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formulafics · 2 months ago

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BEST FRIEND’S BROTHER (is the one for me)

SCENARIO: in which reader experiences nighttime anxiety, and finds solace in their best friends brother.

STARRING: GN!Reader, LN4, OP81, CL16, LH44, GR63, MV1, FC43, LS2, & MS47

WARNING(S): anxiety mentions, anxiety traits (such as fiddling or skin picking, self doubt, etc.)

AUTHORS NOTE: self indulgent fic who cheered? also maybe the start of a series; just a variety of scenarios regarding drivers as your best friends brother? 👀 And, as per always, shoutout to @renarots for always supplying the ideas when my brain refuses to 😼

Conversations with Lando have always been frequent, and you’ve always had chemistry, the two of you.

Lando knew he was too far gone when he realized he was thinking too much about the way you clearly had a crush on him, that went beyond the line of simply being amused by your infatuation with him. He knew he was no longer just basking in the confidence boost of that when he began unintentionally thinking of you in his room, on his bed, in his arms—

He’d recalled your anxiety. You mentioned it once during a late night talk with him, fueled by sleep deprivation. He could relate to it. Maybe he didn’t have the same anxiety, but his mind always raced at night, too loud for him to sleep at a decent time.

He’d often hoped you’d come to him, that maybe he could be a safe place for you. So, when you finally come knocking on his door…

He was fast asleep. His feet carry him groggily to the door, because for once, he’d been able to sleep. However, when he sees you, he’s wide awake.

Lando smiles, just slightly, then his brows furrow with concern and said smile falls when he sees your distressed expression. “What’s wrong?” Asks his raspy, sleepy voice, and your heart flutters, mind momentarily distracted from worry. However, his question then processes, and you sigh.

“Anxiety.” You respond simply, and he nods understandingly. You watch as he yawns, lifts his hands to his eyes to rub them, before he steps back to let you into his room. It’s cleaner than you’d expected, his cologne wafting faintly through the air. LED lights line his bed frame, a dim red glow surrounding his large, incredibly inviting bed. It’s nice in here, and you almost feel guilty for finding so much solace and intrigue in Flo’s brother, but you also know she’s contently asleep in her room. She needs her sleep, you decide, pushing away your guilt.

Lando lets you explore, watching from his doorway. He quietly shuts the door, then walks to his bed, plopping down on the edge.

“What’s got you worked up, then?” He asks, after a few moments of quiet, and when you turn to see his hazel eyes staring at you, sleepy and soft, but also concerned, your heart sinks in a way that’s somehow overwhelming and delightful at once.

So, you explain your anxieties. The rational and irrational fears, the thoughts that keep you up — and when he realizes you’re actively spiraling, he gets up and steps towards you, reaching out to gently brush his knuckles against your arm.

“Hey,” he hushes you, smiling warmly when you look at him. “You’re okay,” he assures you. “It’s okay to be anxious,” he adds, rubbing your arm now. “What makes it better?” he asks gently, and you huff a small laugh.

“You.” You say, a small, amused grin on your lips, as your cheeks warm. He laughs lightly, shaking his head, as he lets his fingers gently grasp your hand. “Be serious,” he retorts, though there’s a glimmer in his eyes that assures you that he liked the flirty comment.

“I don’t know what makes it better,” you say honestly, gently grabbing his hand, looking down at your hands. His fingers rub your palm, yours caressing his in return, as he slowly laces your fingers. He hums quietly, acknowledging your words.

He looks down at your hands, too, as they intertwine, and he squeezes yours, his other hand finding your free one. He guides your arms around himself, and then lets go of your hands, wrapping his own arms around your shoulders.

The sigh you let out, and the way you relax into him says it all. He smiles, resting his cheek against your hair.

“Let’s start with this, hm? If it doesn’t work, I have other ways I can help you,” he says. You both realize the unintentional suggestive tone in his words, and it makes the pair of you laugh.

Shaking your head against him, you squeeze him gently. “Yeah. Let’s start with this.”

“Worst case, there’s always Oscar.”

That’s what Hattie told you, regarding your anxiety. If all else failed, you could go to Oscar…yeah, no. You’d thought about it more than you’d like to admit.

You liked to imagine that he’d hug you and console you. You could hear his soft voice assuring you that it’s okay, that you can always come to him, but you’d also conjured up a more harsh alternative, being that he would think of you as dramatic or a burden.

Which is why you currently stand outside of his door, in the hallway, reluctant to knock on his door. He’s asleep. You’re certain. The lights are off, none seeping through the cracks of his door. It silent in his room, safe from the very faint sounds of his breathing.

The longer you stand there, the more you spiral. Tears brim your eyes, and just as you turn on your heel to walk away, you hear rustling. His feet hit the ground, and you hear the click of what you’re assuming is a lamp. You glance back, seeing a soft golden glow peek through the cracks of his door, and your heart leaps, the tears still in your eyes.

Then, his steps are quiet, but near, and before you can properly scurry off, his door opens. His eyes are squinted, brows furrowed. His hair is tousled in a way that makes you yearn to run your fingers through it. Then, you meet his gaze.

By the time you lift your hands to wipe your eyes, Oscar’s already noticed your distressed, near-tears state.

His brows furrowed even closer, and his lips part to speak. “Are you alright?” he asks lowly, accent deliciously coating his sleepy voice.

You blink a few times, before responding, your tongue spilling the words before you can stop them.

“I’m just really anxious and Hattie wouldn’t wake up, so I was gonna see if you were up, but obviously you were asleep, so I was just gonna leave, and I mean, you scare me a little bit anyways—“

“I scare you?” He asks, interrupting your ramble. He chuckles breathily, shaking his head slightly. “I’m laid back, not mean.” He says, making you laugh nervously.

Oscar just smiles, a small one, as his eyes scan your features. He sighs softly, not an irritated sigh, and looks over his shoulder, perhaps checking the time. “I can’t promise to be a good helper, but you’re welcome to my room and company anytime.”

Oscar, in that moment, knows you’re not just his sister’s friend. Not when he’s quite content with losing sleep, if it means helping you in any way.

Days are fine. Days are fun. Especially with Arthur Leclerc dragging you around Monaco, but then comes nighttime. The anxiety had been rolling in since dinner, waves of dread regarding the battle that is yourself against sleeping. You’d been sure that you’d be comfy in the Leclerc home. You’re very close with Arthur, his family is always welcoming, but as you lay on the couch in his living room, your heart thumps against your ribcage.

You stare through the sheer curtains of the window, seeing moonlight seep through them, illuminating the room just slightly. You glance at the TV — perhaps the distraction would help, but you choose against it, too worried about disturbing others.

By the time your breathing is fast, and you feel your eyes burn as they do before tears come, footsteps sound. They’re faint, soft. Then, you hear the sound of a chair on the floor, a quiet scraping sound. Then, a padding sound. *Leo.*

The small, golden-haired puppy scurries across the floor, and if that wasn’t confirmation enough as to who the other footsteps belong to, the sound of the piano in the music room is all you need.

You sit up, letting your feet hit the floor, as you lean down to pet Leo’s small head, running your fingers through his silky coat. Despite the anxiety you felt moments ago, the soothing sound of the piano, and the overwhelming cuteness of the dog under your hand is enough to distract you.

When Leo wanders to his water bowl, you watch, then look to the door of the room that you know Charles is in. You hadn’t taken him for an insomniac, but you can definitely imagine him now, with tousled hair and sleepy eyes, likely in a plain t-shirt and sweatpants, slender fingers dancing over white and black keys…

Charles is a sweetheart. He’s always been incredibly kind to you, in a way that makes you wonder if it’s special treatment. It is.

As you think about *that*, rather than your anxiety, you find yourself slowly standing, and walking to the music room. Pushing the door open, you’re met with Charles’ backside. watching as he plays the piano. It feels too domestic for a moment, too peaceful, and when he looks over his shoulder, the jolt of his body implies you’d startled him.

Laughing quietly, you smile apologetically. “I’m sorry,” You say quietly, and he shakes his head, spinning around on the bench.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asks, and you tilt your head, eyes narrowing with curiosity. Maybe he just made an educated guess, but there’s a certain look on his face, like maybe he knew you were anxious— did he?

“Arthur told me,” Charles says, as if he could read your thoughts. He smiles sheepishly, avoiding your gaze. “He mentioned it, when he told us you’d be coming with him,” he clarifies, and you nod understandingly.

“What about you?” You ask, meeting his gaze. He holds yours, long lashes casting a faint shadow onto his cheeks. “I couldn’t sleep either,” he muses simply.

If only you knew he was planning this, that he was seizing an opportunity to gain your attention.

Lewis rarely stays up late. He prioritizes his performance on track, and no one works well under a lack of sleep. That being said, the man is still a night owl, so when his schedule allows, he happily stays up a bit later than usual.

It’s past midnight as he sits on the leather couch in the spacey living room, his heels propped on the coffee table, and his laptop rested on his thighs. His eyes are narrowed with concentration— and the inevitable sleepiness washing over himself — as his fingers move across the keyboard, quiet clacks sounding with each word typed out.

His airpods are in, and Roscoe is curled up next to him, sleeping contently. The house is quiet, but your mind is far from that.

You lay in the spare bedroom, eyes fixated on the ceiling, watching the fan go round-and-round. You’d always figured you’d ’grow out of’ your anxiety, and in some ways, you had learned to manage it better, but you still have those moments where it drowns you, and you can feel yourself slowly slipping into that.

Your chest is heavy, and each moment of calm in your brain is combatted by a rush of worry.

Letting out a soft breath, you sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed you’d been nestled into. You slide your hoodie over your head, grab your phone, and head to the door. Maybe fresh air and a different view would help your mind relax. Everyone’s asleep, you could just have a moment to yourself, right?

Lewis may be immersed in his work, but he doesn’t miss the movement within his peripheral vision. He looks up just in time to see you scurrying into the kitchen, your sock clad feet quiet on the smooth, hardwood floor.

You hadn’t expected the man to be there, so when you made it to the bottom of the stairs, finding him on the couch, you immediately went for the kitchen. Standing in the somewhat private space, you sigh, shaking your head at the way your heart is racing for a reason unrelated to anxiety now.

Who doesn’t find Lewis Hamilton attractive, at least a little bit? You figured your “crush” on him was just because he’s conventionally attractive, but being in the same vicinity as him, you’ve always felt a pull towards him.

You grab a glass from one of the cupboards and pour yourself a glass of water, gulping it down. He wouldn’t mind if you sat with him, would he? Your brows furrow as you debate that— would he let you in his company just to avoid being seen as rude? Would that be worse than being flat out told no?

Meanwhile, Lewis is wondering if it’s his place to check in on you. He’d been amused at the way you seemed startled by his presence, but also didn’t miss the nervousness you seemed to exude.

Before he can make any further decisions, you come out of the kitchen. His brown eyes flicker to you, following your form as you walk back through the living room. He cocks a brow as you slow, as if to stop, then keep walking, then pause again at the stairs.

“I don’t bite—“

“Can I sit with you?—“

He laughs with you, as you’d both spoken at the same time. You meet his eyes, and his warm smile makes your heart skip a beat.

“You wanna sit with me?” he repeats your words, and you nod slowly. “I just…get anxious, at night, and company might help,” You explain.

Immediately, a look of understanding washes over his face, and he nods. “Come on,” he encourages gently, and he can’t help but just grin when you choose to sit on the floor in front of the couch, just next to his legs. He has to resist the urge to reach out and pet your hair, his fingers twitching over his keyboard.

“You wanna talk about it?” He asks you, partially to distract his own mind. He meets your gaze as you look over your shoulder, his eyes staring into yours in a way that makes it hard to maintain eye contact.

“It’s a lot,” You muse, and he shrugs, taking out his airpods, a smile gracing his lips.

“I have time and patience.”

George is pretty serious about his schedule. From what he chooses to snack on (*cough* him asking “would an athlete snack on chocolate?” *cough*) to his workouts, and right down to his sleep schedule, he rarely goes off that.

So, George isn’t your best option, you rule out, as you sit on the air mattress next to your best friend’s bed, trying to control your shaky, uneven breathing. He’s fast asleep, probably has some busy day tomorrow, and even if he’d be polite enough to give you his time, he’d definitely steer clear of it in the future. Anyone hates the idea of being a bother to another.

Looking up above your friend’s bed, you find her asleep, curled away from you, shoulders shifting as she melts further into the bed.

With a heavy sigh, you grasp your phone and get up, quietly leaving the bedroom. If nothing else, some fresh air might do you some good.

You find your place in the almost luxurious lounge area of their home, curled up on a small couch, staring down at the ground as your mind races. However, the sound of a door opening, and footsteps following, makes you look up.

George.

He sees you as he rounds the corner, and even on his sleepy way to the bathroom, he still looks well put together.

He gives a friendly, playful smile. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite, am I right?”

Of course this man would make a dad joke.

You manage a breathy laugh, more of a huff, watching as he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.

Meanwhile, George can’t help but think a little harder than he might need to about your reaction. Typically, you’d banter with him, be it by making fun of his stupid jokes, or telling one that’s just as bad, and tonight, you’d just seemed off. Not to mention, he’d found it odd that you weren’t in the bedroom…not that it’s his business, but he can be a nosy man at times, and suddenly, he’s worried.

As he comes out of the bathroom, his gaze lands on you, and then meets yours when you look back up.

“What?” you ask, brows furrowing. You figured he wouldn’t pick up on your state, especially with you trying to mask it for his sake.

“You alright?” He asks, accent clear as day, as if he hadn’t most likely been sleeping peacefully moments ago.

“Uhm,” you pause. Should you tell him, or just let him be on his way? Is it more annoying to leave him wondering? He probably doesn’t even care that much—

“We may not be close, but I’m always here if you need anything,” he says, voice kind, the smile on his lips equally as polite. After all, you’d been friends with his sister for years now, and it’s not like you’d never spoken to him.

So, you give in. With a reluctant sigh, you watch as he walks down the stairs and stands in front of you, tilting his head, as if to encourage you to go on.

“…I get anxiety,” you finally say, feeling a bit ridiculous to be keeping him up for this. “Anxiety?” he echoes, “about?”

“Everything,” you laugh, shrugging. “My brain just gets really active at night, and I tend to spiral into bad thoughts, but most of it’s irrational, and i’ll be fine—“

“What can I do?” he asks, as he looks at you with worried eyes. “To help, I mean,” he expounds.

You blink a few times, a bit taken aback at how eagerly he’s jumped to that. “I feel better talking to someone,” you admit, and he hums in acknowledgment, nodding.

“Is it alright if I sit, then?” he asks, gesturing to the space on the couch next to you, and takes a seat when you give him permission.

While it takes a few minutes of silence, he eventually gets talking, and you find that despite how you imagined a situation like this going, it’s vastly different. He’s patient, talkative in the right way, and a good listener.

So, when you eventually drift off in your spot, after George was rambling about something you truthfully didn’t have much interest in, he smiled to himself, laid a blanket over you, and took himself back to bed.

Safe to say, you weren’t a bother to him. At least, you can’t imagine you were, when he brings you breakfast the following morning, and offers to take you out for coffee.

Max frequently stays up later than he should. He likes how peaceful and quiet things are at night. No one’s awake to be in his space, he feels most comfortable by himself, and it’s a great time to invite himself to the driving simulator without being interrupted, or forced to share.

He doesn’t bother to check the time. It’s late, he knows that much, as well as the fact that he doesn’t have any reason to be up early later. His hands grip the steering wheel of his sim, eyes fixed ahead on the screen, as he seamlessly takes corner after corner of a track. He’s got a headset on, and no more light than one lamp next to the couch, just enough for him to see his surroundings, but not so much that it’s glaring on the screen.

He’s so focused that he doesn’t notice when you watch him from across the room, peaking out of the hallway. You’d initially been coming out to refill your water, and use the bathroom, trying to power through your anxiety, but now, you’re finding that this is working wonders to soothe your brain. Your eyes flicker from the screen to his face, watching his expressions shift, the way his brows furrow and lips purse slightly…or the way the veins in his forearms move under his skin-

He also doesn’t notice when you set your phone down, then leave, and return with a blanket, and make yourself cozy on the couch. You don’t really want him to know you’re there, anyways. Is this an invasion of his privacy? You briefly wonder, but eventually decide that it’s not like he’s doing anything scandalous, and he’s in the main room of the house anyways.

Max eventually finishes a handful of laps and exits out of that particular track, then leans over the arm of the chair to grab his water bottle, only to then realize that you’re lying there.

His eyes widen, then his brows furrow, and he pulls his headset off, taking in your form. Your stretched out on the couch, blanket laying neatly over your form, and your hands are laying on your stomach. He can tell you didn’t just sit down, and mentally backtracks, trying to remember when he last knew he was alone.

“Well,” he starts, staring at you, looking over the edge of the chair. “What’s this about?” he asks, and you smile slightly. You’d become rather comfortable with Max. He’s a nice guy, always been polite to you, and you always end up sitting next to him when you go out to eat with his family, anyways, so it’s only natural that you learned how you can talk to him.

“Anxiety,” you shrug. “I just like watching you play, and tonight, i’ve learned that it helps my brain quiet down,” you explain.

He hums, nodding slowly. He can understand that, in some way, he supposes. He looks back at the screen, then at you. “Do you want to try?” he asks, gesturing to the sim. “…It would help, maybe? Take your mind off of things?” he suggests.

It always shocks you how considerate he can be, and every time, your heart warms.

Max has good intentions, he does, but fuck does he hate watching other people drive the sim. As he explains (maxplains) the driving to you, and tries not to cringe too hard at the way you handle the car, you find that this is a fantastic distraction. You’re well aware that you’re driving him to insanity, and before you can tease him, your eyes get heavy, and you slowly drift to sleep.

When the car first starts going off track, straight for the barriers, Max thinks you have to be fucking with him…and then he realizes your head is tilted to the side, and you’ve somehow fallen asleep in the damn driving seat.

He spends a lot longer than he’d like to admit being baffled at your actions, before he comes to carefully take apart the arm of the sim, and scoop you out of the seat. He’s a strong guy, and for some reason, the only rational way to go about this, in his mind, was to carry you to bed.

Halfway down the hall, he realizes how much of a hassle it would be to open Victorias door and put you back on the air mattress without waking you and her up, so he just pushes into his own room, lays you in his bed, and tucks you in.

He stares down at you in his bed, a sigh leaving his lips. He wants to be irritated, but more than anything, he’s relieved that you’re clearly in a better state.

Safe to say, he finds it very hard to focus on the sim when he goes back to it.

Franco Colapinto is one of those people that can get along with anyone. He’s fun, talkative, usually good at reading the room, and it’s rare that he doesn’t get on well with someone.

So, it’s only natural that you and him had been well acquainted. However, you’re also one of the lucky people that gets to experience his flirtatiousness. In fact, he’s been flirting since day one, and you’ve been matching his energy the whole time. He loves it, and so do you.

That being said, even though you’re relatively close, and consider him a friend, your anxious mind has convinced you that he flirts with you because it’s fun, rather than because he likes you, even as just a friend. He flirts with everyone, and thus, your brain uses that against you.

Which is why you walk past his room, and down to the living room, where you sit on the couch, looking out of the window, into the beauty of Argentinian greenery that’s currently illuminated by moonlight. You practice your breathing, letting your eyes flutter shut. Your chest only feels a little lighter when you hear footsteps, and look over your shoulder to see Franco there, staring at you with mischievous curiosity, like he’s ready to pop off a flirtatious joke. In any other moment, you’d be just as ready, but right now, you’d rather not.

You don’t speak, unable to curate the correct words to express your feelings in a way that feels right. Fortunately, Franco seems to understand by the look on your face that now isn’t the time to flirt. He holds your gaze, then walks into the kitchen. You refrain from watching him, not wanting to give away your interest in literally anything he does, simply because it’s him.

You hear him grab a glass…then another? Then, it sounds like he’s pouring water into one, before a click sounds, like a kettle.

Within a few minutes, he’s bringing you a mug, and has a glass of water for himself. You raise a brow at him, taking the mug despite your skepticism.

“Franco, I don’t really want to be hopped up on maté right now—“

“Not maté,” he assures you, with a wave of his hand, “it’s to help you relax, amor. I promise.”

You trust him, and the sincere twinkle in his pretty eyes is enough that you’d be convinced even if you didn’t trust him already.

He watches you bring the mug to your lips, and reaches out to guide it slower to your mouth. “It’s hot,” he murmurs, aiding you in taking a sip, watching so attentively. Your chest warms, and you know it’s not just the tea. You’ve seen Franco be gentle, obviously, but this is different, and oh, so divine.

“Why are you still up?” he asks you softly, fingers brushing yours as he retracts his hand.

“Anxiety,” you muse simply, and he nods understandingly, reaching out to rub your arm. He’d only experienced your anxiety once, some time ago when his sister mentioned you were having a hard time, and he’d noticed your shaky hands at the dinner table.

His hand trails up to your hair, and he pets the back of your head, as if to brush away your worries. Rather than fixating on your anxiety, he starts talking about how nice it is to have you around again, and his excitement for the upcoming season. You and him grew up together, in a way, even if you’d been “closer” to his sister.

By the time your tea is half finished and cool, you’re leaning into his side, and he’s gently taking the mug from you, setting it down on the coffee table. He guides you further into his hold, and you comply, letting yourself melt into his warmth, and the sound of his voice continuing to talk to you.

“You think I flirt with you for no reason?” Franco asks, laughing quietly, as if that’s unbelievable. “Franco, you flirt with anything that has legs and speaks a language you understand,” you grumble into his shoulder, making the man huff quietly. “Ay, dios mìo,” he murmurs, resting his cheek on your head. “Maybe it doesn’t seem that way, but I flirt with you differently,” he explains quietly, “and I flirt with you because I want to, because I like you.”

If you weren’t half asleep, you’d pry into that response. Instead, you let yourself heart feel content with the knowledge that you’re more than what you’d managed to convince yourself of.

Throughout the night, you learn that banter isn’t the only thing that comes easy to you two. You talk and talk, various topics coming naturally, and by the time you’re both drifting to sleep, the sun is peeking through the window. And, in due time, you’d be found curled up on the couch together, confirming everyone else’s suspicions.

Logan’s schedule is all over the place. Some nights, he’s out by 9 pm, and others, he’s unable to rest until early morning. Tonight is one of those insufferable ones where he’s tossed and turned, and not one position is comfortable enough to stay in for more than five minutes, his bed is getting too warm, even though he’s thrown off the blankets and stripped his shirt off, and he’s tired, but not sleepy.

“Oh my god,” he murmurs to himself, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to clear his mind enough to relax. As he lowers them, his head begins to throb, and he sighs heavily. Of course he’d get a headache now.

As he sits up and reaches for his water bottle, a timid knock sounds on his door. “Just a sec,” he says just loud enough for you to hear, and takes a few gulps of water, before he gets up. He slides his shirt back on before opening the door, and even though it’s not necessarily crazy that you’re at his door, it still takes him aback. He hadn’t really thought about who it would be.

“Shit, are you okay?” he asks, when he notices your distressed features, immediately dropping his own frustration.

“Not really,” you murmur, fiddling with your hands, picking at the skin around your nails. “I’m just having a really anxious night, and I can’t sleep,” you explain.

Logan had always been a sweetheart. He’s polite and respectful, always the type to open doors for you out of habit, the kind of guy you could always go to if you needed it. Which is why you’re coming to him now. You’d known he was up, after hearing him shuffling in his room, and the opportunity seemed to present itself to you.

The man stares at you for a moment, pressing his lips together as he contemplates how to go about this predicament. He looks back at his room. It’s not messy, but it’s not clean either. He needs to do laundry, has a few pairs of shoes here and there that should be in their rack in his closet, and of course his bed is a clear representation of his inability to rest. He doesn’t exactly want to invite you into his space. If it’s stressing him out, he wouldn’t want to have you there, and risk making your troubles worse.

“Would a drive make you feel better?” he asks, looking back to you, blue eyes meeting yours. “A drive?” you echo curiously.

“Yeah, like…the suns gonna be up in a few hours,” he shrugs, “we could go to the beach, grab some breakfast or something,” he thinks aloud, and he speaks almost hesitantly, like he’s scared that he’s suggesting the wrong thing.

Meanwhile, your heart skips a beat with excitement, and you nod. “Yeah, yes— if that’s not an issue for you?” you ask, brows knitting with a new concern that this is an inconvenience for him.

“No, no,” he shakes his head adamantly, grabbing his car keys off of his dresser. “I can’t sleep either,” he assures you, offering a small smile, and the tiredness in his eyes says it all.

Thus, you join him for a long car ride. He drives smoothly through Floridian streets, giving you the time to talk about your struggles, should you want to. He shares his own, as if to help you feel more comfortable, and after some time, he offers you the aux chord.

As the sun starts to come up, he drives to the beach, and you both sit down on cool sand, shoulders together. Waves roll just to your feet before retracting, the sound soothing. The sun slowly arises, shining down on the both of you.

You let your instincts take over, and rest your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as you soak up the gentle warmth of the morning sun. Logan sighs contently, and rests his cheek against your head, as if to assure you that you’re fine where you are, with your head on his shoulder.

You grew up on the Schumacher ranch. Being family friends and having a love for the work, you’ve been helping since you were a child, and now spend a majority of your time as a ranch hand, helping take care of things. You were best friends with Gina as a child — still are — and likely would have been just as close with Mick then, if it weren’t for him being away for races most of the time.

Now that he’s back home more often, you’ve been able to get closer with him, your relationship bordering on more than friends, but not quite a couple. Everyone else sees it, though, and you think about it too often to not want it, truthfully.

You’ve also always struggled with anxiety. You’ve got an active mind, and working yourself from sun up to sundown has always kept the irrational worry at bay. However, recently, for whatever reason, it’s kicked back up, and tonight has been particularly bad — the worst in a while.

So, after tossing and turning, you get up and head out to the stables. You check on the horses, even if you know they likely don’t need to be checked on, and as you round the corner, you find Mick sitting on the ground, hand on the mane of a foal.

Huffing a small laugh as he meets your gaze and smiles, you tilt your head playfully. “It’s past your bedtime, Micky,” you hum, making the man laugh gently.

He checks his wrist, an imaginary watch, and raises his brow, looking up at you, “it’s also past your bedtime,” he teases back. “What’s up?” he then follows up, making you sigh.

“Just anxiety. Nothing fun, unfortunately,” you muse, taking a seat in front of him. You admire the young colt next to Mick, a small smile forming on your lips as the cool air greets your skin, and you feel momentarily comforted by surroundings you’re so fond of. The ranch, nice weather, the horses, and undeniably, Mick.

“Awe,” he frowns sympathetically, nudging his boot against yours as if to comfort you, and it works. He’s not sure what to say, how to make it better, but the fact that you’re smiling, even if only a little, makes him feel better. “How have things been?” he asks, leading you to walk him through just that.

He’s stared at you as you rundown the ranch gossip, the ranch hands that have come and gone, some wanting to stir up drama, some wanting to put their nose where it doesn’t belong. You tell him that you’ve been following his races, that you and Gina watch them together.

“Gina misses you more than she’d ever admit to you,” you hum, making Mick chuckle, smiling fondly at that thought. They’d always been fairly close, close as siblings can be. “Not to make it about me, but i’ve missed you too,” you add, making Mick’s smile wider.

“Yeah?” he inquires, nudging your boot once again. “You can always text me, or call, you know that, right?” he asks, and you honestly hadn’t thought about that.

“I want you to, actually,” he adds. “It would be good to hear from you more…I miss you too.” He muses, and by now, you’re not so worried about anything, and far more focused on the knowledge that your feelings for Mick are definitely not one sided.

THANK YOU FOR READING! requests are open for any drivers written above, and i do headcanons, written fics, text fics, and smaus, as well as any reader.

I appreciate your support and time. 💌

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decojellyfish · 11 months ago

Note

OH MY GOD I just fell in love with the blog and not if you are taking requests but if so I would like to suggest a guard dog!Ghost and Abandoned kitten!reader where price maybe adopt the reader and ghost take care of her??

I am so sorry this took so long! But thank you SO much for being my first request/ask! This idea is really cute, I'm sorry it's a bit short, but I hope you like it! Also, I hope this makes up for the angst fic about Dragon! Price lol

------

Bonbon

Hybrid AU! TF141 (Retired) Guard dog! Ghost x Kitten! Reader x Owner! Price !!No Romance For Obvious Purposes!!

SFW ~ Fluff

Warnings: None!

───♡───────────── Beginning

10:30 AM. That was the time John Price would go grocery shopping every day. Today’s list was a few ingredients for tonight’s dinner, more rawhide for his rescue dog, Ghost, and paper towels. What he didn’t expect to be suddenly added to the list, after he had just bought and paid for his groceries, was a kitten. Today, Price had to take a different route to the grocery store. The usual trail he would take was under heavy construction, much to his dismay. But he still managed to get to the store. About 4 minutes after leaving the store, he passed by a short alleyway. Now, no one ever really pays any mind to alleys. Until a noise comes from said hypothetical alleyway. And that’s just what happened. A little grunt, followed by a small cry, and then the sound of a takeout box crashing onto the ground. It made the retired captain stop in his tracks and turn his head to look into the dark alley. He could only hear tiny little munches now, and he could only make out the tiniest little figure in the void. Price made sure to be careful with his steps, he could tell that this little thing could be easily startled. Then he finally realized what he had come across.

It was a you! A little kitten and a very hungry one at that. You were munching on someone’s thrown-out, moldy, spaghetti, your tiny little fangs doing the best they could at tearing the pasta apart. It didn’t seem like you’d been there for that long, considering how young you looked. You remained in a little cardboard box, that appeared to be your makeshift home. It was filthy and withering away, like the blanket you had too. And your clothes. And you in general. You were a very dirty kitten. It didn’t help that your being hungry all the time caused you to be a messy eater.

By the time you had realized a big thing had snuck up behind you, your face was already coated in marinara. You snapped your head to look at the big creature and quickly folded your ears back and fluffed your little tail up. You hissed with all your might, knowing that you were probably the scariest thing this large figure, well over five times your size, had ever seen. Price only looked at you, taking in your starving appearance. Eating tossed food was unhealthy for a young thing like you. Surely, he had to have something on him that would make you trust him. He set his bags of groceries down and searched his pockets. He was relieved when he found one of those strawberry bonbons in his back pocket. You know, the ones that only grandmas seem to have. He unwrapped it and set it down in front of your hissing form. He would then grab his bags and slowly back away, watching for any kind of movement that came from you. After what felt like ten minutes, you would sneak up to the bonbon. Cautiously, you would reach your little hand out to it and snatch it right into your mouth. Price was almost terrified, thinking you would choke on it with how disparate you were for this little piece of candy. But thankfully, you didn’t. You would sit there and just let the hard candy melt in your mouth. This tasted so much better than moldy pasta. You looked up at the guy who gave you this candy, reaching up and making grabby hands for more. Price was relieved at your reaction, taking it as an okay that you wanted to be picked up. So he scooped you up into his arms and began the journey home.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Ghost could already smell his owner through the door, peeved that he was a little later than arriving home on his usual time. But something was off about Price’s smell. There was an additional scent, something he’d never smelled before. It was a rancid smell, especially overwhelming due to his strong nose. Whatever Price was bringing home, it needed to either be cleaned or immediately disposed of. The door opened, and Price would quickly set his bags of groceries down before going into the bathroom. Ghost would pause, processing that he’d just seen his owner with what looked like a tiny human. Had he been seeing a mistress of some sort??? Ghost would’ve known, he would’ve smelled some perfume on his owner by now. He continued to think about it while he took the groceries and began to put them away in the kitchen.

Price had drawn a bath, ensuring the water was warm but not scalding. You were sitting on the bath rug, looking around the bathroom you were in. The large dog man sitting in the doorway wasn’t that subtle, so you looked at him too. You looked at him for a long time, mostly because he’d been staring at you for a while. It was like a staring contest between the two of you. “That should be good.” Price said to himself, turning around to you. He watched the silent stares between you and Ghost, causing him to chuckle before he picked you up and gingerly set you down in the warm, bubbly water. You mewed and squealed in protest like any other cat would. Price would quietly shush you as he began to mush shampoo into your hair and tail.

After your little bath, during which you spent a good chunk of it verbally disapproving until you realized it wasn’t doing anything. Now, you were content. You’d been swaddled up in a large towel, your hair air-drying as you rested on the couch. Price could tell you were happy because you sounded like an active car engine. You were purring, and you were purring loud. You hadn’t felt this warm and cozy since… well, you’ve never been warm or cozy once in your life. You were always cold, hungry, and never comfortable. Now, you had this random guy clean all the dust, dirt, and grime off of you and now he was preparing food for you. And yeah, this big dog who’s constantly trying to figure out why you suddenly appeared in his home. But you were willing to put up with him. Eventually, Price came back with a small plate filled with soft foods. He would spoon-feed you a bit of squishy rice to which you happily ate it up, you were starving. You would loudly purr through your little munches, causing Price to chuckle. “This must be a lot better than the rubbish you were stuck with earlier, yeah?” You wouldn’t respond, but still purred and opened your mouth for another bite, to which Price readily spoon-fed you some more.

Ring ring! The sound surprised all three of you, Price was getting a phone call. “Agh, work…” He grumbled when he checked the caller ID. “Ghost, why don’t you feed the wee one for a bit, hm?” He handed the plate and small spoon to his big scary dog, to which, he begrudgingly agreed as it looked like he had no choice. Ghost looked down at you as Price stepped away to take the call. You looked up at him, both of you resuming your staring contest. Until you meowed, impatiently. Ghost rolled his eyes, hastily feeding you a spoonful of pudding. The sweetness of the dessert surprised you, you’d never had a dessert that was fresh, cold, and not coated in mold or garbage juices. You immediately meowed again, demanding more. This big monster of a dog couldn’t believe he was being bossed around by this little kitten! But alas, he fed you another spoonful of pudding, then rice, until the whole plate was empty.

About 10 minutes later, Price returned to the living room. He was pleasantly surprised by the scene that beheld him. You were curled up on the couch, sleeping soundly while Ghost was curled around you and loudly snoring. Price could only chuckle to himself, shaking his head before he grabbed a blanket. He placed it over you and Ghost and relaxed on the couch as well.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Ghost woke up, immediately alert when he couldn’t smell you. He could hear Price in the kitchen, cooking up dinner for that night. The dog-hybrid got up and began his search for you, faintly being able to smell you from down the hall. Peering into Price’s bedroom, he could see that the television was on. It was set to a children’s cartoon channel, and then he saw you. You were swimming in one of Price’s shirts, making biscuits out of his fluffy blankets as you happily watched cartoons. He would walk up to the bed, sitting on the side of it. His weight caused the bed to dip on one side, making you almost roll over if it wasn’t for Ghost panicking and swiftly holding you in place before he moved to the center of the bed, balancing the weight out. It didn’t phase you, you just went back to making biscuits. It made Ghost chuckle, your nonchalant-ness. Price entered the bedroom after about an hour, ready to announce that dinner was ready. He was pleasantly surprised when he saw you and Ghost playing together. He was using one of his old toys that he had held onto since he was a puppy, playing tug of war with you. Obviously, he was going easy on you, his grasp on the toy limp while you were gripping the toy between your teeth like your life depended on winning. But it made him smile when he saw how happy you would get every time you won each round.

But he would definitely make it harder to win when you grew up.

───♡───────────── End

If you have any requests or asks, feel free to submit them! And thank you again, anonymous, for being my first request!

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niki-phoria · 6 months ago

Text

떠오른 달 그 위로 / 이 밤을 날아 crazy over you

megumi, yuuji, yuuta, and toge boyfriend headcannons!

notes: gn!reader (no pronouns specified), 400ish words each, part two of my ramblings with @ffinnamon, this is not proofread please forgive any mistakes lmao, 圣诞快乐！happy holidays everyone :)), title from enhypen - moonstruck

━━ boyfriend!megumi who doesn’t confess to you - gojo does. it only takes one offhand comment from your teacher as he scrolls through his phone, snickering to himself when you begin sprinting towards the dorms

━━ boyfriend!megumi who smiles softly when you confess. your words jumble together as you rush to tell him that you like him too. you only stop when he softly chuckles, quietly reminding you to calm down and take a breath. he hopes that his flushed cheeks don’t look as red as they feel as he clings to the remains of his nonchalant reputation

━━ boyfriend!megumi who always carries a digital camera in his pocket. you rarely notice, but he pulls it out at random, taking a few moments to snap candid photos of his favourite moments: when you kneel down to pet a stray cat wandering through the streets of kyoto; how bright your smile is when you beat yuuji in a sparring match; snowflakes decorate your hair on winter days when you drag him outside for a walk despite the cold

━━ boyfriend!megumi who kisses you first. it’s another moment where your beauty shines through despite the world around you. he’s always worried - always on alert for another curse or waiting for a sign of danger. but your touch sends shivers racing down his spine. your smile is outshines the sun. and when your lips meet his own, the weight of the world doesn’t feel so heavy anymore

━━ boyfriend!megumi whose friends are constantly teasing him. yuuji has enough grace to bite his tongue when he realizes the implication of his words, but nobara kicks him beneath the table when he rolls his eyes, swearing, “we’re just trying to help!”

━━ boyfriend!megumi who lets you take care of him. he sighs as you tuck the blankets snugly around his body, forcing him to lay down and stay in his dorm. he swears your fussing is annoying, but you meet no resistance when you force him to lay down, complete with a new box of tissues and a full water bottle by his side. “get some rest, megumi,” you say as you tug his curtains closed. “you can’t exercise any curses unless you’re feeling healthy”

━━ boyfriend!megumi who opens up to you. his shoulder just barely brushes against yours as he moves to sit beside you. he doesn’t move away when you reach over, gingerly taking his hand into your own. your fingertips stroke against the bruises decorating his knuckles when he quietly speaks. “i had a sister,” he begins. “her name was tsumiki”

━━ boyfriend!yuuji who doesn’t have any experience with dating and never wanted to. he had never paid attention to gossip from his peers. he lives life in the moment, too caught up with the experiences of right now to worry about labels

━━ boyfriend!yuuji who sheepishly smiles when you ask him what your relationship status is. he casually shrugs as he turns to face you, washing your worries away easily. “honestly i’m not sure.” he shoves his hands into his pockets. “but i like you. a lot”

━━ boyfriend!yuuji who loves to watch movies with you. he curls up against your side, his arm thrown lazily around your waist and his legs half entangled with yours. he smiles brightly when he leans upwards just enough to press a chaste kiss against the skin of your cheek. “i bet you’ll love this one,” he says

━━ boyfriend!yuuji whose dates are almost always impulsive. he’s never been good at planning. outings consist of him excitedly tugging on your wrist as he leads you in the direction of a new sushi restaurant he hadn’t noticed before or closing his eyes and pointing to a poster to pick which movie you’ll watch

━━ boyfriend!yuuji who kisses you first. his hands clumsily rest on your shoulders, awkwardly holding you close. his lips feel chapped against your own. the kiss itself is short and a little messy. admittedly, he’s never done this before. but he makes up for it when he leans in again, this time slower, and all but melts into the comforting feeling of your touch

━━ boyfriend!yuuji who acts impulsively. he charges headfirst into danger with no regard for personal safety, focused only on saving everyone around him. his hands are littered in bruises and his uniform is soaked in blood, but none of that matters when he’s standing in front of you, still breathing. “i’m sorry,” he whispers. “i’ll be more careful. i promise”

━━ boyfriend!yuuji who brings you to his grandfather’s grave. the soles of your shoes sink into the muddy earth. you silently watch as he carefully places a small bouquet of flowers beside the headstone, whispering a few words beneath his breath

━━ boyfriend!yuuji who snores. loudly. it’s almost impossible to sleep beside him because he’s so loud. his body sprawls across the provided twin sized mattress like a starfish; his legs threaten to fall off of the bed. you chuckle softly at the sight as you lean down. he doesn’t even stir when you brush a few stray strands of hair away from his face. “good night, yuuji”

━━ boyfriend!yuuta who is oblivious to his feelings at first. he annoys all his friends with his rambling about you and your small habits. toge sighs when he derails the walk home to buy a keychain for a movie you like or to buy you a snack from a nearby vending machine. despite everything, he doesn’t realize how deep his feelings really are until maki swats at his shoulder, huffing as she rolls her eyes. “you have a crush, dumbass”

━━ boyfriend!yuuta who confesses with a bouquet of flowers and a sweet love letter. he anxiously fidgets with his hands as you accept the gift, waiting with his heart in his throat and butterflies in his stomach as he waits for your reaction. life seems to pause until you pull him into a tight hug, whispering a soft, “i’d love to go on a date with you”

━━ boyfriend!yuuta who refuses to let you walk home alone. he intertwines his fingers with your own as you move side-by-side down the small sidewalk. your quiet reassurances that he doesn’t have to join you all the way home are silenced when he gives your hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “but i want to,” he smiles

━━ boyfriend!yuuta who calls you everyday when he’s away. even if he has to wake up in the middle of the night, he makes sure you both talk at least once a day. your conversations can last for hours as you talk about anything that comes to mind

━━ boyfriend!yuuta who is constantly worried about your well-being. he constantly fusses over you: he all but forces a pair of thick wool gloves over your hands in the winter; he insists you visit shoko after every mission; at even the smallest signs you’re catching a cold he begs gojo to cancel your missions and makes you soup

━━ boyfriend!yuuta who wants to kiss you so badly but always chickens out at the last second. it’s embarrassing, really, how he gets so nervous around you. his face flushes a deep shade of red and his hands shake at his sides as he curls his fingers into fists in the hopes that you won’t notice his nerves

━━ boyfriend!yuuta who clings to you every time you kiss him. his hands rest gingerly against your cheeks or fist tightly into the fabric of your sweater - anything to keep you close to him. his eyes flutter shut as he melts into you; he’s never the first to pull away

━━ boyfriend!toge who confesses with a handwritten note and a bag of your favourite snacks. he awkwardly stares at the dirt covering his shoes as you read it. his handwriting is a little messy and the ink is smudged in a few places, but you accept it with a bright smile nonetheless

━━ boyfriend!toge who laughs loudly when you kiss him for the first time. his face brightens in an undeniable blush as he pulls you into a tight hug. he presses another kiss against your cheek and hides his face in the crook of your neck. he never mentions it, but there’s a big smile on his face for the rest of the day

━━ boyfriend!toge who is a little insecure about his speech. it’s not easy just being able to communicate in origini ingredients. but you always notice when he falls more silent than usual and make sure to ease his worries as much as you can

━━ boyfriend!toge who shows his affection through quality time. during your lunch breaks or down time he’ll occasionally move to sit beside you. his shoulder just barely brushes against your own as he silently watches you gossip with maki or yell out words of encouragement that make megumi scoff

━━ boyfriend!toge who smiles the brightest you have ever seen when you hesitantly show him the first sentences you had learned in sign language. his face flushes almost immediately; blood spreads across his cheeks and ears, painting his features a soft shade of pink

━━ boyfriend!toge who only exposes his face around you. your fingertips gently trace against the deep indents on his skin. his eyes flutter shut and a soft sigh escapes him as he leans further into your touch

━━ boyfriend!toge who hates when you go on missions. his hands gently grip onto your wrist as he pulls you into a tight hug. he leans his head into the crook of your neck, peppering faint kisses against any skin he can reach. he stares into your eyes when he finally pulls away, doing his best as he silently reminds you to be safe

━━ boyfriend!toge who teaches you how to play his favourite video games. he sits behind you with his arms wrapped gingerly around your waist, guiding your hands on the controller or showing you which route to take. sometimes yuuta or yuuji will join and the night will end with all of you asleep in a pile on the couch

━━ boyfriend!toge who hates waking up in the morning. his arms snake around your waist, pulling you back towards your bed as he curls his body against you. he blinks up at you with tired eyes, whispering a quiet “fish flakes”

taglist (open! send an ask/dm to be added): @ffinnamon @vaxmpi @sad-darksoul @kamote-kuneho @dog55teeth

if you liked this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, feedback, or reblogging !! and if you want to support me, check out my jjk masterlist <33

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astraystayyh · 1 year ago

Text

chan x reader. hurt and lots of comfort. description of an anxiety attack and its aftermath (based on my own experiences).

please consider donating for gaza through my kofi. we have exceeded 1k dollars and our goal is 1500! a little goes a long way, you can donate as much as you can! thank you

If you remain still long enough, breathe as quietly as you can muster, would the world forget you exist and pass your anxiety along to somebody else?

A selfish question, perhaps, but one that you can’t help but ask as you sit on your freezing bathroom floor, knees tightly hugged to your chest.

You don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve sat in this position. Time suddenly seemed elusive to you, as if a concept too hard for your frantic heart to grasp. All you knew was the ache of your limbs and the feeling that doom was just around the corner.

It was one of those days where you woke up feeling anxious. As if your brain had made up its mind about you in your sleep, deciding to hold you hostage to your anxiety. The bed was cold, your boyfriend Chan long gone to his studio, his lingering cologne the only indication he was ever there. So, you tried to distract yourself throughout the day— going on a walk, listening to music, cleaning your house, but it didn't help. Nothing seemed to help you.

So here you were, hours later, sat on your bathroom floor, trying to calm yourself down, all alone. But you could tell that it wasn't working, that you were on a losing race against your own body. Soon, you wouldn't be able to control your anxiety, soon it would turn into a full blown attack.

You wanted to call Chan, you truly did, but he was busy, and you refused to be a burden. Especially since he told you through texts that he'd be home late, so that definitely meant that he was making a new track in his studio.

So, you settled on rocking yourself back and forth, your hands slowly moving up to your shoulders, patting yourself down. This is what you used to do before knowing Chan. When you didn't have anyone around you who understood. You’d trick your bruised mind into believing you were hugged, the warmth of your own touch easing your anxiety a little.

But tonight it had the opposite effect. Tonight, you broke down in sobs, your breathing more irregular than ever. You curled into a ball on the floor, your hand moving to your chest in a futile attempt to slow down your heart. You could no longer breathe, the air in your lungs morphing into unkind fingers, choking you from within. White dots started dancing in front of your eyes, as your entire being shook like a lone leaf, left to fend for itself before the unyielding winds.

It suddenly got too much— the sobs, the pain, the ache. You couldn't bare it anymore. So with trembling hands, you unlocked your phone, calling the only person who would be able to calm you down. Chan. You put the phone on speaker, before tossing it on the ground next to you. You couldn't even muster the energy to hold it to your ear.

“Hi my love, I'm a bit busy right now can I call you later?” Chan's rushed words ring through the bathroom, your anxiety intensifying before the possible antidote. “Honey?” he asks again when he doesn’t hear your reply.

“Chan—“ you sob, the only word your weighted tongue allows you to speak of.

“I’m here, I'm here baby. I'm coming right now,” his panicked voice rings through your ears, following the frantic rush of your boiling blood. The sound of shuffling indicates that he’s getting up and leaving the studio, the confused ‘what’s going on?’ Han shouts confirms it.

The only reply you give him is your sobs, and his heart constricts, twists and turns at the sound of your cries. “Hey, hey, sweetheart. It’s okay, you’re okay. Breathe for me, okay? Take a deep breath with me, please—” his voice breaks, “please baby.”

You try, with all your will, to force a steady breath to rise from your stomach to the tip of your tongue. It escapes faintly, but Chan catches it. “You’re doing well, baby. Fuck—” he turns on his car’s engine. “Um… Minho bit my ass today.”

His words catch you off guard, the gears in your mind stopping for a split second. You remember a faint conversation under your covers, months ago, when you told him that distractions help you when you’re anxious. Force you to redirect your thinking somewhere else.

He remembered.

“Was it tasty?” you breathe out, and he chuckles, a sweet sound intermingled with a sigh of relief. “I don’t know, I need to ask him baby.”

You nod though he can’t see you, willing yourself to breathe again. In, out, in, out, Chan’s own breathing guiding you. “Should I bite him in return?” he asks. Tears pool in your eyes once again. “I’m close, so close,” he reassures.

“Okay.”

“To the biting?”

“Mm,” you manage to hum, as you hear the door of your apartment open, Chan's hurried steps echoing in your home. You knew he was looking for you but you couldn't call out to him. After painfully long seconds, stretching out as if to torture you even more, he finally opens the bathroom floor.

He finally finds you.

“It's okay, I'm here. I'm here,” he wastes no time before scooping you into his arms and hugging you. He knows that the pressure eases your anxiety so he tightens his hold without you having to say so, pulling you as close as two pages of the same book.

With you on his lap, he starts rocking back and forth, his words coming out a jumble mess. He can’t settle on what to say to you, switching between stupid jokes his friends told him, and words of reassurance he repeats like a promise.

His words break, his tongue faltering each time your sob gets louder, but he speaks. He speaks and speaks for twenty minutes, all to distract you, all to keep you grounded, and safe.

After a long while, the storm finally passes, leaving behind an excruciating exhaustion. You turn into a puddle in his hold, softening like malleable clay. He holds you as gently as a porcelain vase.

His warm palms settle atop your cheeks, his eyes gazing into yours for the first time since he got here. A sheen glaze taints them, one you know is mirrored in your own. His thumbs gently swipe away your remaining tears, grazing your face with a tenderness that makes your being ache. Your lips press a faint kiss onto his palm, his find their way to your forehead, and you feel it all, through his kiss. His fear, his relief, his love, soft and gentle, for you.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice slightly hoarse as you kiss his forehead back.

“I’ve got you my love. Always,” he smiles at you softly, his dimples appearing like the sun after a cold day.

“Did Minho really bite you?” you giggle faintly, and he scratches his ear sheepishly. “No, but I don’t put it past him to do it.”

“Is that something you’re into?” You cock a teasing eyebrow at him, and he shakes his head, his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. “Only if it’s you,” he says as he wraps his arm around your waist, picking you up swiftly.

“I’ll consider,” you yawn, wrapping your arms around his neck, your face finding a refuge in the crook of his neck.

“Why thank you,” he smiles as he leads you to your bedroom, settling you gently atop the bed. He quickly climbs in with you, bringing you so close to him, his warmth ends up spreading through your entire being, filling up every nook and cranny of your soul.

“I think as long as you’re near, I’ll always be okay,” you say, as your eyes close slowly, you miss the tender smile that blooms in his face at your words.

“Good thing I exist to be near you, then.”

please consider donating for gaza through my kofi. we have exceeded 1k dollars and our goal is 1500! a little goes a long way, you can donate as much as you can! thank you

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jane-the-good · 2 months ago

Text

CALEB: nightly rendezvous

WORD COUNT: 3.7K

SUMMARY: You and Caleb open a box of momentos together. It reminds you both how valuable your memories are.

NOTE: I’d like to note that I wrote this before I got the deceptive solitude card. I am actually a psychic and a witch, so yeah 😌🔮

WARNING: it’s like 69% smut, unprotected sex, fingering, angst, Caleb loves to praise

AO3 caleb masterlist

I also made a CALEB sweater if that’s your thing ♡

The door clicks shut behind you with a familiar, unhurried ease, as soon as you step in to Caleb’s apartment. The warmth of the space meets you in a sigh, slipping over your skin and settling. The day’s travel cling faintly to your limbs, a dull ache in your calves, the slight stiffness in your shoulders, but here, you feel lighter. Safe. The city hums beyond the windows, its neon sprawl muted by rain-slick glass. Out there, the world is sharp with angles and noise. In here, the edges soften.

Caleb shrugs off his coat with an absent motion, sending a glance your way. His eyes, heavy-lidded from the long day, still catch the light with a quiet warmth, the easy familiarity of someone who has seen you weary and half-wild, and stayed.

You stretch, slowly, the movement pulling tension from your back. With a low sigh, you toe off your boots by the door. "I’m so ready to crash," you murmur, rubbing at the knot in your neck with tired fingers.

Caleb’s mouth quirks faintly, the ghost of a grin as he steps toward the bedroom. "Yeah." His voice is low, rougher at the edges, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

You follow him down the narrow hallway, the floorboards creaking softly beneath your steps, a sound that belongs to lived-in spaces. The room is dimly lit, the amber glow from the bedside lamp spilling over the dark walls in uneven patches. Shadows stretch long and lean across the ceiling, pooling in the corners. You shrug off your jacket, the fabric slipping easily from your shoulders, and toss it over the chair in the corner. With a sigh, you sink onto the edge of the bed, fingers working the buckle of your belt. The scent of him lingers in the air, clean, familiar, a little nostalgic, it sinks into everything around it, the blankets and the collar of your shirt.

A box, plain and unassuming, sits near the dresser, half-tucked against the wall. You wouldn’t have thought much of it, just another thing left out of place, except you know this box. You saw it once, back when the investigation was still open. When he was still presumed gone.

Your hands still, fingers slipping from the leather of your belt. The breath catches in your throat, sharp and sudden, as if the room has drawn in too close around you.

“You have this?" you ask softly, nodding toward the box.

Caleb’s fingers pause on the hem of his shirt. He glances over his shoulder, following your gaze. For a beat, he doesn’t say anything. Then he exhales quietly, walking over to it. His movements are slow, almost tentative, as though approaching the box might make it vanish.

He crouches beside it, brushing his fingers along the lid. The touch is light, almost reverent. "Yeah," he says, barely above a murmur. "They…sent it back after everything was cleared." His voice is quiet but steady, though there’s a fragile edge to it. He’s holding something back. His fingers linger on the corner of the lid, but he doesn’t lift it. Instead, he glances at you, his eyes soft with something vulnerable.

He stops, wetting his lips briefly, then meets your gaze. His voice dips lower, more careful now. "I didn’t want to open it with out you."

The admission hangs between you, gentle and raw. Your chest tightens with something warm. Without a word, you move to the floor beside him, knees brushing. The faint warmth of his skin against yours steadies you both.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence presses close, not heavy, but dense. The room itself is holding its breath. The walls seem nearer somehow, the dimness deeper. The amber light catches faintly in Caleb’s eyes, but his expression stays unreadable, carefully still.

When he finally peels the lid off, his hands are slow, deliberate. Fingers steady but unhurried, as if each movement is an acknowledgment, of the weight in the box, of the time it spent missing. The cardboard gives a faint creak, the sound small and splintering in the quiet. And then it’s open.

The contents are unremarkable at first glance, just a collection of objects, but you know better. They are fragments. Keepsakes of a life once presumed lost. The edges of old photographs, corners softened with age. A silver lighter, worn smooth from use. A cracked leather watch strap, still knotted at the last size he wore it. The pieces of him that remained, even when he didn’t.

At the top of the pile is a battered tin box, the edges slightly dented. Caleb’s lips curve faintly. "My first rock collection," he mutters, flipping it open. His fingers brush over the small stones inside, some still scratched with the childish initials you both once carved into them.

You laugh softly, leaning into his side. "You used to insist they were ‘rare geological specimens.’ Even though we found them next to the school parking lot."

He huffs a quiet chuckle. "They were rare to me."

He sets the tin aside and pulls out a faded photo, edges fraying slightly. The two of you are in it, maybe ten or eleven years old, perched on the hood of a rusted old car at the edge of town. Your legs are dangling over the bumper, his arm slung over your shoulders because he never wanted to let go. You squint at the sun in the photo, laughing mid-blink.

"God," you whisper, brushing your thumb over the worn image. "We were just kids."

Caleb’s voice lowers, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. "I remember thinking back then… I always want be able to make you laugh like that."

You glance up at him, heart catching at the tenderness in his eyes.

There are more trinkets, a worn pocketknife he swore made him invincible at fifteen, a concert ticket from the first time you ever snuck out together, and a leather bracelet you gave him one summer, back when you were still figuring out how to say you cared without saying it.

His fingers linger over the bracelet. "You made this," he murmurs, voice nearly too soft to hear.

"Yeah," you reply, your throat tight. "You never took it off."

He exhales slowly, turning it over in his fingers. “It’s too small now," he says, voice rougher. "Even when I couldn’t wear it, I still wanted it with me.”

Your chest pulls tight, a knot of breath caught somewhere it shouldn’t be. You blink hard, but it doesn’t soften the sudden burn in your throat. The bracelet sits in Caleb’s palm, smaller than you remember. Once, it fit him perfectly, clung to his wrist with easy familiarity. Now, it looks almost fragile against his hand, a delicate thing. A reminder of how much he’s grown. Of how much you both have.

Your gaze drifts to his arm. If he were wearing it now, and how he wouldn’t feel it. The thought twists low in your stomach, sharp and quiet.

You reach over, slow and steady, and brush your fingers over his hand, closing it gently around the bracelet. His breath falters, just slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, his fingers slipping between yours, threading them together. His grip is firm, almost unyielding. Afraid that if he lets go, the moment might fracture. Holding on to you is the only thing keeping him tethered.

His eyes meet yours, and the weight of everything hits you both all at once. The years. The grief. The countless moments of holding on when it would have been easier to let go. And still, here you are. Still steady, still the same.

"You were always the one," you murmur, voice almost trembling. "The one who kept me steady, even when you were barely holding on."

He shakes his head slightly, his fingers tightening around yours. "No," he says softly. "You kept me going. You were always my reason."

Your breath catches. The words hang there, heavy and certain. And when he leans in, there’s no hesitation. No room for second thoughts. His lips meet yours, slow at first, a quiet, steady thing. But then he shifts, cupping your jaw, and something deeper flickers through the kiss. It grows more urgent, more searching. His hand slides along your waist, tugging you closer, and you go willingly. His warmth seeps into your skin, chasing away the ache that’s been sitting within you.

You tilt into him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. His breath catches slightly when you tug, and he answers with a low sound, deepening the kiss. His hands splay against your back, holding you flush against him. It’s familiar but heavier somehow, like trying to remember how to breathe again after holding it in for too long.

When you finally break apart, your forehead rests against his, both of you a little breathless. His thumb brushes along your cheek, lingering as though afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

"Still the same," he murmurs softly, voice barely above a breath. "Still my person."

You smile faintly, closing your eyes and pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And you’re still mine.”

The rough carpet scratches against your knees, but you hardly notice. Neither of you do. Not when Caleb is pressed against you, his hands dragging slow and deliberate over your skin. The dim light from the dark sky spills through his floor-to-ceiling windows, the endless stretch of clouds below before you’re floating somewhere between the stars. The entire city of Skyhaven hums faintly below.

His fingers trace along your back, dragging slow circles over your skin, dipping lower, lower. You shiver beneath his touch, your breath catching when he cups your ass, his grip firm, possessive. His mouth trails along your jaw, warm and damp, lips parting just slightly as his teeth graze your skin. You gasp, your head falling back as he nips at your throat, the sharpness of it making you squirm.

“I thought you were so exhausted?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough against your neck.

You blink, dazed. "Hm?"

He exhales a soft chuckle against your skin. “You were begging to come home"

You arch into him, your fingers curling into his shirt, searching for anything to ground yourself. His mouth finds the shell of your ear, his breath warm as he whispers, “Did thinking of me do this to you?"

You lift your gaze, and his smile is devastating, lazy, beautiful, and so damn sure of himself. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Exactly what he does to you.

"Caleb," you breathe, a warning, but it falls apart the second he slides his fingers between your thighs.

He chuckles softly, his lips dragging along your jaw, warm and unhurried. “So sentimental," he murmurs, his voice dipping lower. "I knew you would be." His breath ghosts over your skin, making you shiver. "I thought maybe you’d just look through our memories, let it remind you how much I mean to you." His fingers curl inside you, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. "But I’m very glad you decided to be… passionate about it instead."

You barely manage a breathless laugh, but it catches in your throat when his fingers sink deeper, moving with slow, devastating precision. Your thighs tremble against him as he lazily teases you, making your legs jerk.

"You manipulative asshole," you gasp, your hips arching into his hand, desperate for more.

He smirks against your throat, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin, his voice low and teasing. "Mm, you’re not complaining." His words hum against your pulse, warm and smug. "you’re actually clinging to me like you might just float away."

Your hands tangle in his hair, fingers tightening at the roots, pulling just enough to make him groan. You’re trembling now, heat pooling low in your belly, each stroke of his fingers leaving you weaker, breathless, before he lessens the pressure.

"Caleb," you plead, voice cracking around his name, needy and ruined.

His lips brush your ear, his voice thick with affection, with want. "I love hearing you say my name like that."

He only smiles against your skin, biting down gently on the curve of your neck, teeth dragging over the delicate flesh just enough to make you gasp. “We just got home." His voice is low, almost mocking, his fingers barely moving, a slow, deliberate torture that makes your hips buck in frustration.

"You’re infuriating," you moan, rocking into his hand, desperate for more. The ache is building, sharp and restless, but he gives you nothing more than a teasing graze of his fingertips, just enough to keep you trembling on the edge.

"You were the one who distracted me," he cuts in smoothly, his voice rough with amusement. His lips trail along your jaw, pressing slow, lingering kisses against the sensitive skin. “Always tryin to twist it on to me" His teeth scrape against your earlobe, making you shiver. His breath is hot and smug, ghosting over your skin, knowing exactly how weak you are for him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you,” he rasps, his hand sliding lower, parting you with agonizing slowness. His fingers trace over you with lazy, infuriating precision, light, feather-soft strokes that make your thighs clench around his hand. He dips just enough to tease your entrance before retreating, denying you what you so clearly crave.

“You always do," you grit out, voice barely more than a breathless whimper. Your nails dig into his shoulder, clinging to him, hoping he’ll take pity on you, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Mm, not always," he murmurs, nipping at the hollow beneath your jaw. “always is too permanent." His lips curve into a smirk you can feel against your throat, the kind that makes you burn with equal parts lust and frustration.

Testing the limits of your patience, he drags his fingers through your slickness, barely applying pressure, just enough to feel how wet you are for him.

“Is this what happens when you think about me?” he muses, almost mockingly. “How lucky I am."

You shudder when he presses harder, dragging his fingers with more purpose, making you sob softly into his neck. He pulls back just enough to catch your eyes. His gaze is dark, but there’s warmth in it, something reverent, something awe-struck. He’s still not sure you’re real. He doesn’t want to miss a second of watching you fall apart.

"Let go for me, love," he whispers, voice thick with need. "I’ve got you."

The words undo you. You come with a sharp gasp, your body shuddering violently as you clench around his fingers, pulsing helplessly. The pleasure crashes through you in dizzying waves, leaving you boneless and trembling. Your nails bite into his shoulders, and he groans at the sharp sting, feeling the way you shake in his arms, the way you whimper his name as if it’s the only word you know.

His lips find yours, slow and deliberate, swallowing every broken sound that spills from your mouth. He kisses you through the aftershocks, his tongue sliding over yours with languid strokes. He’s savoring the taste of you, the way you melt and sigh and give yourself over so completely. His hand stays between your thighs, fingers still slick with your release, teasing lazy, featherlight circles that make you twitch with oversensitivity.

Before you can fully catch your breath, he’s already moving. His hands grip your thighs, guiding you with ease as he shifts his pants and pulls you onto his lap. You let out a startled gasp when your knees bracket his hips, the sudden press of his hard length against your slick heat making you shiver. His fingers dig into your waist, firm and possessive, holding you steady as he drags your hips against him, making you feel every inch of him.

The roughness of the carpet scrapes against your knees, a faint burn against your skin, but you hardly notice. It’s nothing compared to the stretch of him as he slides you onto him, slow and steady, filling you so perfectly, so completely, that you can’t help but whimper into his mouth. He groans softly, his lips still pressed against yours, swallowing the broken, needy sounds you make.

His fingers flex against your hips, anchoring you in place as he grinds deeper, making you feel the full, maddening weight of him. Your forehead falls against his, your breath coming in short, uneven pants, and he brushes his lips over yours again, slow, almost tender, a delicious contrast to the way he grips you so tightly, unable to bear letting you go.

He groans against you in a gentle laugh.

Your heart thundering against his skin.

His hand cups the back of your neck making your head lean back.

You glance up, and the moment your eyes meet, something in his expression shifts. The tenderness there hits you so hard it makes your throat tighten. His gaze is reverent, holding you. You’re something precious, something infinite.

"You’re everything to me," the words sure and unwavering.

“more than your rock collection?”

He huffs a soft laugh, his hands tightening ever so slightly at your hips. “infinitely more than my rare geological specimens."

“hm.” you press, your lips twitching into a grin.

He leans in, brushing his mouth against your temple. “much more," he murmurs. “You always have been.”

Your chest tightens, and your hands frame his face, guiding his lips to yours. The kiss is slow and aching, all warmth and devotion, as if you have all the time in the world.

"Goodness," you breathe against his lips, a teasing lilt.

He grins faintly, then lifts your other leg, wrapping it around his waist. The angle makes you gasp and him press deeper.

“Don’t close your eyes.”

He grips your hips with purpose, pulling you down as he thrusts up into you, slow and deliberate. Each movement is measured, dragging pleasure from you and savoring it, he wants to feel every shiver, every pulse you give him. The windows beyond blur into a smear of dark sky and scattered starlight, but you barely notice. Your head tilts back, a helpless moan slipping from your lips as your eyes flutter shut. You can’t help it, your eyes roll back, your body arching into his as he fills you so perfectly.

With a low growl, Caleb sits up suddenly, his arms sliding around your back. He moves fluidly, effortlessly, flipping you both over in one smooth motion. The breath leaves your lungs in a startled gasp, but he’s already there, settling over you, his chest pressed to yours, his hands framing your face as he gazes down at you with a hunger that makes your skin flush.

His hips drive into you with more force now, deeper, rougher, pulling a strangled whimper from your throat. You cling to him, your arms winding around his neck, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave angry red trails. You sob softly against his shoulder, the sound raw and pleading, your voice barely a breath."Caleb," his name fractured, wrecked with longing.

He groans at the sound, his breath a hot rush against your neck. "God, I love hearing you say my name," he rasps, his voice gravel-thick, ruined with need. His lips trail down your throat, tasting every inch of skin, his teeth grazing lightly over your pulse.

One hand slides between your bodies, his fingers slipping down, finding you exactly where you need him. His thumb presses firmly, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that have you gasping into his mouth, trembling beneath him.

"Please," your hips grind against him, your body chasing the edge.

"You’re so good to me," he rasps, his voice wrecked in worship.

You shatter with him still inside you, your body breaking against his. The world contracts, narrowing to the sharp, sudden pull of pleasure splintering through you. His fingers keep working you through it, relentless, drawing every last tremor from you until you’re nothing but a trembling, gasping mess in his arms. You barely register the low, guttural sound that tears from his throat as he follows, his body going taut, breath stalling before he spills into you. His hips falter, then press deep, trying to anchor himself inside you, leaving is the last thing he wants.

You clutch at him, hands fisting in the fabric at his back, breath ragged and uneven. His arms cinch around you, fierce and desperate, as though he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers. But you stay. You let him hold you through it, the aftershocks, the trembling, the quiet unraveling, until all that’s left is the sound of your breathing, tangled and slow, steadying together.

"I’m so thankful I get to love you," he murmurs softly, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead.

The dark sky presses in through the windows, quiet and endless, but in his arms, you are grounded. Held.

You press your cheek against his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat ground you. "I’m grateful to be yours," you murmur softly. "You love so effortlessly."

His fingers trail slowly down your spine, soothing, reverent. He kisses your temple, lingering because he might never let go.

The box of memories rests beside you, forgotten but not discarded. A quiet remnant of the past, left open, but no longer reaching for you. It lingers there, neither heavy nor sharp, simply present. But right now, it’s his hands you feel the most. The warmth of them, steady and familiar, pressed against yours. The way his thumb drags slowly over your knuckles, tracing thoughtless circles in muscle memory.

And the way he holds you now, he wants to remember this forever

#Caleb made me realise what my type is #the people i have loved the most have Caleb traits and my crushes had Caleb traits #I just met a Rafayel so wish me luck please #I dated a Sylus and it was rough because I need someone to ignite my silly with theirs and he enjoyed it #love and deepspace caleb #caleb fluff #caleb fic #lads caleb #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb x reader #caleb smut #lnds caleb #love and deepspace fic #lads #lnds #lnds x you #lnds smut

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hungharrington · 7 months ago

Note

okay steve definitely wouldn’t care about body hair, but i just know that man goes feral over your freshly shaved, smoooooth legs

i took this to make him a sillay boyfriend 🫶 sorry if u wanted HAWTNESS this is just silly LUV…. forgive me

The sheets feel cool against your bare legs.

You can feel the scratch of your hair tucked against your neck but you’re too content, all but sinking into the mattress, to be bothered to move it. Your legs are tucked up, your arms splayed wide across the bed. You’ve just done the hard job of an everything-shower and lying down is your well-earned reward.

Across the room, Steve pulls the curtains to cover the window. Shadow falls across the room, banished after a moment when Steve pads to the bed, turning on the lamp. Amber coats the ceiling.

It’s balmy tonight. You feel warm without even being under the covers. Dozing off sounds like a pretty amazing idea right now.

“Not falling asleep with me, are ya?”

You smile at the sound of Steve’s voice, lifting your heavy eyelids to gaze at him.

He looks scruffy the same way he always does at the end of the day. His hair has lost some of its magnificent volume and he’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt from high school. You can see the beginnings of his five o’clock shadow on his jawline. He’s gorgeous.

And you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. The thought makes you smile wider.

“Mm,” you hum, definitely giving away your sleepiness. “Nope.”

A warm hand touches your knee, Steve’s hand reaching out and rubbing it tenderly. He tsks playfully. “You’re not fooling anyone, baby.”

You huff a quiet laugh and let your eyes fall back closed. Steve’s touch has always had a magnetic property, drawn to you whenever he’s near. It has a similar effect on your heart, which always feels like it’s surging forward in your chest to reach him.

The touch shifts, skimming down your shinbone. You expect him to maybe begin a half-hearted massage on your calves— he’s prone to giving them to you— but then, unexpectedly there’s another touch added to your legs.

You lift your head, peering down at him with squinted eyes. He’s crouched down beside the bed and he’s rubbing his cheek against the smooth skin of your legs.

When he knows he’s been spotted, he only grins, shifting his cheek again. “You’re so… smooooth.”

There’s definitely awe in his voice. You laugh, a real laugh this time, and shake your head. You should really stop being surprised when Steve’s a dork — he’s proven to be one time and time again. If you didn’t know different, you might assume this was his first ever relationship.

“Mhmm,” You hum. “That’s part of the appeal, handsome.”

Something glitters in Steve’s eyes at your pet name for him and his grin melts into something softer. His hand on your shin moves again, stroking softly up your calf. His face shows his bewilderment at your supremely smooth skin— and then betrays the look of mischief that crosses his face.

Your brows furrow instinctively. “Steve—” You warn.

He does it anyway, turning and licking one big stroke up your knee. You squeal, surprised at the sensation, and jerk your leg away from him.

“Steve!”

“What!” He mimics your tone, finally getting up onto the bed and crawling up to meet you. He’s smirking, looking terribly proud of himself. He plops himself down, half of his weight pressing into your shoulder as he nuzzles himself into your neck.

“S’just wanna a little taste, that a crime?”

His breath is hot and almost tickles against your neck. It’s impossible not to dissolve into quiet giggles, leaning into him. He snakes an arm around your waist, pulling the two of you closer.

“You’re a dork.”

You can feel the little puff of air he lets out in a laugh as well as the smile that spreads on his mouth. He pokes his tongue out, a minuscule touch against your neck that has you shrieking again— except this time, Steve’s holding you too tight to squirm away.

“Mmhm,” He says. “Your dork.”

You grin, turning to nose against his temple and make a noise of agreement. “Absolutely.”

#this blog kinda has insane energy like…. i wrote that in one go in 20 mins #perhaps not impressive to some but considering it took me like a whole day to mince out 600 words #i’m so PLEASED to have it feel easy #i hope u enjoy some fluff #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve x reader #jay writes #steve harrington fluff #tumblr post it in the tags or this guy 🧍‍♂️ dies 🔪

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forlix · 2 years ago

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𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀・572 / 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴・felix x gn!reader / 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲(𝘀)・fluff, established relationship, lots of kisses hehe, slightly suggestive

“See you tonight, angel,” Felix says, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. It’s chaste, short, familiar; your favorite form of farewell, exchanged inevitably before you part ways, even for only a few hours.

But this time, Felix doesn’t pull away afterwards, instead remaining so close to you that the tip of his nose is almost brushing yours, and there’s an ineffable glint in his eyes when he speaks again. (You should’ve known you were in danger.)

“Hang on,” he murmurs, his voice low and sweet, and then he leans in again.

When he presses his lips to yours the second time, he moves with an intensity that you aren’t prepared for. You feel his fingers slide over the nape of your neck and tangle gently in your hair; your head tilts backwards from the weight of his kiss, his tongue feather-light against the seam of your lips, his mouth laving over yours as tenderly as if he’s trying to drink you, savor you. Dimly, you feel your waist bump against the kitchen counter, and Felix doesn’t even think when he moves a hand protectively to the small of your back, returning you to your rightful place against his chest.

You are breathless and lightheaded when your boyfriend breaks the kiss, his lips flushed and hair messy, looking like a walking dream.

“S'that a new lip balm flavor?” He asks.

Bastard.

You collect yourself just enough to give him an answer, but it sounds more like a blissful sigh than a spoken response: “Strawberry.”

The smile that crosses Felix’s face is mostly bashful, but you don’t miss the self-satisfied huff of laughter that comes with it.

“I like it,” he hums. “A lot.”

And he kisses you one more time, and then another.

He ends up being late to practice that day, his rushed apologies to Minho falling out of strawberry-tinted lips.

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other works here. thanks so much for the support ♡

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kaiser1ns · 5 months ago

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When you first met Endo Yamato and Takiishi Chika you knew what you were signing for but didn’t expect this—pure chaos in the walk-in closet with clothes all over the floor, blouses and jackets were taken off the hangers, and looking at these two you got very confused ... Well, as you watched Endo search, Takiishi is just standing in the middle of it.

“What are you doing?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to laugh at Endo, who had spoiled you shamelessly forever, and Takiishi, who was still interested in you despite his ever-shifting whims. “Looking for my hoodie,” Turning their heads to you as their eyes went wide, and you couldn’t figure out why until the tattooed man’s gaze locked on you, his mouth parting in realization. You followed his line of sight, suddenly self-conscious. Oh. You were wearing the hoodie.

He let out a sigh, finally calm that he found what he was looking for as he stood up and walked over to you. “Doll,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing, “you’ve got something that belongs to me.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Oh no. He knew. Not just about the hoodie, but the card. His precious credit card. You swallowed hard, your mind racing. Endo would never actually do anything to hurt you, he wouldn’t dare, but he’d made it clear you were supposed to ask him before using it. And you… definitely hadn’t.

“I didn’t mean to!” you blurted, practically tripping over your words. “It was just sitting there, staring at me! Like it wanted me to use it. And, well, I took the chance.”

He blinked at you, his expression slipping from teasing to baffled, turning to Takiishi, who remained as still as ever, blinking back at him with no intention of helping. “Well,” Endo finally said, his grin returning as he leaned in closer, his nose practically brushing yours, “I guess I can’t stay mad if you’re going to look that cute while confessing.”

Takiishi, watching from the sidelines, rolled his eyes. “You spoil her too much,” he muttered, walking off as if he was one to talk about being spoiled. You could only laugh nervously as Endo pulled you into a hug, saying something about princess privileges under his breath you knew that you were either cleaning this or your allowance was about to be shortened, but not for long. “You’re lucky I like you.”

#✧* ꜝ wind breaker #✧* ꜝ takiishi chika #✧* ꜝ endo yamato #OKAY I WAS ACC ABOUT TO DROP WBK BUT THIS MADE ME GET TO LIKE EDNO AND CHIKA AGAIN #anyway enjoy this made by endo and chika official character information <3 #can't believe how spoiled chika is ... endo spoil me too please please please #to live with them would be so fun and exhasuthing because you have to clean after chika ... do you see this boy washing the dishes?? no.#ANYWAY WALKIN CLOSET / ENDO AND CHIKA SHARING CLOTHES / ENDO BEING RICH / CHIKA BEING A PRINCESS #wind breaker x reader #x reader #wind breaker #takiishi x reader #windbreaker x reader #wind breaker x you #windbreaker fluff #takiishi chika x reader #chika takiishi x reader #takiishi chika #takiishi #endo yamato x reader #endo yamato #endo #endo x you #wind breaker satoru nii #windbreaker x you #windbreaker manga #wind breaker manga #windbreaker #wind breaker anime #wind breaker x y/n

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eliasoir · 10 days ago

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𝖭𝖤𝖵𝖤𝖱 𝖧𝖠𝖵𝖤 𝖨 𝖤𝖵𝖤𝖱

𝗇𝖼𝗍 𝖽𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆 𝗑 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

┈─★ the dreamies’ ‘i haves’ when playing (dirty) never have i ever.

𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝖬𝖣𝖭𝖨 ⠀⠀⠀───⠀⠀⠀ unprotected sex (don’t do this), strong language (dirty talk & cursing), some dom/sub dynamics, power dynamics, orgasm control, public sex, phone sex, face sitting, masturbation, oral (m. & f. rec), dry humping, begging, creampie, backshots, overstim, pet name usage. (lmk if i missed any !) 𝘄𝗰 2.0k

elia’s notes: this was a painnn to write lmao

𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗸.

“begged someone to let me finish”

mark’s sheets were rustled and messy beneath you, the warm colored light pouring in from the sunset through his window. you’re straddling him, riding him deep and slow, and his hands were gripping your thighs like it’s the only thing that kept him from losing it.“baby,” he whines in a broken voice, “please—can i come? please?” you grin, leaning down to pepper kisses to his jaw. “i don’t know, markie. you just look so pretty like this.” he bucks up into you helplessly, already so close. so close, his cock was twitching inside you. “babe—fuck—i’ve been good baby, i need to—” you stop the movement of your hips entirely, just to hear him whimper beneath you. “then beg for it,” you whisper, tone low and seductive. mark knew he wasn’t above it, especially not when he needed it so bad. “please, sweetheart,” he gasps, completely wrecked. “please let me come. i wanna—wanna fill you up—please…” “so pretty when you beg,” you praise softly. “so good. again.” “babe,” he gasps, grabbing at your hips, “i’m serious—i’m gonna—if you keep going like that i—” you grind down on him only once more and he breaks. his hands fly to your hips, his breath staggered, and he comes with a loud, whiny moan, spilling warm inside you while his whole body convulses under yours. you lean down to kiss him slow, smiling against his lips. “good boy.” mark groans again softly, head falling back against the pillow, a fucked out mess. “…i hate how much i liked that.”

𝗿𝗲𝗻𝗷𝘂𝗻.

“came in my pants”

you were comfortably straddling renjun on the couch, hands tangled in his hair, your hips rolling slow against his. it started off truthfully playful. just a few teasing touches, soft kisses, but now you were both breathing heavier, grinding into each other like you couldn’t help it. his hands grip your waist tighter and tighter, jaw clenched hard, head falling back against the cushions of the couch. “shit—baby—don’t stop,” he gasps, hips rocking up to meet yours every time. you can feel him easily through his sweatpants, warm and throbbing with need. the fabric between you was soaked from you rubbing on his lap. the pressure between you was just right, and he was close. too close. “so worked up already?” you tease, kissing up his neck to whisper in his ear. “that desperate for me?” “shut up,” he whines. “i can’t—i-i’m—” and then it happens. his hips stutter a jerk, breath catching in his throat as he comes hard in his pants, warmth spilling out between you. it soaked through the soft cotton of his sweats and against your own thin shorts. he lets out a moan, body tensing, arms tightening around your hips as he buries his face in your neck. “…fuck, i’m sorry,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “couldn’t hold it…” you shift your hips just a little and feel the mess in his pants, sticky and hot between you both. you smirk, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “don’t be sorry, baby,” you whisper. “came so good for me.”

𝗷𝗲𝗻𝗼.

“talked someone through touching themself”

“jen, i—” you start, eyes fluttering as your hand dips beneath your panties already. “shh,” he says, low and honey-toned over the phone. “i know, baby. i know you need it.” his phone was angled just right to show his hand lazily stroking himself, but his voice stays focused and firm for you. “put two fingers on your clit,” he murmurs. “slow. gentle.” you follow immediately without hesitating, gasping softly as you slide over your clit. “good,” he praises, voice already huskier. “that’s it. just like that.” you moan, thighs tensing and parting wider as your back arches a little. he watches everything; the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the motion of your fingers. “don’t rush,” he warns, hand still moving over himself, his grip a little tighter. “wanna watch you fall apart. slowly, baby.” you whimper his name softly, hips rocking up into your fingers. his voice drops even lower, almost ragged. “go deeper, baby. how would i touch you if i was there?” you bite your lip, sliding your fingers down and into your needy hole. two fingers pumping in and out, then three, messy and soaking. “fuuck,” he groans. “look at you. so wet just from my voice.” you pant harder, eyes hazing over now. at this point you were whining his name again as your fingers inside you faster. “you gonna come for me?” he asks, thumb brushing over his tip just like you would. “come on, baby. let me hear you. be good for me—” your back arches, mouth falling open, and you come with a trembling gasp, hips spasming into your hand. your skin flushed and damp with a sheer layer of sweat. jeno exhales through a grin, stroking himself faster now, like hearing your moans was all he needed. “good girl,” he says, low and warm. “that’s my baby.”

𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻.

“had someone sit on my face”

you barely made it to your bedroom before haechan was tugging at your pants. his eyes were low, looking at you with a lazy grin. “sit on my face,” he said so casually, like it wasn’t the filthiest thing you’d heard all day. you blinked at him, half-laughing. “baby, i don’t wanna suffocate you.” he grinned even wider, already lying back on the mattress, hands behind his head. “damn good way to go.” his hands didn’t give you time to argue, pulling you up, and settled you over his mouth. before you could even adjust, his tongue was right there. hot and wet, dragging through your folds. he held your panties to the side and was teasing your clit in slow, gliding circles. he groaned against you, hands kneading your thighs, holding you down like he wanted to drown in you. now your thighs were shaking around his head, your puffy pussy pressed against his face, and his hands were gripping your ass like it’s the only thing he needed. your hips roll instinctively, and he whined deep into you like he lives for this. his tongue was relentless. continuously lapping at your folds, prodding your clit, dipping into you so deep you forget how to speak. “fuck—haechan—” you gasp, knuckles white as you grip the headboard for dear life. haechan pulls you down even harder to him, tongue burying deeper, and you cry out. coming faster than you ever have, thighs twitching and trembling on either side of his head. he doesn’t stop. not until you were relentlessly tugging at his hair, breathless and over sensitive, your legs barely holding you up. he pulls back finally, lips and chin glistening. and he was still grinning up at you like the smug little menace he is. “told you,” he pants, “best seat in the house.”

𝗷𝗮𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗻.

“got head in public”

jaemin tugged you down the hallway hurriedly, fingers firm around your wrist, eyes sharp with that needy expression. “jaem, someone’s gonna see—” “shh. no one’s around. it’ll be quick. promise.” he shoved open the dressing room door and you hardly heard the lock click before your back hit the wall, his lips crashing into yours. his hands were wandering freely. under your shirt, at waistband of your pants, tugging, squeezing, just hungry. “need you, baby,” he whispered, breath warm on your neck. “need your mouth.” and then he’s sinking you to your knees. his cock is already hard by the time you freed it from his jeans. thick and pulsing in your hand, precum already slicking his tip. he lets out a soft groan when your tongue flicks over it softly. one hand finding the back of your head. “yeah,” he breathes, hips bucking . “just like that.” you take him into your mouth deeper, feeling him throb on your tongue. “my good girl,” he whispers, eyes locked on you. more so, the way you took him so easily. “make me feel good, baby…” you moan around him, and he intakes a sharp breath, jaw clenched. the dressing room was quiet except for the wet, lewd sounds of your mouth and his heavy breaths, the occasional curse slipping past his lips when you suck a little harder, sloppier. he fucks into your mouth mainly slow, trying not to lose it too fast. it was a lot easier said than done though, the sight of you like this, knees on the hardwood knowing they would be red when you stood. your plump lips wrapped around him. the way your eyes rolled each time he hit the back of your throat. it was all too much. “fu—gonna come,” he pants, breath ragged. “you gonna swallow for me, pretty girl?” you hum a yes around him and that’s it. his hips shudder, fingers gripping your hair tightly as he spills down your throat with a low, lustful moan.

𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗻𝗹𝗲.

“given someone backshots”

it started with him watching you change. eyes dark, biting his lip until he finally grabbed your hips. “turn around.” he exhaled deeply trying to keep his composure. then bent you over the bed. chenle mutters again, already pulling at your clothes. “wanna see that ass.” he’s not shy about it, and never has been. he palms at your ass, spreads it in his hands, and growls like he’s starving. somehow, you ended up on your knees at the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets, and when he slides in from behind, pressing deeply, he groans a breathless, “fuck—” like it never gets old. like it’s the movie he could watch over and over and never get bored. and then he starts moving. his hips snap against yours, unforgiving and needy, the slap of skin echoing through the room. one of his hands grips your waist tight, the other smoothes over your ass, fingers digging in every time you clench around him. “look at you,” he pants, voice cracked open with lust. “so fuckin’ good like this—made just for me.” you moan something back, something incoherent and desperate, but he’s already too lost to tease you. he comes first, his hips rocking into you as he looses his rhythm. chenle’s breath hitches as he empties inside you with an overwhelmed moan, but doesn’t stop. just groans again and keeps going, already getting hard again from how tight you still feel, how pretty you sound. “gonna make you come now, yeah?” he breathes out, cock twitching deep inside you. “don’t worry, baby. i’m not done.” his pace picks right back up, and you swear it’s even deeper this time. rougher, messier, as his grip bruising your hips like he’ll never let go.

𝗷𝗶𝘀𝘂𝗻𝗴.

“made someone come twice in a row, back to back”

it was really late at night, you were both in his room. dim and quiet except for the rustle of sheets and the soft, wet sound of his fingers working deep inside your cunt. “so fucking tight,” jisung muttered, breath shaky. “feels like you’re sucking me in.” his fingers curled inside you just right, long and slender. and with his thumb pressing over your clit in slow, perfect circles, your legs shook as your orgasm hit hard. it was sudden and blinding, ripping a cry out of your throat when you clenched repeatedly around his fingers. but he didn’t stop. didn’t even pause. you barely had time to catch your breath before you felt the warm, slick pressure of him pushing in your pussy, thick and heavy, stretching you open further while you were still throbbing from the first high. “ji—wait—” you gasped, nails digging into his arms. “can’t,” he panted, lips close to yours, eyes hazy and hungry. “you’re still so wet, baby, fuck—just let me—” his hips rolled forward, sinking in deep in one long and slow thrust. you whimpered, overwhelmed, already on the edge again from how sensitive you were. every movement made you shiver, and made your breath hitch. his forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing yours in messy, desperate kisses between moans. “give me another, yeah?” he whispered, voice breaking. “you can do it—please?” you nodded, tears rimming the corners of your eyes from the stretch and heat. “that’s it,” he breathed, thrusting a little faster but still so deep, hands grounding on your waist. “my perfect girl. give it to me.” your body writhes, back arching as you come again, even harder this time, clenching around him with a broken moan. and jisung loves it, soaks it all in.

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pullhisteeth · 8 months ago

Text

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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niceutossu · 9 days ago

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Entertainer | Oikawa x Reader

You regret telling Oikawa he could host. Honestly, you're starting to regret being in his life at all.

No, that’s wrong. You love him, you love your Tooru. So handsome, so witty, so-

“Oh, you have to meet my fiancé!”

So annoying.

You feel yourself take a deep breath and hold back a frown that only adds to the tension in your shoulders. It had been a long night of socializing, and truthfully, if this wasn't your engagement party, you would have Irish goodbyed hours ago.

Still, you can do this. You’ve done this before.

You force yourself to turn with a strained grin, doing your best to keep up the facade that you had been the entire night. You could keep up a conversation, but not like this, not like he could.

“It’s nice to meet you.” You say, too tired to feel embarrassed at your unconvincing tone.

Whoever you’re meeting seems unfazed by this, taking your hand in their own. Their presence is warm and solid, like they belong there. Like they’ve always belonged there.

Unlike you.

“Hey congrats! You must be really patient.”

The words are wrapped in what you pray is good-natured surprise, light teasing at most. Nonetheless, you feel their heaviness settle in your chest. You’re not sure why you expect something different after hearing the same sentiment again and again.

Still, you don’t let your face betray the ugliness you feel, ignoring the way your fingers twitched at your side. You should be used to this, used to being gawked at like some sort of impossibility. Of getting treated like some kind of inside joke.

It seemed like everyone half-expected you to be long gone by now, another forgotten name in Oikawa’s long list of admirers.

Tooru laughs, though, effortlessly as always. “Of course, that’s why you’re the best!” He says while looking towards you, squeezing your waist as he leans into you. He acts like this isn’t the hundredth time someone has said something similar. Like it doesn’t matter.

A part of you wishes you could brush it off the same way.

But you can’t. So instead, you feel stuck as you offer a smile that’s anything but relaxed. And before another word can be spoken, you excuse yourself, making your way towards a quiet corner you could safely crumble in.

You had felt insecure sometimes, sure. His erratic schedule and lack of communication were valid causes for concern. Still, the weight you felt on you was nothing like those things. You felt even smaller right now, nearly invisible.

Before Oikawa, you weren’t always so hung up on impressions. Your life was your own, regardless of what anyone thought. It’s what made him so smitten in the first place: your commitment to yourself above anyone else. Still, somewhere along the line, you started to lose sight of that.

He was a force to be reckoned with, unknowingly taking up the room with just a single smile. And sometimes it made you feel overwhelmed, swept off your feet in all the wrong ways.

You hadn’t even known who he truly was when you first started dating.

Not really at least.

You had gotten to know his name, Oikawa Tooru. Gotten to know that he smiled like he knew he was being annoying, and that he walked around like the world belonged to him. You just hadn’t realized that some of the world actually did.

When you eventually did catch on, you were already half a year into your relationship, an occasion you were celebrating a bit early, given his irregular and mysterious schedule.

You were sitting on the floor of his apartment, cross-legged in front of a takeout container while putting on a show to watch.

As his smart TV flickered to life, a volleyball match began playing in the background on one of those random sports rerun channels he probably left on for background noise. You were about to switch to a streaming service before you paused upon hearing his name get called through the speakers.

“Wait,” you said, pointing your chopsticks dumbly at the screen showcasing the bold white lettering. “That’s your name.”

Tooru froze, mid-bite, eyes glancing toward the TV.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“I knew you played volleyball,” you start slowly, still chewing. “But do you play like…professionally?”

He scratched at the back of his neck, and for the first time since you met him, he looked anxious.

“Yeah,” he muttered, suddenly very interested in the leftover rice at the bottom of his container.

You blinked. “Like… stadiums and crowds and… the whole jersey number thing?”

“Yep, the whole thing,” he said, trying to go for lighthearted, but you could hear it; something a little wary hiding beneath the surface.

You stared at him, then the TV, then him again.

“So… you’re like famous?”

Tooru winced like the word physically hurt, throwing his chopsticks into the container dramatically as he brought his hands to cover his face, “God, don’t say it like that.”

“But you are,” you insisted as you laughed, not to mock him but just out of disbelief. “That’s so crazy. So if you have fans, do you have like… fan edits too?”

“I might have fan edits,” he said under his breath, dragging his hands down his face.

“You got any groupies?”

“Can we not?” he groaned, looking absolutely mortified, which only made you laugh harder.

But then you stopped. Not all at once, but gradually.

Because suddenly it clicked: why he always had his phone on silent, why people sometimes stared when you went out together. And why he was so adamant about having zero social media presence despite seeming like the type of person who would thrive online, all things he never made you feel stupid for not knowing.

Things he also never once brought it up himself.

“You should’ve told me,” you said quietly, pouting as the realization and slight sting of betrayal settled over your shoulders like a heavy blanket. Nothing was different per se, but you still felt a little played, a little naive. How could you not have noticed?

“I liked that you didn’t know,” he said, just as softly. “You weren’t trying to impress me. You were just so… you.”

You turn to take a look at him, really take a look at him, with his glasses and messy hair, mouth stained with soy sauce, and legs stretched long across the floor like he had nowhere better to be.

You then go back to stare at the picture-perfect version of him about to serve, hair laid out in a perfect messy crown, and with a glistening sweat that gives him an otherworldly glow. The only reason you could even tell it was the same person was the matching pair of intense, chocolate brown eyes.

“Are we sure this is even the same Oikawa?” You teased after a moment, feeling relieved by how comfortable he seemed around you despite his celebrity status. Yes, he had fans, but none of them would ever get to see such a domestic version of him.

“Heyyy,” he groaned out, but you can tell he’s also relieved you didn’t react poorly.

You lean over to steal a piece of food from his container, shrugging before you speak, “Well,” you said, “I guess if you’re also still you, then I don’t mind.”

He grinned, a goofy and childish one that made your stomach flutter, “Thank you very much.”

The exchange had been simple, truthful, but plain enough to make you stay. The mundane parts of his life were the parts he wanted to spend with you; it was all intentional. You were his choice, and he was yours.

Afterwards, your eyes were open to a new world; one that adored Tooru as much as you did. It rarely made you feel jealous, more so unsure of your place in his life, despite how sure he seemed himself. Oikawa knew so many people, loved so many people. Why you?

After over half a decade together, you weren’t expecting any more surprises. You knew who Oikawa was, a global volleyball star and your silly boyfriend. For a long time, this was fine with you. He was fun. Your relationship was fun. There was no expectation of a lifetime commitment from either of you, only genuine loyalty.

Still, Oikawa was also famous for his long list of lovers; a discovery you made after the fourth ex-girlfriend you were introduced to. You tried not to let it bother you, did all you could to hide the irritation on your face as he was smothered by gorgeous women, and sometimes even men.

You were still human, though, bound to crack under the weight of so many beautiful exes. You had struggled with insecurity before, sure, but not like this. Being faced with so many past lovers had whittled away the confidence you had worked so hard to build over the years.

All these people had been you, or in your position at least. What did you have that they didn’t? Every person you met seemed to be charming in their own way, enough to have you picturing a time where they complemented your Tooru well, in beauty and wit.

And despite the whirlwind of happiness that had come with getting engaged, you also felt so uneasy, like the rug could be pulled from under you at any moment.

‘I don’t actually love you.’ He would say, any future plans for a wedding would be discarded, and you forgotten.

Except, Oikawa wasn’t like that. He was a lot of things, but not cruel, not when it came to you.

Still, being in a room full of people who adore him—treat him like some legend, someone larger than life—you can’t help but feel the weight of everything you’ve tried so hard to swallow force its way back to you.

Things like the fact he was never your Tooru, not really. He was just Tooru. And maybe calling him yours was childish to begin with. But he was your boyfriend. Your charming, extroverted, and stupidly attractive boyfriend.

And the worst part is, he’s not doing anything wrong; he’s just being himself. But still, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You used to love how effortlessly he shined, but now, lingering on the outskirts, you’re not so sure. Watching him laugh, watching him easily command a room, you can’t help but feel like you were never meant to stand beside him.

“Hey,” a familiar gruff voice interrupts the beginning of your silent meltdown.

“Iwaizumi,” you say softly, not turning to look at him directly but making space for him to stand next to you in the crowd.

“Isn’t it too late for a cold shoulder?” You can’t help yourself from exhaling at his words, recognizing his dry humor right away.

You turn to face him, doing little to hide the anxiety written all over your features. At the sight, he falters, unsure how to approach but choosing to reach out nonetheless.

“Did…did he ruin this for you?” He asks, hesitant but seemingly ready to smack his best friend over the head at any moment.

You pause at his words, unsure how to answer. Oikawa had ruined a lot of things for you. Your expectations of a lover. Planned surprises. A chance at love after him…

“I’m ruining it for myself,” you admit, finding his presence comforting despite his status as your fiancé’s best friend and man.

“Well, I was gonna say it looks like you need some fresh air but let’s start with a drink.” He says bluntly.

“Just get me whatever you get.” You mumble out, feeling caught off guard but finding solace in his sudden appearance.

Iwaizumi was Iwaizumi. Just like how Tooru was Tooru, you knew what to expect.

“That’s not like you, he must’ve really ruined this for you.” He grumbled, clearly disturbed by your uncharacteristic nonchalance but still desperately trying to keep a conversation.

“It’s still me, it’s definitely me.” You admit, feeling anything but yourself.

“Hm,” he responds, making his way to the bar but not before giving you a look that says: ‘stay put’.

You oblige with his silent request, despite the ever-growing need to run away from peering eyes. When he comes back with two drinks, you don’t bother asking him what’s in it before taking a long swig.

“Woah, no cheers?” He says, still joking but now visibly concerned. You are an adult. Free to drink as you please. But this, none of this, felt like you.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” You admit, letting the ‘liquid courage’ soar through you, or at the very least, the placebo effect of it.

“I’m me and Tooru is Tooru...you know what I mean.” You croak out, unable to say the words you felt pathetic just thinking about.

Why is he with me?

“What.” Iwaizumi blurts out, his tone more pissed off than questioning.

“Dude, he sucks.” Iwaizumi continues bluntly, face forming into a scowl at the mere thought of his oldest friend.

You laugh just a little, tired around the edges, before sighing out a response, “I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” He says, meeting your gaze head-on. His eyes are steady, voice firm. And the confidence in them, in you, is so fierce it makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

“You know he’s had a lot of girlfriends,” he starts, and you can’t stop your eyes from rolling.

“God, you too Hajime?” You groan, going to chug the rest of your drink before his hand gently catches your wrist.

“Let me finish,” he grunts out, clearly annoyed at your impatience.

“He’s had a lot of girlfriends, but this is the first time he’s had a fiancée.” He says, clearly still trying to console you.

There's a beat of silence. And then two. You can’t rationalize why his words anger you more than comfort. So what? First doesn’t mean you’d be the last. And if you knew anything about Oikawa is that he never settled for the first option. Only the best. And you were starting to feel like anything but.

“Yeah, that’s exactly the problem,” you whimper out and he lets go immediately, as if he had felt your skin catch fire.

You feel your lip tremble as you tighten your grip on the glass before speaking your next words.

“Why me?” You manage to strangle out, voice barely audible, but you can tell he heard you from the way his eyebrows furrow together.

“Hey,” he starts, hand going to your shoulder to steady you, but his touch feels cold. You feel cold. It was like you weren’t even wearing skin anymore, as if it had all burnt off from the shame of admitting you didn't really feel chosen.

“Sorry, please forget I said anything.” You mumble out, taking a deep breath before finishing the rest of your drink. You hold up the empty glass for him to see, “Do you mind? I could really use a refill.” You say, sweet and strained, but he seems to understand what you really need: space.

He takes the glass from your fingertips and, without another word, leaves you just as you had started. Lost in a sea of people, you either didn’t know or only knew through mutual friends.

Deciding you had had enough mingling for now, you waded through the crowd silently, blending in effortlessly as you made your way to the balcony. You’ve never been so grateful for Oikawa’s extravagance, which was now your only chance at escape.

You open and close the door quickly, feeling your skin prickle at the cool night air. You inhale and exhale deeply, letting relief wash over you as you finally stop hearing the murmuring of festive attendees.

Sure, you feel a little guilty leaving a party meant to celebrate you and your love. Nonetheless, you just needed a moment to yourself, away from the clinking of glasses and the feeling of being an outsider looking in. The whole night had just been exhausting.

You were just so exhausted.

Exhausted from smiling until your cheeks hurt. Exhausted of pretending like you loved being the center of attention, and the subtle digs that came with it. Exhausted from convincing yourself that loving someone so bright wouldn’t eventually burn you out.

You lean against the balcony railing at that last thought, pressing your hands to the cold metal as you peer over to the bottom. Its chillness steadies you for a moment, while your eyes absentmindedly trace the skyline. Little by little, you start to feel yourself come back down from the edge you had pushed yourself to.

The muffled laughter behind thick walls brings you back to the reality, though, just for a moment. The sound should be comforting, but instead, it almost feels hollow. Like a symphony of torment drawing out your deepest fears.

Normally, Tooru would be the one to ground you without a word. Still, how could you explain everything without sounding like you were blaming him or like you were bringing up the past? You feel your eyes burn as your frustration with yourself reaches a crescendo. Hopefully, you could get your act together before he noticed you were gone.

As if on cue, a soft knock on the glass door behind you pulls you out of your fog.

You tense up, not turning just yet. You already knew who it was; no one else knocks like he does. Gentle, hesitant, but unwilling to let his presence go unknown.

“Can I please come out?” His voice is low, stifled by the glass. When you do turn, you can’t help a small smile from tugging at your lips at the sight you’re met with.

Tooru, with his forehead pressed against the glass, eyes glossed over like a puppy’s. He perks up when your eyes meet, hand going to turn the doorknob as you nod in confirmation.

Even during your lowest moments, you couldn’t deny him, not when he was being this cute.

You watch as he slips through the doorway, shutting it quietly behind him like he’s afraid any sudden movement might scare you off. His eyes search your face immediately, trying to read what you’re feeling without making you say it out loud.

“You disappeared,” he says, voice softer now, careful in a way that makes your chest ache.

You don’t answer right away, or even look at him. “Just for a little.”

Despite your unwillingness to meet his gaze again, you still feel his eyes on you. Searching for something you were desperate to hide.

“I should’ve come after you sooner, I’m sorry.” He adds, taking responsibility for something he didn’t explicitly name.

You shrug, finally looking into his eyes but the way your stomach squeezes when you do has them darting away just as fast. “You were busy.” You mumble out, slightly wincing at how unconvincing the words sound.

“That’s not an excuse.” His voice sharpens, not with annoyance, but rather guilt. “Not when you looked like you were drowning out there.”

You close your eyes at his words. Why did he have to say it like that? You sometimes hated how he seemed to have a finger in every fold of your brain, ready to speak the words you were only just thinking.

You don’t respond for a moment, feeling a little too raw despite how comforting his presence normally is.

“I didn’t even get to show you my dancing skills,” he says after a beat, trying to be light, but it lands somewhere between awkward and earnest. “I was gonna challenge you to a dance off. It was gonna be real romantic.”

You huff out something that could almost pass for a laugh. “That would’ve made me disappear for real.”

“Hey, don't joke about that,” he says, and the sudden seriousness in his tone surprises you.

You glance back at him, eyebrows pinching. He looks…nervous. Nothing like the entertainer you had seen dazzling guests moments earlier. He had that same look he wore when he proposed with shaking hands and the most un-Oikawa-like stumble of words.

“I thought I lost you tonight,” he admits, voice cracking on the last word.

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer, slowly like you’d run away any moment. He can’t see the way the cogs in your head stopped turning, unable to process his words entirely. “Everyone kept making comments, and I thought—I thought you were finally seeing it. That I waited too long, that I’m too much that, that...I’m not good enough for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” you ask, brows drawing together, “Everyone was saying they were surprised you were still with me—”

He interrupts you with a small chuckle, one that turns into a deep belly laugh. The way he's smiling has your ears burning with embarrassment and clicking your tongue. When finally he notices your pouty expression his own softens.

“No. No, they weren’t saying that. They were saying they didn’t know how you were still here. With me. Everyone here is genuinely surprised I hadn’t scared you off yet with how crazy I can get.”

The words hit you like a wave, warm and sudden. Unlike the tsunami that almost crushed you earlier in the evening. You turn fully toward him, noticing the way the city lights paint his face in soft golds and moving shadows.

“You,” you start, but your voice dies in your throat. “You’re not too much.” You finish meekly, but it’s laced with sincerity.

He steps closer until he’s right in front of you, gently tugging your hand away from the railing to hold it between both of his. His fingers smooth over the band on your ring finger, lips twitching upwards at the feeling of the massive diamond perched on top. A small part of you wonders how he can still be so cocky even during such intimate moments.

“I think about you constantly. I talk about you even more. Every person I’ve ever known has told me I’m annoying. Hajime told me if I didn’t tone it down a bit, I’d freak you out and then, then you’d leave me.” He blurts out, voice shaky and so unlike the man who had just been smirking at your ring.

You blink again, stunned. “You’re scared of me leaving?”

His lips twitch upward, but there’s no humor in it. “I’ve never cared about someone like this. If I’m being honest, I’m actually pretty terrified.”

You pause for a moment. And then another. You try and take it all in; his vulnerable expression, your complete misunderstanding. How he felt like too much, and you, like not enough. Both desperate to keep the other around.

For the first time that night, you smile, a genuine one that makes Tooru’s eyebrows raise in a hopeful way. You then go rub at your eyes, desperate to soothe the burning behind them because, despite your initial relief, you had failed to see him the way he had seen you.

“Please don’t cry.” He whispers, hands going to curl around both your wrists gently.

You move your hands away from your face, looking up at him through watery eyes. You feel like an idiot having him comfort you when you hadn’t even noticed he’d been drowning too.

“I’m sorry for being selfish.” You say and now it’s his turn to smile, a confused but amused one.

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” He says cheekily, pulling you closer by the wrists as you happily oblige to his warm touch.

“But seriously, don’t apologize. Thanks for putting up with me for so long.” He mumbles into your hair before giving your head a gentle kiss, as if making a silent vow to himself.

You hum in response, making a move to wrap your arms around his torso as he greedily accepts more of you into his arms.

“I promise I won’t disappear again.” You say, glancing toward the balcony door and the party still pulsing behind it. The night was still young, and you felt strangely refreshed. Renewed even. ‘I tend to have that effect on people,’ Oikawa had teased once. It used to annoy you, and it still did, mostly because it was true.

For a second, neither of you speaks, simply relishing in each other's presence. The wind suddenly picks up a little, tugging some loose hair strands around your face, and he reaches to tuck them behind your ear as if on instinct.

“I promise you won’t regret being mine.” He says, hand going from your ear to cup your cheek, his eyes steeled with a newfound resolve, similar to the one you had seen on tv all those years ago. You were his newfound obsession, someone he willingly devoted all his time and passion to with a cheeky glee. Your Tooru.

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