you. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. Sure, George had not been the perfect boyfriend but you would always cherish the moments you had spent together and you could only wish him well.

– – –

Having bid goodbye to George, you returned to your apartment, feeling lighter than you had in months. As you settled in, your phone rang. It was Toto.

“Hello?” you answered, your heart skipping a beat at the sound of his voice.

“Hey, is now a good time to talk?” he said, a warm tone in his voice.

“Of course,” you said, thrilled that he already wanted to talk to you again.

“Are you home?” he asked, “I’m close by, I wondered if I can come up?’

Surprised that he was inviting himself over, you looked around, scanning the mess you’d left in your apartment as you’d hurried out the door earlier, “Sure, how far away are you?”

“About twenty minutes.” he said, “I’ll ring when I’m close by.”

“Perfect,” you said, “See you soon.”

“See you,” he said ringing off.

At that, you bolted from the sofa frantically, chucking the dirty plates and cookware that you’d left in the sink in the dishwasher and running to your bedroom to put the laundry you’d been too lazy to fold away back in your wardrobe.

You’d hardly managed to tidy anything when the buzzer rang. Twenty minutes your ass, Toto needed to work on his timing! You pushed the button to let Toto up, making your way to the kitchen to dig out a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Not long after there was a soft knock on your door and barely containing a smile, you made your way over to answer the door to the older Austrian, mildly embarrassed at your excitement. You took a breath, steeling yourself to calm down and greet Toto normally.

However, nothing could have prepared you for who stood on the other side of the door. It was George, grinning widely, clearly tipsy, holding the largest bunch of white roses you’d seen in your life.

"George," you said, taken aback. "Not that it’s not nice to see you but what are you doing here?"

His grin faltered for a moment, replaced with a flicker of uncertainty. "I know this is unexpected. But after we talked earlier, I felt like there were still things left unsaid. I wanted to come by and see you."

You hesitated, glancing down the hallway, half expecting Toto to appear any second. "George, this really isn't a good time..."

"I won't stay long, I promise," he said quickly, sensing your hesitation. "I just need to say this."

You stepped aside, allowing him to enter and he handed you the roses. They were beautiful, but the timing felt wrong. You placed them on the kitchen counter and turned to face him.

"Thank you for these, but George, we really said everything that needed to be said earlier. We have to move on."

"I know," he said, running a hand through his hair. "But I’ve been thinking too. I realised I never properly apologised for my part in everything. I was so wrapped up in my own world, I didn’t see how unhappy you were. I’m truly sorry."

You nodded, appreciating his honesty. "George, honestly, what I did to you was the worst thing in the world. Unless you were some abusive boyfriend there was no excuse. I’m the biggest piece of shit for doing that. There is no need to apologise.”

He gazed at you, unconvinced, “I don’t know about that. I miss you.”

Your eyes widened, not only were you not expecting George, you certainly hadn’t expected this one-eighty. If things had been the other way around you were not sure if you could have forgiven him.

“I miss you too,” you confessed, “But it’s natural, we spent a lot of time together, good times.”

“Exactly!” he said, his eyes a little crazy, “And I’ve been thinking. I think I could forgive you. I know you’ve been chatting to Toto but c’mon, you can do better than that old man.”

Suddenly well aware that the old man in question was currently en route to your place, you tried to remain tactful, “I appreciate that but I honestly think it’s better if we both just move on. You can do a lot better than me!”

“No. No, I can’t.” he said, his eyes looking saddened, “I’m still in love with you.”

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