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joeloverture · 2 months ago

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deadfall | enemy!j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | notifs blog | on palestine

pairing: dad’s enemy!joel miller x f!reader summary: joel miller, rival raiders with your father, is the last person you expect to save you from the group that captured you. he’s also the last person you expect to sleep with. [post outbreak] warnings: (mdni) canon typical violence (stalkers, mentions of death), porn with plot, game or tv joel, reader born before the outbreak, reader has a present/loving father figure (HAH), alternate universe — joel never went to boston, implied age gap but how big is up to you, self indulgent humor, quicksand, explicit smut, reader is a biiiit of a peeping tom, close proximity, only one bed, (brief) accidental somnophilia so dubcon, dry humping, degradation, humiliation, mirror sex, unprotected piv (he’s snipped dw), doggy style, manhandling (he fucks you in a headlock), mild breath play & choking, brief hair pulling (reader has hair!), scratching/biting, brief orgasm denial, hatefuck [no use of y/n] word count: 9.5k author's note: pwplot! a joeloverture first. also my first foray into somno! and post!ob joel! lots of firsts here. special thanks to @joelsdagger for taking a glimpse at this for me (and for being the PIONEER that forged joel fucking in a headlock) and @lovesickonmybed for being the best sounding board ever. i hope y'all like this one, i sure do.

There are no infected in the swamp — not this far out. They prefer the slant of buildings or the maw of split pavement. Blood-bloated leeches and black-trunked cypresses aren’t their domain.

You can’t say you blame them. One day in, and you’re already sick of this shit.

A few gnats have flown up your nostrils as you wade through the ankle-deep sludge. Mist curls at the edges of your vision. Your feet keep slipping on the slime covered stones that are half-submerged in the deep. Sweat crystallizes on your nape as your toe catches on a downed branch.

Before you faceplant in the sludge below, a burly hand snags your collar and hauls you up. “You always this much of a klutz?” It’s the first few words he’s said to you in hours.

A scowl buckles your lips. You shove Joel Miller’s arm off your back, splashing up scummy water as you step over the branch this time. You say nothing — don’t even dignify him with a passing glance.

“You’re a real peach, ain’t ya?” Joel says. When he takes his next step, water splashes at the backs of your calves. “Save your ass and this is the thanks I get.”

Joel Miller doesn’t want thanks. Up until he accidentally burnt his thumb with boiling hot coffee yesterday, you’d been convinced he didn’t feel anything at all. As long as his pulse is woven between bullets and stab wounds, he doesn’t give a damn what happens to those around him. His heart, much like the rest of the people at the end of the world, is calcified. Only beating out of necessity.

You’re silent as you footslog forward. The slurp of mud stretches between your shoe and the ground. Your pack jostles against your back. The ache in your bones has proven to be a better company than Joel – at least that is tolerable.

A deadfall lays flat ahead, a tree with cambered branches that droop with moss. Joel cups a hand over his eyes to block out the sun and squints past.

You go to walk past him, around the deadfall.

“Nuh uh,” Joel tugs you back by the scruff. You grunt. “‘S deeper out there. I’d sure like to see you get swallowed up by a gator, but that doesn’t work for me, kid.”

It sure works for you. If you see one of their bumpy snouts protruding out of the water, you’re using him as bait.

You don’t say that, though. Just hitch your foot up over one of the branches in the tree and start to haul yourself up. It’s a nagging ordeal – full of hissing through your teeth and feeling wood tear small cuts into your skin. Your hand tangles in an unoccupied spiderweb before you toss yourself through the other side of the bramble. Water sluices around you as you right yourself, rubbing a bead of blood from one of your knuckles.

Joel’s quick to follow, even quicker to take front again. You’ve learned he likes being ahead of you — unless you’re climbing a ledge or a fallen oak.

The hours wear on. You refuse to be the first to call it for the day. Even when you get stinging salt water into your open cuts, you grin and bear it. When the sun lounges on the chaise of the tree-sketch horizon, he drops his pack on an island of mulch that’s nestled in a grove of dead vegetation.

You slump down next to him, rifling through your pack for a bite of jerky. Joel’s knees pop. He grunts as he slips down into the dirt and unrolls his sleeping bag. He rolls over, facing away from you. Hand wrapped around his gun like it’s a lover.

When you do the same, it’s with a barbed insult on your tongue that’s better left unspoken.

At the end of the world, everything is ruleless. But you grew up with exactly one rule: don’t talk about Joel Miller.

You hadn’t been expecting him to kill you.

The Cockroaches, the lesser raider group in Northeast Texas, had captured you. Apparently your dad had some unpaid debts, and in taking you as leverage, they’d intended to get close to him. All they got were bullets in their heads.

You’d sighed in relief when the hatch to your basement confinement had finally opened. A spillage of sun sliced down through the opening, and you were expecting the familiar warmth of your father, an apology, and reassurance that he wouldn’t let them take you again.

Instead, you got Joel. With his hulking gun, broad figure that blocked out the sun, and the scowl that would be the last thing you’d ever see.

You had fumbled against the post you were tied to, feet scrabbling against the floor. You’d winced away when he raised his knife. “Don’t–”

…And cut into your restraints.

You’d rubbed the chafing from your wrists and stared at him, nebulous and delirious. “Get the fuck away from me,” you’d croaked.

“They touch you?” he’d asked. You’d shaken your head. “Hurt ya?” Another shake.

“Good. Now get up and get ready to haul ass.” He turned around, but not before throwing his knife to the ground next to you. The clatter it made against the concrete made your ears ring.

You grabbed the knife.

“Why are you helping me?” you ask him. They’re the only words you’ve spoken since you’d seen him in the cellar.

“I ain’t,” he says. His voice is gruff. Sandpapery.

“Looks like helping,” you say, nodding at the pack he’d given you. He’d come out prepared. To get you.

“Your daddy ain’t the only one with debts,” he says.

You stop, booted feet sinking into the mud. Shit. “So that’s what this is. You take me away just to hand me off to some other shitty group?”

“Yeah,” he says with a shrug. He turns around, already mid-stride.

You yank his knife out of your pocket and dive at him.

“Hey, hey, fuck – you little brat,” he spats. He goes off balance before he twists around. You corral him against a tree, leg hitching around his waist as you knee at his thighs, aiming for his crotch. His spittle sprays your cheek as he grunts. His fist wraps around your hand, and the knife splats into the mud. His booted heel slips and he goes sliding back as he shoves you away, hard. You cough as you slam into a tree trunk. The knot that swells out of the bark digs into your head. You drag a branch up off the ground, pushing yourself off the tree as you heft it.

Before you grab it, he slaps you. Hard. Your head goes spinning as you stumble back into the muck. He jams his boot down against your chest, mud smearing across your tank top. “I gotta tie you up, or you gonna fuckin’ listen to me?”

You reach up to grab his ankle, and he just stomps harder against your chest. You wheeze, flopping back in the sludge. “B-bastard,” you hiss.

“Yeah, yeah, shut the hell up. ‘S your dad’s shitty group I’m talkin’ about.”

You give him an incredulous look.

“Your old man ain’t the only one with a coupla debts under his belt.”

“You’re shitting me,” you say. Voice squished in your throat from his tread against your chest.

He shakes his head and finally lets his boot up. You suck in a breath, another cough rattling your ribcage. “Quit being all uppity and pickin’ fights ya can’t win if you wanna learn, dumbass.”

“Why didn’t he just come get me himself?” you grit out as you lean back against a log. You use it to lift yourself, legs feeling gelatinous from being shoved about.

“You didn’t see? Cockroach shot ‘im in the leg.” Your lips tremble, but you straighten them. “He’s fine.”

You scowl. “And you didn’t tell me this sooner?” You march forward. Your arms cross solidly over your chest.

“Figured you wouldn’t take it well.” He looks you up and down. “And I was right.”

You curse under your breath. Dip to grab your knife. Toss it in your hand while you think. You don’t flinch when it slightly nicks your thumb — it’s hardly a poke with all of the scraping you’ve been doing through undergrowth — but Joel smirks.

He sees you as juvenile. The product of a world that you haven’t earned the right to be in, always cowering behind your dad’s back.

You’ll prove him wrong.

“How far are we from the nearest city?” you ask. You want to go home. Your arms ache not just from swinging at your side or lifting you up toppled trees, but to wrap around your father. Your bones protest at the thought of being in your skin. Your tank top sticks to your flesh with mud and the parasites that squirm in it.

“I’m not a goddamn fortune teller,” Joel says. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Then we better get moving.” You readjust your pack and jostle him as you march on.

Three days later, and there’s no end in sight to the swamp. Whatever towns you’ve encountered are home to only a derelict gas station and ransacked mom-and-pop stores. They’re no place for pit stops.

You (reluctantly) stay close to Joel, who you’re lucky to hear so much as a murmur out of. Most of the time, he’s redirecting you, tugging you out of the way of half-decade old hunter’s traps or reminding you not to go too far.

“The world isn’t gonna end if I step out of your imaginary line, Joel,” you say. You test your foot on the side of the bank you’re walking on. Nothing happens.

“Ki–” Joel says, brows crunched up.

“See? Fine.” You press more of your weight into the ground. He reaches for you, but your body tilts.

Your foot is sinking.

“You’re a fuckin’ pain in my ass,” Joel says. He pinches his nose bridge. “Shoulda left ya down there.”

You glare at him, bending yourself at the waist so you can try to wiggle yourself with your upper body strength. Your free knee is propped up on the squishy ground. You grunt, palms slipping against the oily, grass-filled mud. “I got it,” you rasp out as he crouches in front of you.

“Uh huh,” he says, frowning pointedly.

“I got it.” You slap his hand away and thresh your leg in the sand. It barely even wiggles. “Fuck.” You strain your leg, huffing and puffing. Dirt fixes itself under your nails.

Joel wraps his arms under your shoulders and you flail in protest. “I said I can handle it!” Instead of listening to you, he tugs at you like pulling a toy from a dog. You keep windmilling your arms.

“Quit thrashin’!” Joel yells. “Any harder and you’re gonna drag me in with you.”

Your face is too close to his. Too close for the uncomfortable heat. His humid breath fans against your sweat-slippery cheek as he groans. Your foot loosens. You prop your calf up on his thigh as he wrests you out of the quicksand. You’re chest-to-chest with him as you tip over the muck, dropping flat against him. “Mmph.”

Joel shoves you off of him, and you fall on your ass in the mud. By all odds, your boot has remained strapped to your foot. He’s already up and moving when he says, “Jesus Christ, you are just like your fuckin’ dad.”

The mud still caked into your shirt has started to flake by the time you reach a city called Monroe. Just off of I-20, you and Joel trek further into what you imagine must’ve been a medium-sized city during its heyday.

You’re bone-weary. Your back keeps popping with every step with how you keep having to sleep on the ground. You’d be thankful for even a mattress of moss — but luckily, you won’t have to settle. Sunset is nearing, which means you can see the blue water (imagine that, blue water) tainted pink and orange below. Houses and the city clocktower reflect into the gentle pull and ebb of the tide.

Joel nods at a half-bent blue roadway sign. “YMCA up ahead,” he says. He wipes the sweat off his brow and clutches his gun closer to his side. “Stay close.”

You keep your hand around the grip of your knife, following him into the city.

It’s quiet as you navigate through a labyrinth of abandoned, rust-gutted cars. At one point, you manage to slip ahead of him, and he allows it for long enough (fifteen seconds) that you opt to take a shortcut through a parking garage. You climb over the edge and dip inside, feet scraping over roots that have grown between concrete slabs. The shade is a brief respite from the scorching sun, but the humidity still wrings the sweat from your pores.

Joel slips ahead of you again, taking long, dragging strides that look as exhausted as you feel. Four days of hiking through swamp and gunk and slapping mosquitoes against your skin has made you grateful to just be walking on solid ground again. Joel steps past a busted, sticker-covered van.

A streak flickers against the dark canopy of the garage. “Infected!” you shout, but Joel falls back on his ass.

His gun flies out of his hand and skids across the concrete. He grunts, shuffling backward, but the stalker’s already on him, its mouth sewn partially shut by fungi. It croaks and slashes at him, blind left eye battering and twitching. Joel throws a hooked punch, but the stalker takes the opportunity to grapple him, snarling in his face.

He’s going to get bit.

You launch forward, knife in-hand. You fling yourself into a tumble with the stalker, legs strewn over Joel’s. Adrenaline plummets through your body. You stomp on its shin and it shrieks. The knife almost slips from your grip as you start to stab blindly. You thrust the blade up through its eye socket.

The thing cackles and caws, its vocal chords clacking with mold and rot. Rusted blood trickles from its nose and down your wrist as you twist the blade further until you meet bone and then whatever is left of a brain is beyond it. You cringe as you drag the knife out and wipe it across your pants. It slumps back in a mound and then falls over.

Your chest heaves as you look between Joel and the stalker. His hands are scraped up as he grabs his gun.

You extend him a hand. He seems to think about it for a second before latching onto you and letting you help him up. He grunts in acknowledgment. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

This YMCA in particular isn’t like the others you’ve stopped at with your dad. Instead of glass windows and tin roofs, it’s brick and mortar. You and Joel climb in through the window, and you almost sob in relief when you see at least a dozen oversized yoga mats. That’s a suitable homemade mattress, you think.

There’s a basketball court whose court has been warped and fossilized by the leaks in the roof. A peek of sunset dives in through a hole, lighting up the western side of the room. You expect the pool room to still smell of chlorine. It’s a little weird when it doesn’t even though the pool’s been drained for years, you imagine. From there, you two reach the showers.

Before you let yourself get excited, Joel fiddles with the knobs. Water sprays out of it. “Still hot,” he says, absorbed in the droplets that are spraying his hand. He turns it off.

“Fuck it,” you say, tearing your tank top over your head.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Joel says, turning to face the wall.

“You aren’t the one who’s covered in mud!”

“Yeah, you’re right, I ain’t the one who went jumpin’ into quicksand. I also ain’t the one who deserved an ass whooping.”

You glare at his shoulder blades as you unzip your jeans, fumbling out of them. They’re nearly crunchy with the amount of mud you’ve been traipsing through. “They did charity drives at these things, right?” You never really went to any YMCAs before the world went to shit. “Maybe they’ve got clean clothes.”

“Maybe,” Joel says. “Maybe you shoulda thought about that before you turned this place into a strip club.” You roll your eyes and hook your bra on the shower curtain, followed by your panties.

“I didn’t know you were a prude, Miller,” you say.

He bristles at the accusation. “Maybe I should get an eyeful. Being ‘round you is like wishin’ the Lord would strike me down.”

You laugh. Joel made you laugh. First (and only) time, probably.

“Yeah, right, you’d get struck down for something a whole lot worse before he started getting mad at you for peeping.”

You fiddle with the shower curtain and step in. There’s old body wash in an automatic dispenser on the wall. It doesn’t work, but it’s easy to wrangle open and squeeze the pouch into your hand. The grout is odd under your bare feet, but quickly becomes familiar as you twist the lever. Water spits down at you, and a satisfied sound leaves you. “Fuuuck,” you sigh. “This is nice.”

Joel clears his throat. “I’m gonna go look for clothes. And deodorant.”

“You should shower too,” you say instead.

You can almost hear the face he makes.

“God, don’t be so much of a Holy Joe, Joel. It’s practical. This water isn’t going to last that damn long, and I am not taking a cold shower when the hot stuff is all right here.”

“You’re a real pain in the ass,” he says like he hasn’t already told you.

Eventually, you hear his belt unbuckle.

He strips down a lot quicker than you. Habit, maybe, you think. His jeans slump against the floor, and then he’s in the shower. You hear the other faucet come on as the water warms against your skin. You sigh, lathering yourself with the Dollar General body wash. It forms iridescent bubbles along your body, and it smells faintly like artificial strawberries. You wonder if it ever used to smell stronger than this.

There’s a slit in Joel’s shower that exists between the curtain and the wall. You should look away, but you shouldn’t have plunged your foot into quicksand, either. There’s many things you shouldn’t do that you take it upon yourself to do anyway.

So you watch the dirty water cascade down his sharp, scarred shoulder. You eye how the gnarl of his bone adjusts as he lathers himself with soapsuds. He stretches to get his hair and his bicep tenses with the movement. He’s built, and built well. From years of survival, trekking through swamps not so different from these, and aiming guns in places he wanted to and places he didn’t. The way the sun flits through the rectangular windows makes him look golden.

You imagine how it’d feel to walk up behind him, to massage the knots out of his sore muscles. You don’t even notice it, but your hands are traveling your own body now, fingertips going to pluck at your pebbled nipples. He’d been rough when tussling with you in the swamp. Would he be rough with you in bed, too? In your mind, you run soft, open-mouthed kisses down his back, reaching your hand between his legs to wrap around his—

A clanging noise stops your hand in its tracks. You drop it limp at your side. A wave of revulsion crawls like insects up your back.

“Shit!” Joel says, fumbling around in his shower stall.

The plastic body wash dispenser goes sliding out under the curtain, foamy with soapsuds.

You can’t help it. You snort. And eventually, your snort becomes full-fledged laughter, breaking the seam of your lips as you lean against the wall of the shower.

“Shut up,” he says, but you hear the tinge of a chuckle embedded between his vowels. You hear his half-huff of laughter before you force yourself to stop giggling.

You two stay under the shower streams until the water runs cold and bitter and all of the mud that had banded around your limbs is congealed in the drain.

You leave the showers first, roaming around until you find a discarded cardboard box that’s brimming with clothes in your size. There’s jeans that should do well in the elements and another tank top suited for the crushing heat.

When you’re dressed, you call out to Joel that you’ll be in the yoga room. You spend the down time arranging the yoga mats into two separate mattresses. Joel’s feet will hang off a bit, but you imagine it’ll be better than sleeping on the floor.

Footsteps scrape from the doorway, and your head snaps up.

Joel Miller cleans up nice, it seems. He’s kept his boots, but apart from that, looks like a completely different person; his jeans now hug his hips tighter, his raggedy tee from earlier has been replaced with a form-fitting ribbed tank top. Any traces of mud, sweat, or gunk have been washed off his skin and down the drain. His hair hangs in wet stripes, sticking to his crinkled forehead.

You haven’t realized you’ve zone out until he’s waving a calloused hand in front of your face. “Hey, peach, anyone home?”

You clear your throat and replace it with a scowl. “Don’t call me that.” It’s deflection, and you know it. You think he knows it, too.

He gives you a funny look. “Uh huh,” he says. He taps his fingers along his hip bone. “Well, what the fuck are ya doin’?”

You furrow your brows at him. “Setting up camp…?”

“This is a shit camp to set up,” he says. “Stalkers in the parking garage, city I ain’t ever been in before? No, we need a vantage point.”

“And I assume you have one in mind?” you ask.

“Yeah, I do. ‘S a hotel, ‘lil further into town. Got three floors, we probably can block the stairwell from the inside to keep any raiders out.”

You nod and heft your backpack over your shoulder. It’s bulging from the extra clothes you’d stuffed into the bottom, and your arms are sore from the wrangling you’d given it after the collar of one of your new shirts jammed the zipper.

Joel turns to stand guard at the door while you collect your stuff. You can’t seem to focus much on that, though, not with his ass practically at your eye level. The tighter denim definitely does him favors. You swallow the newfound lump in your throat and stuff your water flash into the side of your pack.

It has to be the lack of human connection. It’s been two weeks since you’ve seen anyone other than your captors, and the majority of this week since you’ve seen anyone other than Joel. Joel, who with every word, breath, movement, flinch, gets a rise out of you. Joel, who stirs the pot with you at every chance he gets. Joel, who almost certainly looks at you and sees a reflection of your father whom he hates.

He’d said so, early on.

This isn’t only one-sided. It’s a living, breathing disaster.

“‘S a hotel’ my ass, Joel, this place looks like a loaf of moldy bread.”

Joel insists on staying on the third floor. Says that the second floor is ‘too low’ and that being on the third floor poses a good choke point for any raiders or infected who might stumble upon your camp. He wants to ‘bottleneck’ any intruders, whatever the fuck that means.

The issue with the third floor? There’s mold. Everywhere. In the days after the outbreak, a leak must’ve happened somewhere in the pipes that bled through the ceiling and all over the top floor. None of the rooms you’ve checked have been left unscathed so far. It’s embedded into the rugs, the walls, the ceiling, all of it. At least it’s a good deterrent for the people that pass through. The infected, however? You have a feeling they’d be just at home.

“Would you shut the fuck up?” he says through his teeth. He pinches his nose bridge – he does that a lot, or maybe you just stress him out a lot – and glares at you.

“No, Joel. I’m fucking exhausted,” you hiss. “I’ve been roughing it with you all week, all you do is give me shit. The only thing this voyage of ours has taught me is that my dad has perfectly ample reason to hate your guts.” You’re closer to him now, knocking him back with your fist to your chest.

“Quit bein’ cute,” he scowls. “I’m the only reason your ass isn’t eyeball-deep in quicksand.”

“Yeah, and you’d be stalker food without me. So I guess we’re even, aren’t we, Joel?” You shove past him. “I’m just a way for you to pay off your stupid ‘debts’ anyway,” you mutter under your breath. He wasn’t protecting you, pulling you out of that damn pit. He was saving his own skin.

The hotel room door at the end of the hallway is slightly ajar. You lift your knife just in case, and step inside.

It’s lacking the mold that the rest of the rooms have. People have definitely stayed in here before, what with the rumpled blankets left on the bed and a flashlight situated upright on the dresser. The thick layer of dust on the flashlight tells you that they never came back.

The room itself is satisfactory enough. Beige, almost green walls, close in at all sides. A cloudy mirror is hung by the window. Moonlight stipples the room. There’s a busted, corded phone on the nightstand that’s propped up on a Bible, a shattered nightlight, and a small table. You toss your pack onto the quilted bedspread and collapse onto the mattress. For an old, creaking thing with a busted spring or two, it’s still the most comfortable thing you think you’ve ever felt in your life. You sigh in relief and nuzzle into the pillow.

Joel clears his throat from the doorway.

“Find your own room, dipshit,” you say, nudging your pack off your bed with your knee. It thunks against the floor.

“I don’t think so.” He crosses his arms.

“I’m not sharing with you. You snore.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You do.”

You don’t have to look up to know he’s doing that thing where he pinches his nose bridge again. “You’re a fuckin’ piece ‘a work, kid, you know that?” You hear his pack drop against the ground. He drags a chair across the room and you cringe at how it squeals against the floor until he jams it under the doorknob. Then, the mattress dips.

You look at him sideways. “Get off my bed.”

“‘Your’ bed? You just discovered it two seconds ago.”

“Finders keepers.”

“Well I’m takin’ it from you. Losers weepers.”

You grit your teeth so hard you hear the bone scraping bone in your ears.

“That’s now how this works–”

“We’re even now. You don’t wanna owe me one, and I sure as hell don’t wanna owe you one. So roll your ass over, act like an adult, and go to bed.”

You grouse under your breath, but with Joel, you have to pick and choose your battles. So you roll back over and wiggle yourself under the quilt, tucking your face into the musty pillow underneath you.

You sit in silence for a couple of minutes, staring at how the moon spills milky light along the alabaster ceiling. Then, you roll over again, stretching out the knicks in your back. Despite being the comfiest you’ve been in days, you’re feeling restless. You know Joel wouldn’t hurt you in any substantial way – you’re a bargaining chip to him. Nothing less, and certainly not anything more.

In spite of that, you find yourself drifting off with your face to him.

When Joel first wakes up, he thinks a clicker’s gnawing at his leg

Blinking the crust from his eyes, he realizes nothing’s gnawing on him at all.

Rather, it’s you.

In your sleep, you’ve thrown your leg over his thigh. Your crotch is angled up against the bulk of his leg, a furnace that sears him through his jeans. Your head has dipped, forehead overheated and angled against the crux of his neck. If it were just that, he’d roll you over (maybe hard enough for you to crash on the floor) and hog the blankets for himself.

But you’re thrusting your fucking hips into him, letting out sleepy little whimpers while you fuck yourself on his leg. That explains why you’ve been acting dumber than a box of rocks. He oughta tan your hide for this. Bitching at him all week and really, you just need to get dicked down. Ironic, ain’t it.

He should still shove you off the bed. Call you a whore and leave you to rub your pussy raw in the bathroom instead of on his leg.

You give a particularly hard thrust, a keening little sound catching in the netting of your teeth. He swears you’re soaking through the denim.

He bites his tongue. The moonlight accentuates your closed eyes, your lashes fan out across your cheeks, there’s a cute little pinch in your lips as you unwittingly try to muffle the sounds coming out of you.

He can’t help himself. He raises his knuckles to your cheek and taps, taps, taps at the bone until your eyes startle open.

When you first wake up, you think you’re dying.

There’s a shortness of breath in your lungs. You feel like you’re being burned alive, your skin hot to the touch. You’re mummified in the crusty, flaky hotel sheets. Each intake of breath is musty and clings to your nostrils. You’re throbbing. Between the legs and elsewhere. Confusion puckers your brows. There’s slick between your legs — and Joel’s leg between your legs.

You tear away from him, making a disgruntled noise as the sheets tangle around your legs. His hand is raised to your face. There’s a moment where all you register is the judgmental squint in his dark eyes.

“What the fuck– you pervert,” you hiss, slapping him across the chest. A queasiness squiggles in your stomach as you inch your way back.

“Oh, no, peach. That was all you,” he drawls. He wraps his thick hand around your hipbone and pulls you back. You kick him in the shin, but there’s no real force behind it.

“Y-you’re lying,” you snarl. But a brief look at his lap tells you he’s not. He’s barely touting a semi, yet you’ve got the entire Mississippi River in your YMCA-issued panties.

Joel shakes his head at you. “‘S why you been actin’ up, you little shit? Just needed to get fucked?” He grips your hip so hard that it stings and hauls you against him. You tell yourself that the moan you let out is more of a hiss.

“I don’t– you’re making shit up, old man,” you say, squirming in his grip. You can’t help the way your hips sway at the tease of friction his knee gives you. You feel lightheaded, a freshly kindled bonfire.

“Am I?” Another squeeze to your hip. “Don’t look like it.” He notches his knee tighter against your swollen cunt, and your head dips forward as you bite into your lower lip. “Look’s like I’ve got a ‘lil slut more worked up than a hornets’ nest that spent all night rubbing her needy fuckin’ pussy on my leg.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and whine.

“Jus’ say the word, peach. I’ll do ya real good. Make that ache go away.” He rubs his thumb in a circle along your skin. The calloused pad of his thumb slips underneath the hem of your tank top, a lit match dragging along your skin.

“I don’t think you have it in you, Miller,” you say. But your voice gives you away. It’s breathy, coarsened by your sleep-stained, lust-stained rasp.

“Yeah? Well I didn’t think you had it in you to be humpin’ this ‘old man’s’ leg, but ya learn something new everyday.” He doesn’t grind his knee into your cunt — more so wedges it up. Pain blurs a watercolor line with pleasure as your back arches. His hand drifts from your midriff to your thigh, arm hooking around it so he can heft you up against his thigh proper. You grunt as you end up chest to chest with him. Your hips rock into his, guided by the North Star of his hands clutching at your hips. “Can feel ya,” he says. “Drippin’ all over me.”

You grind your teeth, digging your fingers into his shoulders. He groans as your nails claw at the skin there. “Shut the fuck up so I can pretend you’re someone else.”

He chuckles. “You can play pretend all you want, but I’m the one you’re soaking, ain’t I?”

You make an aggravated sound. Your left hand drags down his arm, leaving angry red tracks in their wake. Before he can gripe about it, you slap your right hand over his mouth. His eyes flare. Eye for an eye, his teeth sink into the flesh of your palm. You hiss at the sting. It only makes you pump your hips against him faster. The friction of your shorts and panties against the bulk of his leg and the wrinkle of his denim jeans makes your clit twitch against him.

Your flesh stretches as you tug it from his teeth. Your hand plants itself in his hair instead, dragging his head to the side. His eyes flutter, lidded and dark. “Don’t act like you don’t damn near cream yourself when I talk to you like this. You like being told what a nasty. Fuckin’. Slut. You are. Don’t look at me like that. You are. Been cruisin’ for a bruisin’ this whole time — just didn’t know you were after a pussy beating instead of a real one.”

Your eyes roll back. Your hips roll more languidly, only jerking when Joel gives a particularly brutal tug at your waist. You let out a pathetic moan into his neck. You nip at the skin there, tongue laving over the scars and blemishes he’s collected over the years. He reaches down and grabs a handful of your ass, groaning. “Too pretty to be actin’ a fool, baby.”

You dig your teeth into his neck, hard enough to leave cavernous bite marks in your wake. Your tongue digs through the craters your teeth left behind, saliva pulling from your lips to his skin. He smacks your ass hard enough for your hips to jerk, and you almost glare at him as you separate from your throat. Instead, your eyes squeeze shut.

“Don’t wanna look at me, do ya peach? Mmmm, well thas’ okay.” He fists his hand in the roots of your hair and tugs your head to the side. You hear Joel groping at the nightstand in the dark, and then the flashlight ticks on.

Your eyes blink open to yourself reflected in desilvered glass. Mirror rot surrounds your luminescent face, but most of all, you can see your hips and how they rock shallowly into Joel’s leg. “Watch yourself fuckin’ yourself stupid on my leg,” he croons in your ear. When you go still, his thumbs press hard into your skin. You stare at him. “You already fucked yourself stupid or somethin’? ‘S a simple instruction, sweet cheeks.”

“That’s dumb, Joel–” you sneer, going to look away.

He jerks your head back to where he had it and rocks his leg into your clit. You watch your face contort around a ragged moan. Pleasure thrashes through your system. “C’mon, you’re a dirty girl. Watch how pathetic you look while you get yourself off. Pretend I’m your pillow if you have to, but it ain’t gonna change how I’m the one gettin’ you off like this.”

Your thighs clamp around his. He smirks at you in the mirror. Your knee grazes his bulge, and a breathy moan loosens from his lips. “Two way street, Miller,” you say. But you’re weak — and so, so wet.

You give your hips a languid roll, watching yourself in the mirror. You’re a mess, mouth parted, eyes lidded, skin slick with sweat. Your hips shudder and start against him as you start to properly buck yourself against the meat of his thigh. With the shelves of your teeth, you try to smother the depraved noises coming out of you. Joel rolls his eyes.

“Gonna wake the fuckin’ dead with all that whining of yours.” Mid-moan, Joel shoves two fingers into your mouth and pries your jaw open. His fingers are bulky and ridged with callouses against your tongue. His thumb presses a dent into your jaw. “‘S okay, baby. I like ‘em loud.”

“I like you shutting the fuck up,” you say around a mouthful of his knuckles. You can’t help it. You bite at his fingers, not hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough to sting. He hisses and presses down on your tongue. You make a sputtering noise.

“You were sayin’?” he asks, tensing his thigh. You whimper against his fingertips. He tightens his grip on your hair, and in the mirror, you see yourself bared raw for him to see in all ways but the physical. You rut into his leg with increasing need.

“Mmmph, Joel–” you say around his fingers.

“Oh, now you’re moaning my name? What was it I said? Cruisin’ for a bruisin’, peach.”

Wetness leaks down the insides of your thighs. Your swollen clit hitches on a wrinkle in his jeans. You’re shaking, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around him. Your fingers grapple for purchase and find some anchored in his hair, tugging wildly. You eye yourself in that damn mirror, the way your chest is slotted against his, how your hips pitch into his over and over again in your pursuit of release.

“Ask for it, baby.” Joel grinds his leg up into your cunt. “You wanna come on me, you gotta ask for it.”

You shake your head wildly. You aren’t a beggar — especially not for Joel Miller. You’d rather throw yourself back into quicksand. Jump in front of a clicker. Step on an alligator.

Joel pouts mockingly at you. “Stubborn for a slut who’s willin’ to spread it open all hours ‘a the day.” You rub your knee into his bulge, tenting his jeans, in hopes that it’ll be a suitable distraction. He groans, knee jerking. His thigh rams against you, and your back arches. You see your brows pucker in your reflection, your hips undulating against him.

“F-fuck,” you whine out, bouncing against him.

“You wanna come, don’t you, peach?” You nod frantically. “Wanna soak me, huh?” At that, you grit your teeth and snarl at him. You do you do you do. But you don’t want to admit it.

You squirm on his leg, desperately rocking into him. You dig your feet into the creaking mattress, fisting your hands into the fabric of his shirt. Tremors wrack your body as you work yourself on him. Your cunt flutters, and you almost taste your orgasm.

Joel tosses you off of him.

“You son of a–” you shriek, thrashing and out of breath. Your clit throbs and your hole twitches at the stolen promise of release. You bounce on the mattress, sprawled on your back and twitching.

“I told ya,” he says. “Gotta ask for it.”

“I’m not asking you for shit, asshole–”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll change your tune when I stuff your right full.” He grabs you by the back of your shirt and coaxes you into spinning around. He yanks you onto all fours, forehead meeting the mattress.

You back your hips up as he reaches around your shorts for the button. The zipper squeals as it comes down and he shuffles them down your legs. He nudges your knees apart. You can feel his bulge, insistent and pressed against the back of your thigh. He grips the inside of your thigh, fingers sliding through the slick that’s there.

“Shit, baby,” he groans. “No wonder you were humpin’ me. Just needing someone to take away that ache, don’t you? Jus’ a horny girl wanting to go cock dumb.” His fingers graze over your clit, barely even a brush, and you let out a mangled sound into the comforter. “See? So desperate and sensitive. You’re cute when you’re not a pain in the ass.”

“That makes one of us,” you say.

Joel snorts. “She’s got jokes.” He rubs a circle into your clit, and then another, and all you can do is rock your hips into his hand. Impatient, you brace yourself on your elbow so you can reach behind him and fumble with his belt buckle. Joel laughs under his breath, working at the zipper while you undo the buckle. It chimes as his belt falls loose and his pants slump on his hips. You work the button open.

You wriggle your hand into his briefs and pull him out, giving him a series of quick pumps. Joel grunts. “Just like that, peach. Fuck, yeah, you know what you’re doin’.”

He teases the tips of his fingers at your entrance. Razor sharp want slices up the insides of your warm thighs as you clench and drip more of your wetness along his hand. “I’ll throw you a bone,” Joel says. Then, with no warning, he slips a finger into your warmth and curls it just right. You claw against the sheets, whimpering.

“Nasty thing.” He hooks his finger and you fully mewl. Heat rushes into your cheeks. “Barely gotta do anythin’ to get you writhing and wanting.”

Warm tears brim at your eyes from the heady, deadly mix of arousal and hatred. Your cunt tightens around his finger, and without warning, he pushes another one in, twisting and hooking them brutally inside of you.

Your fingers fist in the sheets, temple pressed into the mattress. You can see the cocksure look on his face in the mirror, the way his forearm flexes with each thrust into you. “Fuck me already,” you spit. You know it’ll hurt if he fucks you without really preparing you. You want it to hurt. You want it to ache like the tread of his boot stamped on your chest. You want it to sting and simmer like the cuts that the wetlands left in a collage across your arms and legs. You want him to split you open and leave you flayed by your own pleasure.

“Alright, alright,” he says as he pulls his fingers out of you. He gives your clit a light slap that makes you squeal. You almost black out when you see him bring his slick-stained fingers to his mouth and suck. “Yeah, taste as sweet as a peach, dontcha sugar? Such a tasty little cunt for such a smart-mouthed brat.”

You could cry with how bad you want hi— no, his cock.

“Gonna hurt, baby. But you want it to, don’t you? Wanna feel me all up in here.” He roams his free hand across your stomach, then back around to your ass where he tugs you back. There’s the smack of flesh as your hips meet each other, the whimper between your netted teeth as he nestles his cock between your slippery folds. You nod, head slinging forward. “Don’t gotta tell me. I know ya do. Girl like you, always such a smartass. Yeah, you want it rough.” His voice is gruff, lust-addled. “Act stupid all you want, peach. I got you all figured out.”

He slots his head against your hole and you let out a strangled noise into the mattress. Your vision swims as he pushes into you, thumbs dug into your ass cheeks so he can watch how you take him. You mewl, back arching into and away from him at the same time. Your body can’t decide where to go. If it wants to be further, or as close as possible to him. Joal groans as he sinks into you.

“Tight as a fuckin’ hose pipe, peach,” he says. He reaches around to give your flick your clit — a move that makes your entire body spasm.

“So about as small as your dick, then?” It’s bullshit — you know it, and he knows it. He’s not even fully inside of you, but the difference is startling. He’s stuffing you to the brim, leaving you to scrabble and claw against the sheets.

He slams into you, a blatant disregard of your comfort. You feel his balls smack against your clit, and hear the same thigh you’d been humping slot against your own. A ragged cry rips from your throat. “Joel,” you whimper, hips trying to writhe against the bed. “Joel, fuck—”

“Feels pretty big now, don’t it?” You whine, petulant, but it breaks off into a moan as he pulls back and then punches back into you.

All you can do is take it, take it, take it as he bashes your swollen cunt with his fat cock. You gasp raggedly, each snap of his hip bringing pleasure-pain tears to your eyes. Joel’s nails dig into the meat of your ass and yank you back on him. The sting is renewed, then, as he props his leg up on the bed and pounds into you. You whimper, helpless to his whims.

Between one thrust and the next, the bite in your cunt turns into a thrum of pleasure. A persistent swarm of heat and your own slick leaking down his cock. “Like I said,” Joel grunts as he fucks you. “A nasty fuckin’ slut with a sloppy ‘lil cunt.”

You whine, squeezing around him. Your head spins. “Fuck,” he spits.

“Joel, please, please, ple–”

“Quit beggin’, it ain’t ladylike.” You prop yourself up on your elbow and reach behind him, tugging his wrist away from your ass so you can slip his hand between your thighs. His pistoning into you falters. “What’d I say?” Joel grunts. His knees adjust over the backs of your calves to hold you down.

“Keep touching me,” you whine. “Please, you asked me to ask for it, so I’m fucking asking for it.”

“Told you to ask permission, not cry at me like a kicked puppy,” he says. “I call the shots here. Like it or not.” He goes to yank his hand away from your clit, but you yank at his knuckle.

Joel scowls, and so fast you might get vertigo, his other arm’s bicep locks around your neck and heaves you back against his chest. You sputter, drool pooling in your mouth. Your hands briefly tug at his arm, but fall limp when he says, “Oh, shut the fuck up, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Gotta keep you on your toes, peach.”

You arguably shouldn’t. But you trust him. Enough to keep you alive, at least.

With another thrust into the warm vise of your cunt, your body’s running hotter than an engine and twice as fast. He squeezes tight enough that your air is in short supply, and with it, everything is amplified. Pleasure crinkles through your body like crumpled aluminum foil, serrated and clinging to you. The crook of his elbow is warm, and you can’t help your head lolling back to give him a look that’s purely salacious. He tips his head down at you and smirks.

“Yeah, that’s my hungry little cockwhore,” he says. With his free hand, he tugs your hair. You seize around him, struggling for what to hang onto. You let out a rasping, strangled moan. With your head tipped back, you can see the tilt to his lips as he moans, feel his scruff scraping at your forehead. “Takin’ it like you were made for it. Shit.”

Joel moans as you clamp down around him again.

Tears might be sliding down your cheeks – you don’t know. You’re too trapped in this, in this moment, in the feeling of his cock slamming into your throbbing, aching cunt. “Mmph,” you whine low in your throat as he fucks up into you. He’s damn near bruising your cervix. Each thrust makes your cunt flitter around him.

“You look good like this,” Joel grunts against your ear, using the leverage of his propped-up leg to bounce you on his cock. “All quiet ‘n sweet ‘n whorish. Goddamn, never thought a slut could feel this fuckin’ tight.”

Your eyes slip shut, vision spotting behind your eyelids. He keeps forcing himself into you. Making room. Making a mark that you’ll never forget he carved into you.

Your body is limp as he gets himself off, his hand moving from your hair. He gropes at your tits, flicking your nipple in a way that draws a sloping moan out of you. He slides it down your side, each callous bumping against your skin until he reaches your clit. You nod wildly, and he chuckles into the shell of your ear. “You think you’ve earned it? All you’ve been doing is whinin’ like a little bitch, baby.” He taps his fingers against your clit, once, twice, mounting the tautness of the tension drawn tight like elastic through your body. You gasp down air as he ever so slightly loosens his grip around your neck. He keeps thrusting into you, jerking tiny moans out of you as he does.

Your legs tremble. Your brain feels like mush. You wring his cock with each strain of your pussy. “I don’t want you,” you gasp out between thrusts. “I want you for what you can — fuck — give me. So I guess… that makes… us even. Doesn’t it?” Joel’s finger stills where it hovers over your clit, and you almost don’t notice the falter in his hips with how subtle it is.

“Yeah,” Joel pants. “Guess it does, peach.”

He presses his thumb down on your clit and the whole world makes sense.

You cry out as your juices soak his cock, dripping down his balls and thighs. “Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel,” you chant in between moans. He’s holding you up now by the underside of one of your arms, his fingers toying with your nipples. Each touch sends laser hot electricity between your legs.

He slams up into you again and you shriek. “Fuck, you’re a mess,” Joel says. “All stuffed full ‘a me… yeah, that’s how you’re s’posed to be. Sprayin’ your pussy juices all over me while I ram my cock into this drippy little hole.”

You whine, clit twitching against his finger. Tears burn at the edges of your eyes like fire on parchment. “I wanna come,” you whisper, voice tinged with need. “Please, Joel. I–”

“Who do you want to make you come?” he asks as he rolls his hips up into you. An undulating pace that makes you want to scream.

The curdling pleasure in your stomach brims, stews, steeps. You’re drowning in it, in the fire lashing through your body. Fire that he lit and stoked and now, only he can put out. “You, Joel!” you cry out. “You! I want you to make me come, please, I need it, I want t-”

“I got you, peach,” he says. He mashes the pad of his thumb against your swollen nub, rubbing circles, circles, circles. You scream this time, head slumping against him. “Throbbin’ for it,” he growls out. “All swollen and whinin’ like you’re in heat. You needed this. Needed me.”

“I needed you,” you nod, exhaling. You think you’d agree to anything he said right now. “Fuck,” you wail. Your hands anchor themselves on his forearm.

“Don’t fight it, baby, don’t fight it,” he coos. Your nails scratch angry red tracks down his burly arms. “Come on me, see if it gives you an attitude adjustment.”

To your chagrin, that does it.

Your orgasm shatters you. You’re fragile as it tears through your body, tying knots around your racing heart and making your legs quiver. You feel yourself gush around Joel’s cock, gasping for air as your lungs empty. Your cunt flutters around him as pleasured tears spill from the corners of your eyes. Everything’s hot and melting, your arousal dripping out of you in droves. Joel rubs at your clit through it, coaxing in your ear, “That’s it, theeeeere it is. Shit, baby, I’m comin’— squeezin’ me so damn good—”

Joel twitches inside of you, and you whine at his absence when he pulls out just in time. With a throaty, reverberating groan, he sprays the small of your back with his cum. You gasp as it splashes against you, your chest heaving against his hand.

You sit in the silence, high off of the come down, panting in delirium.

Joel clears his throat. “You alright, peach?”

“You don’t have to pretend to like me now that we’ve had sex, Joel,” you say. “I get it. We fucked. We got it out of our systems. Hooray. Do you want me to pop some confetti poppers?”

“I was being courteous, goddamn,” he grunts as he stands up. You watch as he tugs his jeans back up. “Clearly ain’t nobody ever treated you gentlemanly before.”

“Says the man who got off on choking me out.”

He shoots back, “The feeling was mutual, if I remember five minutes ago correctly. I ain’t that old.” He buckles his belt up. As he redresses, you toss your own shorts off to the side. He’s already been in your whole pussy — you’d rather not sleep in the denim shorts.

When you’re done, you give him a look.

He pinches his nose bridge and sighs through his teeth. “We oughta hit the hay. Long day ahead. And you should be too exhausted by now to be wakin’ me up again.”

You clench your fists at your side. “Fine.”

You reach for his flashlight and turn it off.

Reunion Tower is the first building you see.

Dallas. Home sweet home, for better or worse.

The skyline slowly eases up and out of the treeline as you and Joel meander up the car-cluttered I-20. Remnants from a life that’s long gone, all but skeletons with the organs of another time.

You and Joel have scarcely talked. Mostly, it’s just him pointing out directions. But he does other things. He helps you through wreckage or rubble instead of leaving you to muscle through on your own. He gives you part of his rations. He tosses you a magazine he finds in a store. He keeps watch.

You had meant what you said. You fucked. That was that. He was still the man your father told ghost stories about. The thoughtless killer. The unforgiving bullet to a skull. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of peoples’ deliverance to the afterlife. The man who’d betrayed your father all those years ago, a story of which you only know the vague specifics of.

Maybe you’ll ask him while he’s on bedrest from that bullet wound. (Or maybe you’ll just ask him. He’s not the sort of man to stay down for long.)

Regardless, as you two cross the exit a couple blocks from your dad’s base, you ask him, “Do you think he sent people after me?”

“Maybe,” Joel says. “Probably went up to Oklahoma instead. Louisiana ain’t famous for bein’ easy hikin’ material. Shocker that them Cockroaches brought you all the way out there.”

You nod and kick a rock with the toe of your shoe. “You think your group’s doing good on their own?”

“Who fuckin’ knows,” Joel says. “Left Tommy in charge of the place, I’ll be lucky if it ain’t burned down by now.”

“Well, you’ve got a whole new world ahead of you. Free of debts and all. Maybe my dad will finally get off your ass. Could skip town, if you wanted.”

Joel’s feet drag on the concrete. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as he scratches the back of his neck. “There were never any debts, peach,” he says.

Your brows furrow as you stop in your tracks. “The fuck do y—”

“Got you of my own volition,” he says. “Your dad and I might be on shit terms, but that don’t mean I don’t care about him. I…” He pauses. “I know what it’s like to lose people.”

“Everyone does,” you say.

“Yeah,” Joel nods. He turns to make eye contact with you. “Everyone does. But I don’t exactly wanna go about losin’ you,” he says.

“That’s a bold claim, Miller,” you say.

“You’re good company. Even if you’re a shitass.” He pats you on the shoulder. His hand slides down your arm to your hand, and he gives it a squeeze before letting it drop. “Now c’mon. Let’s get you home.”

#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #deadfall fic

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pathologicalreid · 4 months ago

Text

prisoner | s.r.

in which you and Spencer conduct a custodial interview with a serial killer - Spencer's first since he was released

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: post prison reid, fwb but also mutual pining, serial killers, prison, panic attack, chiromancy word count: 3.66k a/n: i originally came up with this idea in 2023 😭 😭 it's about time i finished it lol. definitely suffers from exposition overload but i don't caaaaare.

Fourteen times.

You had asked him fourteen times if he thought he was going to be okay doing the custodial interview. No one else was available to do it, but you still had your reservations. Sending Spencer to a prison felt wrong, even if he wasn’t on the inside of the bars anymore.

Without telling him the reason, Emily elected to send you with him to the facility, she said it was because you had never done one before, but you knew it was deeper than that. “How many victims?” You asked, not taking your eyes off the road as you drove to the destination.

“Eight,” Spencer answered, looking through the case file. The killer had asked for the interview, hoping to be transferred to a minimum-security facility. The odds weren’t good, but you needed to oblige the request even if it wouldn’t prove successful.

You hummed, turning down the road, you pulled up to the security station. Presenting your credentials to the guard, he lifted the gate for you, and you found your reserved parking. “Do you want to take the lead?” You asked him, trying to gauge how he was doing.

Nodding, Spencer got out of the SUV. You shut off the engine and followed suit. “Unless it doesn’t seem like he’s responding to me, I’d rather not present him with someone who fits in with his victim pool.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you said sardonically, grabbing your bag from the backseat before locking the car and following Spencer inside.

The two of you went through security, locking up your weapons and going through metal detectors. It wasn’t until you went inside the first gate that you noticed it; Spencer was fiddling with the belt loop of his slacks. “I can feel you staring,” he whispered so only you could hear. You watched his posture relax when the gate buzzed and opened in front of him.

You smiled softly, “I can see you fidgeting,” you responded. At work, the two of you were merely coworkers who knew each other really well, so you couldn’t just reach out and take his hand. Not that you’d want to, in a prison full of serial killers.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, implying that he wasn’t right now. The smile fell off your face as the two of you followed the guard into the warden’s office.

At the sight of you, the warden stood and smiled, “You must be Agents Y/L/N and Reid, thank you for making the trip down here.”

Raising your eyebrows, you reach out your hand for the warden to shake, “He’s Dr. Reid, actually.” You corrected, seeing as Spencer didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Ah, my apologies, Dr. Reid,” he responded kindly, gesturing for the two of you to follow him.

Spencer gently brushed your hand as you followed the warden. It was so subtle that someone else could’ve brushed it off as an accident, but Spencer Reid never did anything without purpose.

“Marshal Lukins is the most prolific killer we’ve had in my time here, we aren’t expecting anything to come of this, but you know as well as I do that we have to humor the psychos,” Warden McCall told you, stopping in front of a gate and calling out for it to be opened.

You raised your eyebrows, deciding against telling the warden that Lukins profiled as a sociopath, not a psychopath. “How’s his behavior been here?”

The warden shrugged, “He won’t be winning any merit badges any time soon, that’s for sure. Spends most of his time in solitary, really.”

“His file said he had gotten into an altercation with another prisoner, what was that about?” Spencer asked.

McCall cleared his throat, “turf war. You know, prison gangs can get rowdy. Especially when they find out the feds are coming.”

You raised your eyebrows, grateful you couldn’t see Spencer’s expression. “Oh, yeah,” he said quietly.

Then you were in front of a serial killer, someone who had been put away years ago, but the way he looked at you sent shivers down your spine. “Marshal Lukins?” You confirmed.

“Why hello, pretty lady,” Lukins responded, rising from the chair. His legs were chained to the ground, but his hands were free.

Behind you, Spencer cleared his throat, “Sit down,” he ordered. Taking a tone of authority that you weren’t sure you’d ever heard from him.

Taking your seat across from Lukins, you looked him in the eyes, “You may call me Agent Y/L/N.”

Your interviewee shrugged, “I’ll call you whatever I want in my mind later.”

Ignoring the hairs that stood up on the back of your neck, you rolled your eyes at the skeevy pervert. “If you want to be transferred, you’re not making a very good first impression,” Spencer intervened, likely aware of your discomfort.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first criminal to make a pass at you, and in your line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last.

“I’m not much worried about first impressions, people usually have a first opinion about me before they even hear my voice,” he responded, leaning back in the chair.

You had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from responding, yeah, that happens when you murder eight women. “What would you rather our opinion of you be? That you’re misunderstood? Did you find god in prison, Marshal?” You asked him.

He leaned over the table ever so slightly, yellowed teeth flashing beneath the fluorescent light that hung above the interrogation table, “Would you like me to show him to you?”

Raising your eyebrows, you maintained a bored disposition while flipping open your files, “No.”

With custodials like this, you weren’t allowed to have photos in your files. Lukins was a sexual sadist, and the profile that Aaron Hotchner had put together was damning, describing the man in front of you to a T. He even got the age correct, right down to the receding hairline. Even though Lukins was in prison, you’d never provide him with visual aids to relive his crimes.

“Why did you request this interview if you weren’t interested in playing nice?” Spencer asked, setting his own files on the table in front of him, but he refrained from opening them. He managed to memorize their contents on the drive from Quantico, enabling him to weaponize his memory.

Lukins put his hands up in mock surrender, “I was hoping they’d send me someone nice to look at, make a good conversation with, and boy am I glad I took that chance.”

Spencer clasped his hands together and set them on the steel table, “Thank you,” he responded, keeping himself stone-faced in the presence of the killer.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the criminal in front of you snapped, jutting his chin in your direction.

Bored, your partner spoke up again, “Yes, you are,” he corrected. You were unable to communicate with Spencer without tipping off Lukins, so you let him continue, trusting that he knew where he was going with this. “In your trial, you said all of your victims were your sheep,” Spencer recalled from the file, “Is that why you shaved their heads before gutting them?”

Lukins scoffed, bored easily within the confines of the interview, “My sheep were my friends, but every sheep needs a wolf. Isn’t that right, Bo Peep?” He asked you, meeting your gaze despite the fact that Spencer all but told him not to engage with you.

You narrowed your gaze at him, tilting your head innocently, “Would you have let me be one of your sheep?”

He gave you a look that made you feel like you needed a shower, “You would’ve been a nice addition, could’ve rounded out my numbers.”

He reached out a hand, trying to take a piece of your hair between his grimy fingers, but you stood up quickly, stepping back from the table and almost tripping over your chair in response.

A few prison guards came in at the sudden movement, and Spencer had a vice-like grip on Lukins’ wrist, keeping him away from you. Tossing his arm back at him, Spencer glared at the killer, “No touching,” he instructed, looking back at you to check-in. He opened the door to the room, ushering you out before looking at the guards, “I want him in cuffs.”

With a hand on the small of your back, Spencer herded you to the private space that the two of you were expected to inhabit for the day. “Hey,” you spoke to him once the door was shut behind you.

Spencer was filled to the brim with nervous energy, shaking out his hands in an attempt to expel his nerves, “We should just go back to Quantico.” He shook his head, brown curls fanning out around his face, “There’s no way he can tell us anything that will get us to endorse his transfer.”

Watching him like this made your chest ache, and you had no idea what to do with that emotion. Your relationship with Spencer was strictly horizontal—usually—and you found yourself floundering when it came to how to act outside of bed. You wanted to take his hand, desperate to run your fingers over his knuckles and find the familiar callus from where his pencil rests on his finger, but you just couldn’t get yourself to reach out.

You hadn’t known Spencer before he was arrested in Mexico, but you made your mark on him without ever letting him lay his eyes on you. You sent letters to him along with the rest of the team, refraining from talking about cases and instead choosing to use your letters as a personal diary, chronicling your first three months with the Behavioral Analysis Unit with your prison pen pal. Periodically, you put money in his commissary account, despite the rest of the team telling you that you shouldn’t feel inclined to.

Pressing your lips into a thin line, your eyes tracked his pacing in the conference room before you started to voice your concern, “We have to go back in, Reid.” You grabbed a water bottle from the counter and twisted the cap off before handing it to him.

He took the water begrudgingly, glaring at you as he did so, “Why do we have to go back in, exactly?” After taking a sip of the water, he handed it to you so you could have some. You could’ve grabbed your own, but surely this was quicker.

“Lukins said I would’ve rounded out his numbers,” you told him, nervously fiddling with the cap of the water bottle as you waited for him to get it.

Spencer adjusted his tie, pulling the silk fabric further from his neck, “Yeah, I heard him.” It bothered him, the slightest implication that you were endangered in that interview room put him on edge, but all you could do was sit down and watch him.

You sighed, “We only have a record of eight victims. We don’t know what he’s rounding to, but that’s at least two more bodies that we don’t know about.” Lukins could be rounding up to ten, which would be the closest option, or you were looking at the possibility of a considerably higher body count. Your fear was that he would use those additional kills as a bartering tool to get a transfer.

He stopped in his tracks while he processed what you were telling him. Spencer turned to you, lips parted before he nodded, eventually agreeing with you even if it pained him to do so. “We should call Emily and let her know what’s going on,” he told you, taking a seat across from you and placing his head in his hands. “I’m gonna step outside for a second,” he said, getting up just as quickly as he took a seat and swinging the door open, leaving you alone in the conference room.

Holding your tongue, you stopped yourself from voicing your approval, even though you did think some fresh air would be good for him. Instead, you watched the door click shut before fishing your phone out of your pocket, tapping on Emily’s contact before bringing the phone to your ear.

“How’s it going?” Emily asked you as soon as she answered, and you couldn’t help but picture your unit chief waiting by her phone, hoping to hear from you or Spencer.

You sighed, inadvertently cluing her into how the custodial interview was going, “We might have a problem,” you told her. Continuing on to explain what had happened between you and Marshal Lukins, all the way up through your discovery that he might have a higher victim count.

Prentiss clicked her tongue on the other end of the line, “What does Spencer think?”

The question didn’t come as a surprise to you, neither did the fact that her inflection told you that she was sneakily trying to ask you how Spencer was. Wiping your free palm along the fabric of your pants, you leaned against the table, “Reid thinks Lukins is out for blood.” You opened your mouth to continue but were interrupted by an alarm being tripped, your head snapped up as lights started to flash on the walls.

“What’s going on?” Emily questioned you over the phone, but you could barely hear her over the blare of the alarm, a low-pitched buzzing sound that made your brain feel like it was vibrating within your skull.

Clambering to your feet, you grabbed your water bottle and walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind you as you looked aimlessly around the prison for someone who could offer you an explanation. “I’ve gotta go,” you blurted into the receiver, stuffing your phone in your pocket and making your way to the front of the prison, ignoring the men who shouted at you from behind bars.

You looked down the walkway, watching as the failsafe on the doors was triggered and they slowly started to shut, triggering you to try and make a run for it. “Y/N,” Spencer called out your name, picking up his own pace from the opposite direction.

It didn’t take you long to realize that you weren’t going to make it, skidding to a halt as the bars clicked shut in front of you. You weren’t scared until you watched Spencer pull at the door, frantically trying to slide it open, “Reid,” you said his name, trying to get his attention. “Reid,” you shouted that time, trying to make sure he heard you over the alarm.

He didn’t pause to look at you, he simply continued to pull at the bars.

“Spence,” you said desperately, and that time his eyes snapped to yours. Wide brown eyes bore into yours as you placed one of your hands on his, both of them encircling the bar. “It’s not going to open,” you reminded him. A fact he was well aware of but didn’t want to acknowledge.

Silently, he leaned back into the wall, sliding down the side of it and looking up at the ceiling, pulling at his tie again, this time taking it all the way off. “It’s a lockdown,” he panted helplessly, “They’re in a lockdown.”

You nodded softly, having drawn that conclusion on your own, “It’s okay,” you told him softly, reaching through the bars and taking one of his hands in yours. “You’re alright, Spence,” you continued, your tone bordering on a coo.

He pulled his knees to his chest and slung his free arm over his legs, hugging himself.

It broke your heart to watch him like this. You pointed in the direction he came from, “Look. Hey, you could be free to leave, I’m the one who’s locked in,” you told him, highlighting the fact that the bars were blocking you, but Spencer could make his way back to the entryway.

“Not helping,” he told you, his voice almost a gasp as he tried to regulate his breathing.

Your shoulder’s slumped forward slightly, “I’m sorry. What can I do?”

Spencer just shook his head, squeezing your hand in response when you started sweeping your thumb over his knuckles. You ignored the buzzing of your phone in your pocket as you watched him, completely focused on making sure he was okay before you did anything else.

With your free hand, you grabbed the water bottle that you took from the conference room and slipped it through the bars. “Here, take this,” you murmured, setting it on the ground next to him when he didn’t take the bottle from you.

He visibly relaxed when the alarm stopped going off, but the lights were still flashing, which offered somewhat of an explanation as to why the door hadn’t opened yet.

You fiddled with his hand, opening up his palm and tracing the lines on his hand with your index finger, “Have you ever had your palm read?” You asked him, twisting your head to get a better look at it.

He looked at you, the panicked look in his eyes had subsided, promptly replaced with incredulity, “When have I ever struck you as the kind of person who would get my palm read?”

Shrugging, you slowly traced his love line, “You like Halloween, I thought maybe you’d let your curiosity get the best of you.” Although you supposed if Spencer really wanted to have his palm read, he’d just do it yourself. “When I was in college, my summer job was reading palms in a booth at an amusement park,” you informed him.

Spencer chuckled at your revelation, and the sound made your heart sing, “That is… oddly endearing.”

Nodding, you looked at his hand again, “Chiromancy says men were born with their left hand, and their right is what they accumulate throughout life,” you told him softly, sliding your other hand through the bar.

“Actually, I was born with both of my hands,” Spencer responded, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You rolled your eyes, studying his left hand intently, “You have water hands,” you said, showing him his own palm as if he’d never seen it before.

Spencer raised his eyebrows at you, “Well, now you’re just making things up,” he openly teased you that time, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

Humming, you furrowed your brows and pointed at his hand, “This is your head line,” you explained. “See how it’s long and straight? It sort of tapers off before the end of your palm—that means you tend to think realistically.”

“I could’ve told you that,” he challenged, but his eyes were following along as you pointed at his palm.

You shook your head and sighed, “Here’s your life line,” you said, pointing to a different line and tracing it with your fingertip. “It’s straight and goes down to the edge of your palm, which means you’re cautious about relationships,” you continued softly, leaning your head against one of the bars of the door.

He was silent after that one, briefly taking his bottom lip between his teeth and looking down at his hand. You could tell that even though he didn’t quite believe what you were saying, he was perfectly fine with humoring you.

“This is your fate line,” you told him, entirely expecting to lose him the moment you began discussing fate. “It’s broken down the middle and curved in different directions, and that means you’re prone to a lot of changes in life. Changes influenced by external forces.”

Gently, Spencer pulled his hand away from yours, flexing his hand before looking down at it, “You’ve officially lost me.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up, “I’m surprised you lasted this long.” Just long enough apparently, the doors buzzed soon after, and you withdrew your hands from the slots as the bars slid into a hole in the wall.

Spencer got up first, dusting off his hands before he extended a hand to help you up. Your hand lingered in his for just a moment too long, the exchange oddly intimate for the two of you before his arms dropped to his side, “Thank you,” he murmured, a shy smile on his face.

Shrugging, you crossed your arms in front of your stomach, “There’s nothing to thank, Reid.”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that it was disappointment that flashed across his face at your reply.

The warden had rather unceremoniously asked the two of you to leave, citing security concerns and letting you know that he’d be in contact with Emily to reschedule. Emily had called you six times during the lockdown, but you’d texted her once everything was clear.

Which left you heading back to the SUV with Spencer, there were prisoners out in the yard, so he walked on the inside, blocking your body from the view of the inmates. “Are you alright?” You asked him, feeling more free to inquire now that you were in the open air.

He nodded, “I’m fine, I just really wasn’t expecting something like that to happen when I asked Emily to send me on this custodial.”

Your footsteps faltered at his words, “You asked to go on this custodial?”

Spencer frowned, “I was on this case originally ten years ago, so I asked Emily to let me go.”

“And she said yes?” You asked incredulously.

Spencer opened the back door for you to place your bag in, “Not initially, but eventually she realized that I’d be her only option if she wanted to get it done today.” He shut the door and shoved his hands in his pockets, “It’s a lot earlier than I thought we’d be getting back, do you want to stop and get lunch on the way back to Quantico?”

Your eyes went wide and you were grateful that he couldn’t see your expression, “Uh, sure. Why not?”

“Perfect,” he said, “Maybe I can get you to tell me why you avoided reading my love line.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #margotober #angstober

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shigarosie · 5 months ago

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I don't want to talk about how long this has been in my drafts but I'm finally biting the bullet and posting it lmao have fun

It's intimidating. Sitting on your knees, it sat right in front of your face. Bigger than any other cock you've had in your mouth. Will it even fit? You look up at Kirishima nervously. He seems confident in your abilities, at least. You start off easy, poking your tongue out to lick at the head.

"Don't be shy, honey," he tells you, gently pushing himself against your lips. A small nudge to coax you along. "Can you suck on it?"

You pucker your lips around him, suckling and looking up to him for approval. He smiles, nodding encouragingly. It's not that you weren't experienced. But were you experienced enough for it to be good? To meet his expectations? The thought made you nervous, but you tried to take him a little deeper.

Another presence suddenly loomed behind you, the third person in the bedroom finally getting himself involved. He stood so close that when you moved your head back so that just Kirishima's tip rested on your tongue, you accidentally bumped into him. It made you jump a little and you tried to tip your head back to look up at him, but Bakugo's palm landed roughly on the top of your head, tilting it back down to focus on what was in front of you.

"Keep sucking," he instructed you.

Following his instructions, you slid your lips back down Kirishima's shaft, making it about a third of the way before you got nervous again and pulled back to just the head.

Bakugo grunted. "You can do better than that, we all know it. Heard you talk a lot of shit over drinks last week about deep throating that loser you went out with- take it deeper."

You took a deep breath, eyes flitting up to Kirishima's.

"It's okay baby, just give it a try. Little bit more at a time," the redhead encourages, brushing your hair back out of your face.

You tried taking him further into your mouth, getting just over halfway. As you withdrew, your head bumped into Bakugo again, standing ever so slightly closer than before so that the contact was unavoidable. He still wore his jeans, but through the fabric you could still feel Bakugo's cock starting to stiffen.

At first you thought you imagined the push against your skull, but the second thrust from behind you was unmistakable. Bakugo pushed your head forward with his hips, making you take Kirishima a little deeper into your mouth.

You squeaked as your cock sucking was guided by a couple experimental thrusts, but Kiri had no reaction other than a happy hum. Was he familiar with this behavior from the blond looming behind you?

Regardless, he seemed to enjoy how he was now reaching down your throat, feeling the warm squeeze around his member.

You gave up all resistance, letting Bakugo's thrusting hips control the pace at which you sucked Kirishima's cock. He pushed you further down his shaft, made you speed up and slow down as he wished. Bakugo was having fun controlling you this way; you could feel him growing harder against the back of your head.

"See," he growls, pushing you closer and closer towards taking it all. "Fucking knew you could take more than that." He shuffles a little closer, giving you less room to pull back and keeping at least halfway down the shaft at all times.

"Can you take it all, baby?" Kirishima asks, stroking your hollowed cheek with his palm. He glances up to his friend. "I wanna see her try."

Bakugo slows his thrusts, focusing on pushing you deeper and deeper. Your eyes watered a little as your throat was further intruded upon, but you didn't want to stop. You whimpered as your nose finally brushed against his closely trimmed pubes, and with a bit more firmness, Bakugo was pushing you all the way.

"Take his cock," he whispers. "Choke on it if you have to, but keep it there."

The gurgling sound as drool spills from the edges of your stretched lips sounds gross to you, but it makes Kirishima moan.

"Good job, pretty girl," he says. "Take my cock so good in that tight throat- we knew you could do it."

Bakugo let's you pull back a few moments later, giving you a few rough pets to the top of your head.

"You really are a cockslut, aren't you?" He barks. "Bet you can't wait to swallow his cum."

He crowds behind you again, denim clad groin setting you back onto a steady pace.

"See how bad she wants it? Look how fast she's going," he grunts to Kirishima, as if he's not the one controlling you. He's no longer experimenting with different paces, keeping you steadily bobbing up and down on Kiri's cock at a speed that makes it difficult not to gag. Bakugo's own cock is hard to ignore, hard and bulging and thick, even with layers between it and your skull. There's a subtle grind to the way he thrusts against you and you know he's getting off just as much as the man in front of you is.

"So fucking good, honey," Kirishima breathes, his head lolling back for a moment before falling back forward to stare at you. "Gonna cum soon- you gonna take it all f'r me?"

"She will," Bakugo says, accented by another forced, deep thrust. "She'll take it all."

You whine loudly, the thick cock in your mouth only able to muffle you so much. You think maybe that's what tips Kirishima over the edge- moments later you feel the thick ropes of cum shooting down your throat and flooding up into your mouth. You gag, bracing your hands on Kiri's thighs as you tried your best to take it all down. Bakugo holds you down as Kirishima's orgasm punches through him, pornographic level moans leaving the red head's lips, but you can still feel him grinding against the back of your head. Bakugo cums soon after Kirishima does. As cum dribbles out of the corners of your mouth, you feel him tensing and twitching behind you, his own moans much more held back but impossible to hide.

Kirishima steps back, his cock flopping out of your mouth and swinging in front of you like a hypnotizing pendulum, and he tries to help you wipe the cum from your lips, chuckling as you grab his wrist and suck his thumb into your mouth.

"Aw, what a sweet girl," he coos.

Bakugo breathes heavily when he, too, steps back from you. You can feel a wet, sticky patch on the back of your head where his cock had been sitting against you.

"Hope that pussy's ready for a reward," Kiri tells you, placing a kiss on your forehead before he starts dragging you up to guide you to the bed. "Katsuki's a bit of a friend with his own mouth."

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greengoblinswifey · 4 months ago

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More than Friends

pairing— brother’s bsf!nicholas chavez x fem!reader

summary— you’ve always had a secret crush on Nicholas, your brother’s best friend and your childhood friend. when he invites you to his show’s premiere, long-buried feelings finally surface, and you face what’s been growing between you all these years.

warnings— friends to lovers, loss of virginity, jealous!nicholas, oral, unprotected sex(don’t let a 🥷🏿 fuck you without one) , fingering, praise kink, fluff, aftercare.

a/n— requests are open <3

You had known Nicholas Chavez for as long as you could remember. He’d been your brother’s best friend since the early days, which naturally made him a big part of your life, too. He was only three years older, but there’d always been a distinct gap, he was your older brother's cool best friend, the one you looked up to, even if you’d never admit it out loud. There was something about him, though, that always lingered in the back of your mind, a pull you couldn't quite name but always felt.

Growing up, you and Nicholas shared a special bond, separate from his friendship with your brother. You’d go out together, always managing to find matching clothes or even wearing identical rings. “Twins,” he’d joke, holding up his hand to show the ring you had given him on his birthday. It was simple and unassuming, but every time you glanced at it, there was an unspoken tension that lay just beneath the surface, neither of you daring to bring it up.

But as the years went by, things changed. Nicholas landed a role on Monsters and Grotesquerie, the TV shows that catapulted him to fame, and it wasn’t long before his life was full of red carpets and late-night shoots. He was often away, and you’d find yourself scrolling through TikTok edits of him when he was too busy to FaceTime. Everyone on social media couldn’t stop talking about how attractive he was, how lucky any girl would be to date him. A knot would twist in your stomach every time you saw those comments, jealousy mixing with a feeling you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge.

Whenever he did have a moment to breathe, he’d reach out, sometimes posting photos of the two of you together on his stories. His fans would flock to your profile, leaving jealous comments or speculating if you were more than just childhood friends. One time, you’d posted a shot of your hand with his, each of you wearing those same rings from years ago. Fans had gone wild, and your brother hadn’t missed it, either, throwing you a suspicious glance when he’d noticed.

One day, he called you out of the blue with a proposition: he wanted you to be his plus-one for the premiere of Monsters. You’d agreed, trying to keep your excitement in check, though a part of you hoped this might finally be the moment when something would shift between you.

The night of the premiere, you could hardly believe it was happening. The cameras flashed as Nicholas introduced you to his co-stars and other industry people, and people couldn’t stop asking if the two of you were together. Each time, though, he’d shake his head with a soft laugh, throwing an arm around your shoulders and saying, “Nah, she’s like my little sister. We grew up together. It’s nothing like that.”

The words cut deeper than you’d expected. It wasn’t until that moment, standing beside him under the bright lights, that you realized you were in love with him. Maybe you had been for a long time.

It hurt, watching him play it off as though your bond meant nothing more than childhood nostalgia, knowing he would never see you the way you wanted him to.

He turned to you at one point, noticing your silence. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve been really quiet tonight.”

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. Just, taking it all in, I guess.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking like he didn’t quite believe you, but he let it go, just pulling you closer for a photo.

At the after-party, you decided to let loose a bit. Nicholas was busy mingling, so when Cooper Koch found you, you didn’t hold back. With a mischievous grin, you allowed yourself to dance, feeling free as you moved with Cooper, who, to your surprise, didn’t seem to mind the attention either. You leaned in, laughing as the music pulsed around you, and let your body fall into rhythm with his.

Suddenly, a firm hand grabbed your arm and pulled you back, breaking the spell. “What the hell was that?” Nicholas’s voice was low, his eyes narrowed as he stared at you. He looked annoyed, even... jealous?

“I was just having fun, Nick. It’s a party,” you said, shrugging nonchalantly, though your heart was racing.

He clenched his jaw, looking away from you, and after a tense silence, muttered, “Whatever.” Then he ignored you for the rest of the night.

In response, you doubled down, laughing a little too loudly with Cooper and reaching for his hand as you leaned against him. You could feel Nicholas’s eyes on you now and then, but he kept his distance.

When the party finally ended, you were a bit tipsy, and walking in heels felt like a challenge. Nicholas was by your side in an instant, his arm slipping under your shoulders. "Come on," he muttered, guiding you out. The car ride back was quiet, filled with tension you could almost taste.

Once you reached his place, he carried you to the guest room, careful but intense, his gaze meeting yours with each step. He laid you down gently on the bed, eyes dark as they flicked from your face to your lips. For a moment, he lingered, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned up and kissed him.

The kiss was electric, and he leaned into it, his hands moving instinctively, pulling you closer. But just as quickly, he pulled away, shaking his head. “I can’t do this. Not with you. I can’t do that to your brother.”

You looked at him, a mix of hurt and defiance swirling in your eyes. Before he could say more, you slipped out of your dress, revealing the delicate lace you wore underneath. His breath hitched, and his eyes traveled over you, unable to tear away. "Damn it," he muttered, running a hand through his hair before lowering himself back down, his lips meeting yours again, more desperate this time.

“Forget everything I said,” he whispered against your skin.

Nicholas's fingers slipped down, finding your pussy wet and eager, his touch precise as he stroked and teased you. He rubbed your clit slowly, staring into your eyes, the moment was intimate and everything you ever dreamed of. His thumb rubbed your clit as he slipped his finger inside you and you felt like the world around you ceased to exist. The pleasure built until you couldn't hold back, your body arching as he pushed you over the edge. You lay there, breathing heavily, and as he leaned back, your words broke through the haze between you.

"Nicholas, I'm a virgin," you confessed softly, your cheeks flushing as his eyes widened.

Nicholas looked down at you, visibly stunned, his voice a little rough. "Wait, you're a virgin? But, what about your exes? I thought—"

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, two boyfriends, but my brother scared them off from anything serious. And, honestly, they just weren’t, the right one." You met his gaze, your hand reaching for his. "But you are, Nicholas. I want this. I want it to be you."

He hesitated, taking in your words, the sincerity in your eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked, his fingers brushing softly against your cheek, still searching for reassurance.

You nodded, your answer clear in the warmth of your expression.

He leaned down, pressing gentle kisses along your body, his touch reverent and careful. As he moved lower, he whispered, “I want to make this good for you.” His mouth pressed against your sensitive clit, eyes never leaving yours as he tasted you slowly, purposefully, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure from you until you finally came, breathless.

You reached out to his clothed cock to help him, but he shook his head, a smile curving his lips. “Tonight’s about you pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice warm and low. “This is your first time, and I want to make sure it’s perfect. Just relax. Let me take care of you.”

The room was quiet, the kind of stillness that carried a weight of its own. The two of you sat close, the low lighting casting soft shadows across his face. Nicholas had been your friend for years, practically family, and yet, right now, that familiar face held a depth you hadn’t seen before.

He brushed his thumb along your cheek, a touch he'd offered countless times in comfort or friendship, but this time, he lingered, his thumb tracing the delicate line of your cheekbone. Your breath caught, the air thickening between you. The words tumbled from his lips, barely above a whisper, as if he feared breaking the fragile tension. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, heart pounding, and took his hand, intertwining your fingers as if grounding yourself in the moment. “I’ve waited so long, Nick.” He swallowed, his gaze steady, the quiet weight of everything unspoken passing between you.

With a hint of humor to ease your nerves, you took in the sight of him, and your eyes widened. “That’s gonna go inside me?” you said, slightly stunned. He chuckled softly, with a smirk that was all confidence and warmth. “It’ll fit. I’ll make it fit.”

He placed your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “Just say the word if it’s too much, and I’ll stop.”

Every step was deliberate, every touch gentle as he moved slowly, his focus entirely on you. He watched your face, the slightest changes in your expression, waiting for any sign of discomfort. “You’re doing so well,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe as your grip tightened around his fingers. Each small movement was slow, careful, his whispered reassurances grounding you.

You gasped, and he immediately stilled, eyes scanning your face. “Everything okay?” His tone was soft, a mixture of concern and patience. A shaky breath left your lips, and you nodded, steadying yourself as his gentle encouragement filled the space between you.

“I’ve always loved you, you know that, right?” you whispered, almost afraid to say the words out loud. He hovered just inches from your face, his lips brushing against yours as he replied with a smile that held years of unspoken emotions. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice soft and warm. “I think I always have too, I was just too scared to admit it.”

Nicholas stayed close, his hand finding yours as he moved slowly, stretching you and practically reaching your cervix before whispering, “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes Nicholas, please, don't stop.”

He chuckled softly, eyes full of adoration as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. “You're taking me so well,” he murmured, his voice warm and encouraging. “I knew you would.” His words and steady movements built you up again until you came all over his thick cock, your body clenching around him as he held you close, grounding you with gentle praise.

“That's it, beautiful, let go for me,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder and neck. When your breathing slowed, he gently flipped you onto your stomach, his touch delicate as he continued, tracing kisses along your shoulders and down your back. “You’re so beautiful, do you know that?” His hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements as you felt the tension building again, his whispered words filling you with warmth and reassurance.

With one final thrust, he groaned, spilling onto your back, then smiled, tracing his fingers along your spine. “You’ve always had the most perfect ass,” he teased, making you laugh as you both caught your breath.

Afterward, he was attentive and gentle, cleaning you up carefully, checking in with soft words and brushing stray hair out of your face. “Are you okay baby? Did I hurt you at all?”

You shook your head, a peaceful smile spreading across your face. “No. You were perfect, Nick.”

He climbed into bed beside you, wrapping you in his arms and pulling you close, pressing gentle kisses along your face, your nose, your eyelids, and murmuring, “You’ve always been mine. I just, didn’t know how to tell you.” His fingers traced patterns along your back as he held you, letting the night settle around you both.

In his embrace, with his whispered reassurances, you felt safe, warm, and exactly where you’d always belonged. He was finally yours.

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lanf1an · 13 days ago

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DREAMS lando norris pt.1 When your childhood bestfriend Flo had convinced you to get the fashion design job at her brother's company Quadrant, it finally paid off when Louis Vuitton was announced as the new sponsor for F1.

pt.2 pt.3 pt.4 pt.5 wordcount: 1378

Flo's voice filled the room as she scrolled through her phone, her excitement palpable.

"I'm telling you, this is perfect for you," Flo said, thrusting her phone in your direction.

You squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of the email she was showing you. "A job at Quadrant? Flo, I’m studying fashion design, not... whatever that is."

Flo looked up, her brows furrowed as if you’d just said something ridiculous. "What do you mean? It can be. Look at Tommy Hilfiger. Or Lewis Hamilton—his fashion work, hosting the Met Gala, working with big brands. F1’s bigger than you think, and it’s not just about cars."

"Haha, Flo, what are you talking about?" you said, shaking your head at the idea. "F1 is not really the place I want to be for my fashion stuff."

You paused, realizing you hadn’t really thought about it like that before. You’d never paid much attention to Formula 1, aside from the occasional updates Flo gave you about Lando. It had been years since you'd spent any real time with him. As kids, you'd catch fleeting glimpses of each other whenever he wasn’t off karting or, later, racing. But you knew Lewis Hamilton. He had enormous influence. He’d collaborated with brands you admired and pushed boundaries in the fashion world.

"Maybe not," Flo said, leaning forward with a knowing grin. "But there could be great opportunities"

"And trust me, Quadrant desperately needs someone like you. You’ve seen their merch, right? It’s..." She continued.

"Basic?" you offered, arching an eyebrow, Flo had already showed you the designs before in an attempt for you to improve them.

"Exactly! They’re looking for someone to revamp their designs. You’re always talking about how things could be better.''

You sipped your coffee, considering her words. It wasn’t your dream job, but the thought of improving a brand and the opportunities that came with it was oddly tempting.

"Fine," you said, setting your mug down. "I’ll think about it."

Flo grinned like she'd won the lottery. "You’ll kill it. Trust me."

The buzz around Quadrant’s new merch started slowly but picked up pace when a few photos of Lando wearing your designs at the paddock made their way online. Suddenly, it wasn’t just fans buying hoodies and tees, people in the fashion and sports world were taking notice, and journalists started to make comparisons you weren’t sure anyone expected.

“Is Lando Norris the next Lewis Hamilton?” one article headline read.

Another went deeper: “From driver to brand icon: How Lando Norris and Quadrant are reshaping athlete influence.”

It had been surreal to watch the shift, you had worked hard. Max had been supportive from the start, seeing the vision. Keegan had actually become a reliable creative partner, having similar styles and taste. Lando had been the same as when you were kids, you had barely seen him, too busy racing, handling his CEO duties from afar.

And now, after months of hard work, it was all leading to something bigger.

The first time at the paddock was overwhelming. The heat, the constant movement, the blur of media, mechanics, and drivers navigating their way through the chaos—it was a world you still didn’t quite belong to. Even though it did bid a uncanny resemblance to the chaos of the fashion world, which intrigued you.

You watched as the photographers snapped pictures of Lando and the team in their latest Quadrant pieces. The collection had taken months to finalize, and the response had been overwhelming—more press than usual, more attention, more recognition.

“You’re the one behind all this, aren’t you?”

You turned at the voice, surprised to find yourself face to face with Lewis Hamilton. He was dressed effortlessly, a silk LV shirt under an unbuttoned suit vest, sunglasses perched on his nose.

You blinked. “I—uh. Sorry?”

Lewis smiled knowingly. “The Quadrant collection. It’s you.”

You hesitated. “I mean… it’s a team effort.”

“Sure,” he said, his grin widening. “But I know talent when I see it.”

Her stomach flipped. Compliments were one thing, but this—coming from him—felt different.

“I’ve been following your work,” Lewis continued, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You’ve got a fresh perspective. Louis Vuitton is partnering with F1. They want to bring in new talent, I tipped you.” Your breath caught. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

You stared at him, waiting for the catch, but there wasn’t one. He was just… offering this. Just like that.

“I—” You glanced over at the Quadrant shoot, where Lando was laughing with the guys, completely unaware of the conversation happening across the paddock. “Thank you so much.”

Lewis smiled. “You’ll be hearing from them soon. Excited to work together.”

And with that, he was gone, disappearing into the paddock like he hadn’t just cracked your entire world open in a two-minute conversation. Flo had turned to be right after all.

Louis Vuitton had officially announced their F1 partnership, and with it, their campaign featuring a select group of drivers. The second she saw Lando’s name on the list, you knew there was no avoiding it. You hadn’t expected it, even though it made sense after Quadrant’s succes and having already worked together. Still, you hadn’t expected to be working with him again, especially not like this. He hadn't shown too much emotion when you left Quadrant, but you knew he wasn't happy about it.

Now, standing in the Louis Vuitton studio, flipping through the fitting schedule, you could feel his glare when the door opened before looking up.

"From Quadrant to Louis V," Lando mused, his voice light but edged with something unreadable. "Look at us."

You finally glanced up. He walked around inspecting the room, sunglasses perched on his head, fingers brushing against the fabric of a tailored jacket. His expression was casual, like he wasn’t really thinking about what he’d just said. Like it was just an observation.

You gave a small shrug. "Who would've thought."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he turned toward the fitting area. "Thought you could get rid of me, huh?"

“Alright, first look,” you said, flipping through your notes without looking up.

Lando sighed dramatically. “Do I really need to try all of these on?”

You shot him a look. “Unless you suddenly developed a sense of style overnight, yes.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, grabbing the set from the rack.

You turned you back as he changed, focusing on adjusting the pins on one of the outfits. It wasn’t the first time you’d been in a fitting with Lando, but this was different. The Louis Vuitton studio was quieter than Quadrant HQ, the lighting softer, there was no Max, no Keegan, no distractions.

“Okay,” Lando said, stepping forward. “What do you think?”

You turned—and fuck.

The suit fit him unfairly well. The sharp tailoring, the way the fabric moved with him—it was annoyingly perfect. Which meant you had done a great job.

You forced yourself to be professional, stepping closer to fix his collar. “Hold still.”

Lando stayed quiet as you smoothed the lapels, fingers brushing against his chest. The silence felt thick, aware of how close you were.

“Looks good,” you said, voice even. “But the pants need adjusting.”

You knelt down, reaching for the hem.

You could feel his eyes on you as you adjusted the fabric, fingers skimming his ankle, making sure the length was right. You refused to look up, but you could hear him breathe in, then exhale slowly.

“Comfortable down there?” he asked, voice casual, but you could hear his smirk.

You rolled your eyes, unable for him to see. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Lando huffed out a laugh, but when you did glance up—just for a second—his jaw was tight. Like he was the one struggling.

You stood, smoothing out the jacket. “Alright,” you said, stepping back, regaining distance. “I think we’re done here.”

Lando tilted his head. “You sure? Thought you liked bossing me around now.”

You smirked. “If I really wanted to boss you around, Lando, you’d know it.”

He blinked, caught off guard for just a second.

Then he grinned. “Noted.”

WN: new storyyyy wooooop, literally already had this fashion job at quadrant in my drafts and then the LV partnership was announced i had to implement that and post it

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theonottsbxtch · 2 months ago

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FOREVER AND ALWAYS | MV1

an: military au go reeeee, my friend is currently talking to a marine so it makes this funnier, anyway this is a request and be prepared for how much im about to post, im posting all my wips so i can start a new

wc: 3.8k

THE LAST MORNING MAX spent in town was unseasonably warm for late September, but she still wore his old hoodie over her dress. It swallowed her, the cuffs rolled up clumsily so her fingers could peek through. Max liked seeing her in it; she made it look softer than it ever felt to him. They sat on the hood of his truck by the edge of the lake, the same spot they always went to when something big needed to be said.

“You’ll write, right?” she asked, her voice steadier than the fingers twisting the hem of his sleeve.

Max didn’t answer right away. He hated promises. He hated making them and breaking them even more. But he wasn’t going to break this one. “Every day,” he said, his voice a little rough. “I mean it, okay? You’ll be sick of me by Christmas.”

“I could never,” she said, and the words felt too small for how much she meant them.

The sun caught in her hair, and Max felt the ache of leaving settle deeper in his chest. He should’ve been relieved—one last night in this town, in that house—but all he could think about was how hard it was going to be to drive away from her in the morning.

“I’ll write back every time,” she promised, her eyes locked on his like she could hold him here through sheer willpower. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“I won’t.”

It was the closest thing to forever they’d ever said to each other, and Max wanted to believe it could be.

He didn’t sleep much that night. Max stayed parked outside her house long after walking her to the door, watching the glow of her bedroom light until it finally went dark. He told himself he’d leave when she was asleep, but his hands stayed glued to the steering wheel, his heart beating louder than the crickets outside.

Morning came too fast. He stood on her porch in his pressed uniform, his duffel slung over his shoulder. Her dad answered the door, grunted something about “too early for this,” and disappeared back into the house. Max heard her footsteps upstairs, quick and light, and then there she was, rushing down to meet him, already wearing a smile he didn’t deserve.

“You’re really doing it,” she said, her voice tight with something caught between pride and fear.

“I am.”

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing the crisp fabric of his sleeve. “You’re going to be okay, right?”

Max didn’t know how to answer that. He could handle the yelling, the rules, the miles of running. But leaving her? That felt like the first real battle.

“You’re the toughest guy I know,” she added softly, filling the silence.

“Tough’s not the same as okay,” he admitted, his voice low.

“Then I’ll be okay for both of us.”

The words hit him harder than he expected, wrapping around something fragile in his chest. He leaned down and kissed her, quick and desperate, like he could steal a little of her steadiness to take with him.

When they finally broke apart, she laughed softly, her forehead still resting against his. “You’re coming back, Max. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” he said.

He didn’t know if it was a promise or a prayer.

The bus station was quiet that early in the morning, just a couple of strangers milling around with their heads down and coffee in hand. Max stood off to the side with her, his duffel at his feet and his hands shoved deep into his pockets to keep from grabbing hers. She said she couldn’t come, but watching him walk back to the truck made her call in sick for work and follow him in.

“You should go sit,” he said, nodding toward the bench near the car park.

She gave him a look, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “I’m not leaving this spot until you’re on that bus.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. Of course she wouldn’t. She was stubborn like that, always had been. He loved her for it, even if it made saying goodbye harder.

The bus pulled up, its brakes hissing as it rolled to a stop. Max felt the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders, heavier than the duffel. This was it.

He turned to her, unsure of what to say. Every word that came to mind felt too big or too small.

“Write me first,” she said, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft, but her eyes burned with determination. “As soon as you get there. Don’t wait for me to start.”

“I will,” he said, nodding. “Every day, remember?”

She smiled at that, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, holding on so tightly it felt like she was trying to anchor him there.

He let himself hold her back, burying his face in her hair for just a moment. He wasn’t going to cry. He wouldn’t let himself.

“I’ll see you after training,” she whispered against his chest, her voice shaking just a little. “I’ll be there, Max.”

He pulled back, cupping her face in his hands. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

The driver called for boarding, and Max grabbed his bag. He didn’t look back as he stepped onto the bus. He couldn’t. If he did, he might not get on at all.

But as the bus pulled away, he glanced out the window. She was still standing there, exactly where he left her, her hand raised in a wave he couldn’t return.

He pressed his forehead against the glass, the weight of her promise settling in his chest. She would be there. He had to believe it.

Training was relentless.

The early mornings were the worst—before the sun even thought about rising, before his body remembered how to move. They ran until their legs felt like they’d snap beneath them, did push-ups until their arms gave out, and marched under the weight of packs that felt heavier with every mile. The shouting never stopped, every mistake earning a punishment meant to break them down and rebuild them into something sharper, stronger.

But it was nothing compared to what Max had already endured.

At home, the yelling was never meant to make him stronger. The bruises weren’t badges of discipline—they were reminders of how small he was made to feel. Every time he hit the ground during training, his drill sergeant barking at him to get up, Max thought of how often he’d done the same thing in that house. He got up then, and he got up now.

The other guys complained at night, lying on their bunks and licking their wounds, but Max didn’t join in. They didn’t know how lucky they were—how much easier it was to run ten miles when there wasn’t a door slamming behind you or fists flying to match.

And then there were the letters.

Her first one came the day after he arrived, folded neatly into an envelope with her handwriting scrawled across the front. The sight of it made his chest ache, and he didn’t even wait to get back to the barracks to read it.

Hey, tough guy. I hope this gets to you quick. Are they making you run as much as I think they are? Do you miss me? I miss you. It’s been one day and this town already feels different without you. Keep writing, okay? I’ll keep writing too. Just don’t let them make you forget who you are, Max. I love you.

The letters became his lifeline. Every night, after lights-out, he’d sit on the edge of his bunk with a flashlight and write her back. He told her about the blisters on his feet, the meals that barely qualified as food, the drill sergeant who could make a grown man cry with a single word. But he also told her how he was getting stronger, faster, better—how he thought about her every time things got too hard.

She didn’t just write about missing him. Her letters were full of details—what their friends were up to, how the leaves were starting to change by the lake, what songs were playing on the radio. She made him feel like he wasn’t missing everything. Like she was keeping his place for him.

The days blurred together after a while, a constant cycle of exhaustion and repetition. But then, one morning, everything felt different.

It was the last day of training.

Max stood in formation with the others, the sun rising behind them as their drill sergeant paced in front of the line. They’d been through hell together—guys who had started as strangers now felt like brothers. But Max wasn’t thinking about them.

He was thinking about her.

He scanned the crowd of families waiting just beyond the training field, his heart pounding harder than it ever had during a run. She had said she’d be here. She promised.

And then he saw her.

She was standing near the back, craning her neck to see over the heads of taller people in front of her. When their eyes met, she smiled so brightly that for a second, everything else—the noise, the exhaustion, the fear—fell away.

Max’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to focus. One last task. One last push. He would finish this, and then he’d go to her.

And this time, he wouldn’t have to leave too soon.

Max’s heart hammered as the ceremony came to a close. The drill sergeant dismissed them with a sharp bark, and the tension that had held the recruits in place finally broke. Families surged forward, cheers and hugs filling the air. Max stood frozen for a moment, scanning the crowd again until he saw her pushing through the mass of people, her face a mix of determination and joy.

She was exactly how he remembered her, but somehow even better. Her hair bounced as she hurried toward him, and the familiar tilt of her smile made his chest ache. And yet, as soon as she stopped a few feet in front of him, she planted her hands on her hips like she had all the time in the world.

“Well, well,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hey there, tough guy.”

Max swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure. But her teasing grin made the corner of his mouth twitch, threatening to break into a smile he wasn’t supposed to give just yet.

From behind her, one of his barrack mates, Danny came up and watched her as she eyed up Max. When she noticed him, he nodded at her. “Ma’am.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, I’m only young.” She stepped closer, looking at Max once more, her expression shifting to exaggerated awe. “That’s a whole lot of muscles you’ve got there now. What’ve they been feeding you?”

Max tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t stop his lips from curving upward.

“You’re not supposed to touch the recruits until they’ve been tapped out,” Danny said, his voice low, playful.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by Max’s attempt at staying serious. “Is that so? Guess I’ll have to keep my hands to myself for a minute longer, huh?”

He held her gaze, the tension building between them until it was almost unbearable. She took another step forward, her smile softening into something sweeter, something he’d missed so much it hurt.

“Max,” she said quietly, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the noise around them.

And then, finally, she reached out and tapped his shoulder.

That was all it took. Max didn’t hesitate—he dropped his duffel to the ground and swept her into his arms, lifting her clean off the ground. She laughed, but it broke halfway through, and then she was crying, her face buried in his shoulder.

“I missed you,” she said, her voice muffled against his uniform.

Max held her tighter, his eyes stinging as he pressed his cheek against her hair. “I missed you too,” he murmured, his voice thick.

For a moment, neither of them moved. She clung to him like she was afraid he might disappear, and Max let himself soak in the feel of her in his arms—the warmth, the softness, the familiarity he’d craved every single day he was gone.

When she finally pulled back, her hands stayed on his shoulders, her fingers brushing against the hard muscle beneath his uniform. She tilted her head, a teasing smile breaking through her tears. “Seriously, Max. What’s with these muscles? You didn’t look like this when you left.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rough, and shook his head. “Had to give you something to brag about, didn’t I?”

She laughed, swiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater. “Oh, I’m definitely bragging. You’re not going anywhere without me showing you off first.”

“Not going anywhere without you at all,” Max said softly.

Her smile faltered for just a second, her eyes filling again. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m not letting you go.”

He cupped her face gently, leaning in until their foreheads touched. “You’re stuck with me now.”

“Always,” she said, and for the first time in months, Max felt like he was finally home.

As they were about to kiss, a cough disrupted them. Danny. “Are you done?”

“Leave me alone Danny, I’ve seen enough of you.” Max laughed, pulling her in closer.

“I’m heading out, my girl’s at the car but I’ll see you soon, yeah?” Danny asked, taking off his hat and running his hand through it.

“Yeah you will. See you soon Dan.”

The desert heat was unrelenting, the sun beating down on Max and Danny as they sat outside their barracks during a rare moment of downtime. Max leaned against a wall, his cap pulled low over his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to shield him from Danny’s relentless teasing.

“You’ve been staring at that box for five minutes, man,” Danny said, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “You sure you don’t want me to take it off your hands? I’d do a solid job proposing to her, you know.”

Max shot him a look, his jaw tightening, though there was no real heat behind it. “Touch it, and I’ll bury you in the sand.”

Danny snorted, tossing a rock lazily across the dusty ground. “Relax, lover boy. I’m just saying—you’ve had that ring for months. You’ve got the whole speech planned, don’t you? ‘I’ve loved you since we were kids, you’re my whole world,’ blah, blah, blah. Bet you even practiced in the mirror.”

Max rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box, flipping it open to reveal the simple but elegant ring inside. He didn’t need anything flashy—she wouldn’t want that. The ring was perfect: timeless, just like her.

“I don’t need a speech,” Max said quietly, running his thumb along the edge of the box. “She already knows. She’s known since before I left the first time.”

Danny’s teasing grin softened into something more genuine. “She’s a lucky girl, you know. Not everyone would stick around through all this.”

“She’s not sticking around,” Max corrected, his voice firm. “She’s living her life—uni, friends, everything she’s always wanted. She’s just...waiting for me to come back, too.”

Danny whistled low. “Well, when you put it like that, I guess you’re the lucky one.”

Max didn’t argue. He thought about her every day—her laugh, the way she scribbled little doodles in the corners of her letters, the photo she’d sent him of her sitting on the quad with her textbooks spread out around her. She looked happy, and that was what mattered most to him.

But God, he missed her.

“I’ll ask her when we’re off duty,” Max said, snapping the box shut and tucking it safely back into his pocket. “The next time I get to see her, I’m not waiting. I’m not wasting another minute.”

Danny grinned, tipping his chair back on two legs. “You’re gonna make me cry, man. I’m just glad I’ll be there to see it.”

“You’re not invited.”

“Like hell I’m not.”

They both laughed, the kind of laugh that felt rare in a place like this. For a moment, the heaviness of deployment lifted, replaced by something lighter—hope.

But when the laughter faded, Max’s mind drifted back to her. He pictured her sitting in a lecture hall, twirling a pen between her fingers, her hair catching the sunlight. She’d promised him that first day he left that she’d always be there waiting for him, and she had never broken that promise.

And soon—so soon—he’d finally get to make one to her.

The cab pulled up to her apartment building, a modest brick complex tucked onto a quiet street just off campus. Max stared out the window, his heart thundering in his chest. It didn’t matter that he’d seen her a year ago on leave or that they’d talked just last week on a grainy video call. Being here, knowing she was just a flight of stairs away, made it all feel brand new.

Danny’s words echoed in his head as he grabbed his bag and climbed out. Don’t mess this up, man. She’s been waiting long enough.

The door to her unit opened before he could even knock. There she was, framed in the doorway, wearing an oversized sweater and leggings, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She broke into a smile so bright it felt like the sun had come out, and before he could say a word, she threw her arms around his neck.

“Max!” she breathed, holding onto him like she never wanted to let go.

He dropped his bag and wrapped her up, burying his face in her hair. She smelled like home, like everything he’d missed.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice catching.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands sliding to his shoulders. “You’re here. You’re actually here.”

“I’m here.”

She laughed, the sound a little shaky, and grabbed his hand, tugging him inside. “Come on, I made dinner. It’s probably cold by now, but I didn’t want to risk leaving the kitchen in case—”

She didn’t get to finish.

Max stopped dead in the small kitchen, his eyes scanning the space—the mismatched dishes on the counter, the vase of sunflowers he recognised from her letters, the magnets on the fridge holding up her class schedule and pictures of them together. It was perfect.

And suddenly, he couldn’t wait.

“This wasn’t how I planned it,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“What?” She turned, confusion flickering in her eyes.

Max dropped to one knee right there in the middle of the kitchen, pulling the velvet box from his pocket. He saw her gasp, her hands flying to her mouth, but he was too focused to stop now.

“I wasn’t going to do it like this,” he said, the words tumbling out. “I had a whole plan—something big and romantic—but I don’t care about plans anymore. I just...I love you. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, and I don’t want to wait another second to ask.” He opened the box, his hands steady despite the chaos in his chest. “Will you marry me?”

She froze, her wide eyes locked on his. The silence stretched, and Max felt a flicker of panic.

“So?” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

That broke her. She let out a choked laugh, tears spilling down her cheeks as she dropped to her knees in front of him. “I’m sorry! I’m just—yes! Of course, yes!”

Her arms went around his neck, and she kissed him fiercely, her tears wetting his face. Max held her close, the ring box forgotten on the floor as he kissed her back, pouring every bit of love and relief into the moment.

When they finally broke apart, she laughed through her tears, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “You really couldn’t wait, huh?”

“Not for this,” he said, his voice low and raw.

She smiled and kissed him again, slower this time, her hands sliding down to rest against his chest. Max stood, lifting her with him effortlessly, and set her on the edge of the counter.

“Max,” she murmured, her hands slipping beneath the collar of his shirt.

“Yeah?” he said, his forehead resting against hers.

“Welcome home.”

He smiled against her lips, capturing them in another kiss, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Max let himself feel it all—the love, the relief, the joy of knowing he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Dinner had been a blur, both of them too giddy and caught up in the moment to care that the food was lukewarm and hastily reheated. They laughed, talked, and stole kisses between bites, the kind of easy affection that felt like they’d never been apart.

Now, hours later, they were tangled together in her bed. The room was dark save for the soft glow of the streetlight filtering through the blinds. She lay draped across his chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin, her eyes fixed on the ring now resting snugly on her finger.

“How are we going to do this?” she asked quietly, her voice thoughtful but tinged with uncertainty.

Max’s hand came up to stroke her back, his thumb brushing along her shoulder blade. He let out a soft sigh. “I leave in three months.”

She stilled for a moment, her finger pausing mid-trace.

“But,” he added, his voice warm and steady, “until then, we live the happy life. All of it. You, me, late-night takeout, bad movies, everything.”

She tilted her head up to look at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “Three months isn’t that long, Max. And I’m still at uni. I’ve got two more years. How—”

“We’ve made it work for two years while I’m away,” he interrupted gently, cupping her cheek with one hand. “We can do two more. You’ve been with me through everything—every deployment, every letter, every call. This won’t be any different. Except now,” he added, his lips quirking into a small smile, “you’ll be my fiancée.”

Her lips trembled, and she leaned up to kiss him, slow and deliberate, her hand slipping over his to hold it against her cheek. When she finally pulled back, her eyes shone with determination.

“You’re really bad at letting me be dramatic, you know that?” she teased softly.

“Someone’s gotta keep you in check,” he said with a smirk.

She laughed quietly, settling back against his chest, and Max tightened his arms around her. They lay there in silence for a while, her fingers once again toying with the ring as if she couldn’t quite believe it was real.

He was engaged.

He was happy.

And he was going to marry the love of his life.

the end.

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number44newseries864962 · 10 months ago

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Need to rant for a minute because even though I have very much been enjoying the fruits of my efforts learning how to sew vintage style clothes, I just swapped out old fatphobia (nice plus size vintage clothes never making it to stores) for new fatphobia (trying to find patterns). Cause it doesn't end at what clothes you're able to buy already made.

I finally bought a Friday Pattern Company pattern the other day, and man it made the bare minimum feel like I was being spoiled. The sizes go up to 7X (that's XL, XXL, 1X, 2X, etc, so there's 9 sizes above L) they had a thin and a fat model on the cover! Usually I'm barely lucky enough to get an XL, and I'm just expected to guess how it's going to look on my body. The majority of their patterns have two differently sized models on the covers, and all of them have that full range of patterns inside.

It is so hard to find good plus size patterns, even if they're available, many companies just scale up their mediums and I can't guarantee they're actually sized correctly for a different shape. As good as Friday is, them and other modern indie pattern companies aren't easy to find.

Okay well what if I went another step deeper, what if I forgo patterns all together and decide to be completely independent and draft things myself?

Then I'll need a plus size dress form. I got lucky and found one at an antique mall for 50$ but these are incredibly rare and more expensive than smaller ones. I'll need to learn how to draft patterns, something that was taught to me on a XS form by my college and nearly every tutorial out there. Drafting close fitting clothes for fat bodies is a completely different skillset, because all that extra fat is much squishier and shifts more. Measuring yourself correctly and getting the shape you're looking for is far more important. Before I even got there I'd need to sketch out what I wanted to make, right? Well the patterning book my family got me only shows you how to draw tall, skinny people. A beginner would have to look up their own drawing references and tutorials because what what supposed to be a super accessible beginner's guide to fashion has decided their body isn't normal enough for the baseline tutorial.

We're expected to be the ones who put in the extra effort. Digging to find the pattern companies that fit our shape and actually prove they can, paying extra in shipping or driving farther to pick them up. Having to search specifically for plus size tutorials for drafting and sketching. It's always treated like it's not part of the beginner's experience to be working with a fat body, that's just going to make people more frustrated and lost and less likely to pursue something they're excited about! Especially if it's in response to already being frustrated about the lack of clothing options.

We need a little positivity to this post so to end on a high note, here's me modeling the blazer I just finished with a shirt I made a couple years ago!

Being able to finally wear clothes I really feel like me in has been an amazing confidence boost. It's not fair that there's so many roadblocks in the way for someone who looks like me who just wants to wear things they enjoy.

#fatshion #cw fatphobia #fatphobia #body posititivity #fat positvity #how the fuck is it hard to find clothes to fit MY body I see people with my body type all the damn time #stay strong out there #fashion #clowncore

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vampjaeyun · 3 months ago

Text

NETFLIX & CHILL

PAIRING loser!jake x maneater fem!reader | wc: 1.2k

SYNOPSIS “Do you seriously not know the meaning behind ‘Netflix and chill?’”

WARNINGS reader is in heat lmfao, soft jake, dry humping, hickeys

NOTES IF THIS SEEMS FAMILIAR, ITS BECAUSE I WROTE THIS FOR MARK ON MY NCT BLOG!!! I revamped it because I wanted to post something for jake's birthday but I haven't finished the one-shot im writing for him, so enjoy this for now <3

happy late birthday to my side piece, xo

WHAT IS JAKE SIM HERE FOR?

Tapping at your thigh, your impatience grows after every second that passes.

You're not typically this horny or impatient, but to set the scene, you met Jake on the first day of classes. As everyone filed into the auditorium and the professor began rambling, he took the seat alongside yours. Throughout the first week of school, you started talking to him, sharing mutual interests and small talk. You think he's awfully cute. So you went ahead and texted him, wanting to "Netflix and chill" this weekend. Maybe you were being too direct, but the deed had already been done, so you chose to embrace it.

He doesn’t hesitate with a ‘for sure’ text back, not asking further questions or details about your request. You smile at that, itching to explore another side of the cute boy who you see in class.

The day arrives, and he walks over to your flat, smiling affectionately as the door swings open. You both laugh and fond over each other while he cooks dinner and joins you afterward at the dinner table. He's so funny and sweet you realize, finally conversing about things other than school; it influences you to increase your expectations, and you wonder why hookups aren't typically like this.

Now you're both adjacent to each other, your body cuddling up to his side as the movie plays. It's amusing since Jake hasn't made a single move towards you all night. Aside from the arm around your shoulder, he hasn't attempted to sneak his arm any lower. And he hasn't turned to face you since coming in contact with the couch. Perhaps he changed his mind? The movie is almost over, and the line has yet to be crossed. But the voice in the back of your head tells you that just because he didn't plan to tonight doesn't mean he doesn't want to, right? A glimmer of optimism just helps to persuade you more, and once you dig a hole, you only dig deeper.

He laughs at a comedic moment in the film and you find it adorable. He’s so invested and that’s when you finally realize Jake seriously didn’t come here to have sex with you. It’s not his intention at all. His kindness and investment into everything you both did tonight is probably an effort into a full-on date.

But this only made you more horny and attracted to him. Fuck, you want to jump his bones so fucking bad. And shit, you feel terrible because your mind and body are telling you to rip off the bandaid. The pulsing want you have for this man is almost uncomfortable.

You’re cursing yourself but like a bitch in heat you’re already escalating the situation.

“Jake, the movie’s almost over,” you look up at him.

He’s chuckling at your random commentary then looking down at you, “Yeah, it’s almost over.”

“It’s almost over, and I invited you to Netflix and chill,” you pout. Maybe the phrase ‘Netflix and chill’ flew over his head but it couldn’t be. You recall texting him the exact words. There’s no way someone could misinterpret that. Right?

He blinks at you as if he’s unable to process your response.

“Aren’t we doing that right now?” he quirks. Maybe he’s genuinely clueless or the facade is running right past you, but you are fully convinced Jake has no idea about the ulterior motive of the popular phrase.

No one could guess Jake Sim would be the one who doesn’t know this term. Maybe a stereotypical nerd whose internet consumption is strictly educational research. Never judge a book by its cover, they said. But you haven’t fully related to the metaphor until now. Jake Sim’s cover has the term ‘fuckboy’ written all over. Right to the Chrome Hearts hoodie and silver chain that looks like it belongs there.

It’s alarming. So alarming, that you have to sit up from Jake’s side to face him clearly. Your brain is moving at a million miles per minute as you try to grasp the idea of how Jake doesn’t know the popular booty-call slang, head tilted to the side and all.

“Is there something wrong?” he questions. It’s beyond innocent. His wide eyes give away the sincere worry he has and all you want to do is jump his bones.

You smirk, “Do you seriously not know the meaning behind ‘Netflix and chill?’”

He pauses, staring like a deer in headlights, “It has another meaning? What else would it mean?”

“Jakie,” you inch closer to him, so much that your noses brush at the nickname. “You’re so cute,” you utter slowly as you straddle him with one leg on each side of his thighs. Thankfully, you wore a skirt, so the thin panties are the only thing obstructing the feeling of the rough material of his jeans.

The poor boy beneath you flinches as you move so seductively in slow motion. You’re glancing up to gauge his reactions and you swear you see a shadow of darkness in those chocolate orbs. If that wasn’t enough for you to completely lose control, you follow his tongue gliding along his bottom lip and all you want to do is bite his lips until they’re bleeding.

“Why’d you agree to my text, but won’t do just that?” his breath hitches as you slightly move around on him, but it doesn’t have much of an effect because you’re not directly where he needs it most.

“W-what?” he stutters slightly. So cute.

“It means,” you bring your lips to graze his earlobe. “You wanna fuck,” u purr and he freezes at the revelation.

“You wanna fuck while some stupid movie plays in the background,” at this, your hips move directly above his crotch and the weight of your body forces him to groan softly in pleasure.

“It’s j-just an excuse,” You whimper as you move sensually against him. Jake's hooded eyes tenderly glance at you, his erection slowly increasing against his jeans as the scene progresses. Because of his hesitation, his hands have yet to find homage at your hips, and you almost grab them to move them yourself. “You can touch me, you know. Don’t be afraid. I’m all yours,” you rasp, and the boy you’ve been crushing on crumbles underneath your fingertips.

You waste no time chasing more pleasure, continuing to drag your lips against his neck, sucking and biting to leave rosy marks on his flesh. Your fingers tangle in his hair, unknowingly tugging on his locks, only for him to squirm beneath you. His rough hands attempt to steer your hips and it's not quite enough for you to cum, but the zipper rubbing against your clothed clit sends a buzz up your spine, and you moan against his neck.

"Will you do it?" You resume licking a stripe from his collarbone to his jaw. When you notice the overflowing lust painted on his features, you can't help but beam a grin.

"Yes," he gasps at the sensation of your motions against him.

"I'll do it."

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lizzyiii · 4 months ago

Note

The Dragon’s Treasure has my WHOLE heart 🥹

thank you, babe. i've really enjoyed writing her and aemond

The Dragon's Treasure (3)

pairing | young aemond targaryen x niece!reader

word count | 11k words

summary | “...and for the first time in what felt like ages, you felt a glimmer of happiness for the future.”

tags | as we all know ANGST, ANGST, ANGSTTTT, and eventually rainbow after the storm, SA! (aemonds brothel scene), things do get better y'all, targaryen incest, reader is described to have silver hair and lilac eyes, reader being a sensitive queen, and FLUFF and young love, aemond being a SIMP, TOOTHROTTING FLUFF

a/n | I cried so much, while writing this. I loved writing young aemond, I loved writing young helaena but especially loved writing young reader. I promise you guys this, when I have the time I'll write a one shot of them when they're older and more post-episode 7. When they're older (16&18). Also I really went overboard ngl

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 1 — 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 2 — 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You weren’t eating again.

Aemond had overheard his mother’s worried whispers as she discussed your condition with the maesters. He was still angry with you—hurt by the thought that you would try to leave them all behind, leave him behind, without a second thought. But no matter how deep his anger ran, his concern for you ran deeper.

After a long and contemplative ride on Vhagar, the weight of the sky above him and the sea below doing little to settle his thoughts, Aemond sought out his mother.

“Aemond,” Alicent began, her voice weary as she looked down at him, her exhaustion evident in the fine lines around her eyes. Between preparing for Aegon and Helaena's wedding and your worsening state, the strain was taking its toll. “I don’t think she’s in the mood for any visitors.”

She still didn’t know the full truth of what had happened—the attempt to run away with Helaena, the plan you had kept hidden from them all. All Alicent knew was that you had retreated into yourself once more, refusing to speak to anyone, even to Helaena, the one who had once pulled you from your darkness.

“It’s her nameday tomorrow,” Aemond murmured, his voice quiet but steady.

Alicent’s face tightened, pain flashing in her eyes as she thought of how you had been before all this—brighter, more spirited. Aemond continued, his tone soft but resolute. “She likes strawberry cakes. Let me bring her one, Mother. Please.”

Alicent’s gaze softened as she looked at her son. Her sharp, determined boy, scarred both in body and soul, yet still showing more kindness than anyone would expect after all he had endured. He had lost an eye, but his heart—his heart still carried a tenderness that surprised her.

She sighed, her shoulders drooping with the weight of her worries. “Very well,” she said softly. “You have my leave to visit her tomorrow.”

Aemond didn’t smile, didn’t show any hint of relief, though inside, the resolve in his chest tightened. He simply nodded in acknowledgment. His mind had already begun to turn over what he would say to you when he saw you—how he might reach you through the walls you had built around yourself.

Tomorrow was your nameday, and whether you liked it or not, Aemond would be there for you.

──────────────────────────────

Aemond’s heart raced as he approached your chambers, his hands gripping the tray carrying strawberry cakes. He had spent much of the morning thinking of what else he could bring—perhaps a necklace, something to match the sapphire that lay hidden beneath his eyepatch. You loved jewelry, and he knew how your eyes lit up at the sight of anything that sparkled. But in the end, he settled on simplicity—just the cakes you loved, hoping they would be enough.

As he neared your door, he was greeted by Ser Rowan, your loyal guard, who stood as firm as ever, his expression stern.

“My prince,” Ser Rowan acknowledged with a nod, his voice gruff. “The princess is in no condition to receive visitors today.”

Aemond stiffened, his chest rising as he squared his shoulders. He would not be turned away so easily. “It is her nameday,” he said firmly, his voice laced with authority. He took a step closer, meeting Ser Rowan’s unyielding gaze with his own, violet eye sharp. “The queen has granted me permission to visit her.”

Ser Rowan remained still, but Aemond didn’t back down. He tilted his head slightly, his tone low and challenging. “Will you disobey the Queen’s word?”

There was a moment of silence as the guard’s eyes flicked down to the tray Aemond carried. His stern expression softened just slightly when he saw the strawberry cakes. Ser Rowan let out a heavy sigh, his duty to you outweighing his hesitation. He too wished for your recovery, and perhaps, he thought, a visit from Aemond might bring some light back into your eyes.

“Very well, my prince,” he said at last, stepping aside. He opened the door with a creak, allowing Aemond to enter.

Aemond took a deep breath, holding the tray steady as he stepped into your chambers. The door closed softly behind him, but the room was dim, heavy with silence. His heart clenched at the sight of you curled up on the bed, facing the wall, your small form barely stirring.

"Niece," Aemond’s voice echoed softly through the room, breaking the heavy silence of your chambers.

There was a pause, and then your voice, quiet and tired, reached him. "Go away."

He pursed his lips, setting the tray down gently on the bedside table. The room was dim, shrouded in a pink hue from your curtains, and he made his way over to the window, pulling the drapes wide open. Sunlight poured in, casting the room in a golden glow.

From behind him, you hissed, "Close them." He heard the rustle of your blankets as you pulled them over your head, shielding yourself from the brightness.

Aemond couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips as he turned back to face you. "Happy Nameday," he said, his tone lighter than before. "I brought you something."

"I don’t want it," you muttered from beneath the covers, your voice muffled and distant.

He sat beside you, his movements careful, placing the tray of strawberry cakes within arm’s reach. "I’m sure you will," he replied softly, hoping to coax you out from your cocoon of blankets.

For a few moments, there was nothing—just the faint sounds of the breeze outside and the distant chatter from the courtyard. Aemond sighed, the weight of the silence between you heavier than he could bear. He reached out, his hand hovering just above your arm, but then hesitated. His fingers twitched before he pulled his hand back, unsure of how to communicate with you.

"You know," he began quietly, his voice careful, "I wouldn’t force that on you. To bear children you don’t want. One would be enough."

There was a sharp scoff from beneath the blankets. "How generous of you," you replied, the bitterness in your tone unmistakable.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he kept his gaze steady on the blankets that covered you. His mind drifted to the records he had been reading, the histories you both loved to discuss. He knew how much you valued stories of the past, of old kings and queens, of the lives they led. Swallowing, he decided to share what had been on his mind, hoping it might reach you.

"I’ve been reading more since our last talk," he murmured. "About King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne. Even after many children, he made her bear more when she didn’t wish to." His voice was soft but steady, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. He had been thinking of you, trying to understand your fears.

The sunlight streamed across your bed, casting shadows as Aemond spoke. He knew that love was rare among their kind, especially in Targaryen unions, but he hoped. Hoped that maybe, in time, you would not just be duty and title to him.

"I would never do that to you," he added, his tone sincere, almost vulnerable. "I want our marriage to be different."

The room was still. The only sound was the faint rustling of the breeze outside, and the quiet breathing of Dreamfyre from somewhere far beyond your window. Aemond’s words lingered, waiting for you to respond, to show him something—anything—that might bridge the gap between you.

Slowly, you lowered the blankets just enough for your eyes to peek out, meeting Aemond's gaze. "He was a bad man," you mumbled, referring to King Jaehaerys.

Aemond, ever the scholar, couldn’t resist. "He was a good king," he pointed out, his tone firm but calm.

You rolled your eyes, a small defiance shining through your sadness. "Still a bad man." For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other, and then you added thoughtfully, "Aenys Targaryen was a good man."

Aemond let out a scoff. "He was weak."

You narrowed your eyes at him, but there was a flicker of something behind your lilac gaze, something like amusement. "A weak king, yes. Only because he tried to make everyone happy."

Your eyes shifted towards the tray on the bedside table, where the strawberry cakes sat. After a moment of hesitation, your voice, still tinged with sadness, broke the silence. "Is today really my nameday?"

Aemond nodded, his own expression softening. "Yes."

"Oh." Your response was quiet, almost absent-minded, as if you were still processing.

Aemond reached for the tray and held it out to you, offering a tentative smile. "Would you like one?"

You eyed the cakes, and though your sadness still lingered, something softened in your expression. "Those do look nice," you murmured. Finally, you pulled the blanket away from your face and sat up slowly, your movements careful and deliberate. Though your face remained neutral, devoid of the joy that used to light it up, you gave a small nod. "Alright."

Aemond couldn’t help the small smile that spread across his face as he handed you a cake. It wasn’t much, but seeing you like this—out of bed, talking to him—felt like a small victory.

As you took a bite, your eyes flickered to his once more, and Aemond stayed beside you, content with the simple moment of shared silence, hopeful that things might get better.

Aemond felt as though he were trapped in a cage of unbearable heat, the air around him thick, suffocating. The wine—a dark, bitter liquid that Aegon had forced upon him—now churned wildly in his stomach, its taste sour and unpleasant. He longed to rid himself of it, to escape the strange and unfamiliar sensations overtaking him.

It was after the grand feast in honor of his thirteenth nameday that Aegon, with a sly grin and a glint in his eye, had promised him a "surprise." Aemond, still naive to the darker aspects of his brother’s humor, had followed without protest, his curiosity outweighing his caution. They had ventured deep into King’s Landing, to a shadowed place Aemond had never seen before—a pleasure house filled with laughter and the soft rustling of silks.

Before Aemond could voice his hesitation, Aegon had disappeared into the throng of bodies, swallowed by the merry voices and whispers of the women within. And Aemond was left alone, standing awkwardly, unsure of what was to happen next.

He was led into a small chamber, dimly lit by flickering candles, their soft glow casting strange and unsettling shadows on the walls. The tapestries that adorned the room depicted scenes he barely understood—men and women entwined in ways that seemed more confusing than enticing. He felt a knot tightening in his chest, and a cold wave of dread settled over him.

Then she entered—a woman far older than his mother, her presence overwhelming in the confined space. She smiled at him, her voice soft and syrupy, laced with sweet lies that made his skin crawl. She cooed over him, her hands reaching for him before he had the chance to say anything, her touch gentle yet intrusive as she began to undress him.

Aemond’s heart pounded in his chest, and every fiber of his being screamed for her to stop, to leave him be. But his voice—his strength—had abandoned him. He remained frozen, his limbs stiff and unresponsive as she whispered things into his ear, words he wished he hadn’t heard, promises he didn’t understand.

When it was over, Aemond was left numb. He sat there, silent, as if his body no longer belonged to him, as though he had become something entirely separate from himself. Trembling, he fumbled with his clothes, his fingers shaking as he struggled to dress. His mind was a whirl of confusion, shame, and anger, but above all, he felt the desperate need to flee.

He didn’t care where Aegon had gone, didn’t want to face him or anyone else. The only thought that filled his mind was reaching you, his niece, his betrothed, his future wife, the one person who might make him feel whole again.

His feet carried him through the secret passageways of Maegor’s Holdfast, each step heavy with fear and sorrow. His breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps, his chest aching as he pushed himself to move faster. His tears—hot and unbidden—ran down his cheeks, blurring his vision, but he did not stop.

He passed his own chambers, the rooms of his mother, and everyone else, not wanting to explain the mess of emotions swirling inside him. He only wanted you.

It felt as though the gods had granted Aemond a moment of mercy when he reached your chambers, finding Ser Rowan absent from his post. Without hesitation, he pushed open the door and stepped inside, his heart still racing, tears brimming in his eye as he struggled to hold them back.

You were fast asleep, your back turned toward him. Aemond let out a quiet breath of relief. He hadn’t come to disturb you, only to be near you—just your presence, your warmth, was enough to calm the storm inside him.

Quietly, he made his way to your bed and carefully, as if afraid to wake you, slid in beside you. He kept a respectful distance, not wanting to intrude, but just close enough to feel your presence. The motion stirred you from your sleep, and you sat up, blinking in confusion.

Your eyes widened when they fell on Aemond, and for a brief, horrible moment, he realised it was because of his face. He had forgotten—he had left his eye patch behind at the brothel. The clear ragged sapphire was bare for you to see.

Panic surged through him. You would be disgusted, he thought, repelled by the sight of his disfigurement. He moved to leave, heart pounding, but your voice reached him before he could retreat.

“Aemond, breathe,” you whispered, your strained voice soft and steady.

He froze, his chest tight with the effort to suppress his panic. He needed to leave—he couldn’t bear for you to see him like this. Not you, his dearest niece, who always knew him as strong, as whole. He couldn’t let you witness the broken, ruined side of him.

But then, you reached out, grabbing his trembling hands in your own small ones, your touch warm and gentle. "Please, stay," you whispered, your voice filled with concern. Slowly, you began rubbing his cold hands, trying to bring warmth back to him, both in body and spirit.

His breathing was still uneven, but your soft words and the warmth of your touch soothed him. He looked up, meeting your eyes for the first time. There was no disgust there, no fear—only worry and care. Just like before. Slowly, the tension began to leave his body, and for the first time since he had fled that terrible place, Aemond felt a glimmer of relief.

He swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You shook your head, squeezing his hands a little tighter. "I don’t care about your face, Aemond," you murmured softly, your tired lilac eyes meeting his. "I care about you."

As you gently laid back onto your pillow, you looked at Aemond with concern, urging him to lie beside you. He hesitated for a moment, but slowly, he did as you asked, his awkward frame seeming out of place in your small bed. You turned to face him, your wide lilac eyes full of care, while Aemond’s own single violet eye struggled to meet yours.

With quiet care, you reached out, placing your small hand on his scarred cheek. He flinched at first, his breath catching in his throat, but you didn’t pull away. Your fingers traced the jagged line of the scar that ran down his face, the skin rough beneath your touch. It was as if you weren’t looking at the scar at all, just him—Aemond, your beloved uncle, the boy who protected you, who read to you, who you always knew to be brave.

He shivered under your touch, his emotions twisting inside him. But you said nothing more, just a quiet, simple comfort.

“Sleep, Aemond,” you whispered softly, your voice gentle and soothing. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

The words wrapped around him like a balm, a promise in the soft glow of the dim candlelight. For so long, Aemond had carried his burdens alone, but in this moment, with your hand on his face and your soft breath mingling with the night air, he felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since Driftmark—peace.

His eye fluttered shut, and with the rhythm of your breathing beside him, he let himself drift away, finally surrendering to sleep.

──────────────────────────────

Aemond entered your chambers quietly, the weight of the box in his hands almost insignificant compared to the heaviness that lingered in the air. He had been allowed to visit freely now, thanks to Ser Rowan's softening stance, but each visit felt like walking on a thread, delicate and uncertain.

He paused when he saw you on the chaise, struggling with your embroidery. The soft light from the window highlighted the paleness of your features—still recovering, still distant, but better than before. You were eating now, and though your mood hadn't brightened, that small improvement brought Aemond some comfort. He cherished these moments, even if they were shrouded in silence.

"I've brought something for you," he said, his voice steady yet quiet as he approached.

You glanced up from your work but said nothing. The tangled mess of threads on the pillow caught his eye, and he bent slightly to inspect it, attempting to mask the awkwardness he always felt in the wake of that night. He hadn’t been ready to speak of it, and thankfully, neither had you.

"That’s a nice lion," Aemond offered, pointing to the uneven form stitched into the fabric.

Your lips parted slightly, a faint glimmer of amusement mixing with frustration as you murmured, "It was supposed to be the Queen."

Aemond’s lips twitched in response, nodding solemnly as if in deep thought. "Now that you say it," he replied, his voice light, "I do recognize her hair."

With a small sigh, you tossed the pillow aside like it was something offensive, watching as it tumbled to the floor, forgotten. Your eyes flickered towards the box in Aemond’s hands, suspicion mingling with curiosity.

"What have you brought me?" you asked, your voice quiet, but holding a hint of anticipation.

Aemond didn’t reply at first, simply stepping forward and offering the box to you, his expression unreadable. You hesitated for a moment, then carefully took it from him.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you lifted the lid, pulling back the fine paper that covered the gift inside. A soft gasp escaped your lips as you uncovered a stunning gown—lilac silk adorned with delicate embroidery, tiny jewels catching the light like stars. Your hands traced the fabric, feeling the softness beneath your fingertips, the craftsmanship clear in every stitch.

Aemond watched you intently, his eyes never leaving your face. For the first time in what felt like forever, there was a shift in your expression—a glimmer of something that almost resembled joy.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his voice low, holding his breath as he awaited your response.

You glanced up at him, and for the first time in many moons, you smiled. It was small, barely there, but it warmed Aemond's heart like the sun after a long winter.

"Yes, I do," you replied softly, still admiring the gown. "What's it for?"

"Helaena's wedding."

At once, the warmth in the room seemed to drain away. The smile you had given Aemond, fleeting as it was, vanished, leaving a hollow silence in its wake. His heart sank, watching as you carefully folded the gown, tucking it back into the box with deliberate gentleness. The delicate fabric crinkled under your hands as though it were something too precious to be touched, something that no longer belonged to you.

"I'm afraid you've wasted your efforts," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, your gaze fixed on the gown. "I'm not going."

Aemond's brow furrowed, frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior. He stepped closer, his voice steady yet urgent. "You have to go."

But you refused to meet his eye. You knew how intense his gaze could be, how easily it could pierce through your defenses. Staring at the box instead, you shook your head, your words coming out firm, resolute. "I won't."

Aemond's lips pressed into a thin line, the familiar weight of your stubbornness settling between you both. "Helaena needs you," he urged, his tone softening, as if pleading might sway you.

You let out a bitter sigh, your fingers tracing the edge of the box, a dull ache settling in your chest. "Well, perhaps I can hurt her the same way she hurt me," you muttered, your words tinged with petulance, though the pain beneath them was clear.

Aemond stood in silence for a long moment, weighing your words, the tension in the air thick between you. His voice, quieter this time, broke the silence like a whisper carried on the wind. "Will you really not go?"

"No," you replied, though your voice softened now, the sharp edge of defiance fading. You hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing your face. You raised your chin, trying to hold onto the last bit of resolve. "Now, is that all you've come to visit me for?"

Aemond's heart ached at the sight of you—so distant, so caught in your own sorrow. He stood there, unsure of how to reach you, the distance between you feeling far more than just the space in the room.

The day of Helaena’s wedding arrived, and just as you had promised, you didn’t go. Aemond had come to your chambers in the morning, his expression pleading as he urged you one last time to change your mind. His words were careful, filled with the weight of his disappointment, but still, you remained firm.

You had refused.

As the sun set, casting a warm golden hue across the castle walls, you lay alone in your chambers, curled beneath the thick blankets on your bed. The echoes of the celebrations reached your ears in faint murmurs, muffled by the heavy stone of the keep. The joyous sounds of laughter and music only seemed to deepen the ache in your heart.

It was when night fell fully that the tears came, slow at first, then faster, spilling onto your pillow as regret took hold of you. You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, but it did little to stop the sadness that had finally caught up to you. You could see it so clearly in your mind—Helaena standing alone in the grand Sept, a pale and fragile figure, her face drawn with sorrow. You imagined her forced to marry Aegon, the brother you both knew was unfit for her, and the weight of your absence pressed hard on your chest.

How could you not have been there for her?

The thought made you feel smaller, childish even. You had let your anger and hurt guide you, and in doing so, you had abandoned Helaena on one of the worst days of her life. She was likely miserable, her heart heavy with sadness, and you, spiteful and stubborn, had stayed away. You bit your lip, choking back a sob.

Your gaze drifted to the gown Aemond had gifted you, still lying folded neatly in the box by your bedside, untouched, its lilac fabric gleaming faintly in the moonlight. You reached for it now, pulling the soft material through your fingers as though it could offer you some comfort.

But it didn’t.

It only reminded you of the mistake you had made.

You missed your mother.

For all the hurt she caused, all the ways she had abandoned you, there was still a deep ache for her, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. You wanted to hate her, truly despise her for leaving you behind. But no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t. The love for her still clung to you like a shadow you couldn’t lose.

As the days passed in the quiet isolation of your chambers, you began to understand things you hadn’t before. With each lonely hour, the weight of your thoughts pressed harder on your heart. Your mother had been selfish, more than you had ever allowed yourself to admit. She had promised you the world, and yet, in the end, she had given you nothing.

You were her firstborn, the eldest of her children, and yet the title that should have been yours had been passed to Jace. He was her heir to the Iron Throne, the future king, while you were left to the shadows. Even Driftmark, the seat of your grandsire, should have been yours by birthright, but it had been given to Luke instead.

The bitterness inside you grew with every thought. You hated them now—your brothers. You knew it was childish, petulant even, but the feelings were there, and they wouldn’t leave. They had taken everything from you. Titles that were rightfully yours, the pride of riding dragons, and worst of all, they still had your mother. They were together as one big happy family on Dragonstone, while you had been left here in King's Landing, a forgotten daughter in the midst of their enemies.

“It’s fine,” you whispered to yourself in the dark, trying to believe it. You had never liked Dragonstone anyway, with its cold winds and sharp rocks. But even as you said it, your heart tightened with the lie. You missed the place, the warmth of the hearth, the sight of the sea from your window, and the feeling of belonging—something you hadn’t felt in so long.

And in the quiet moments, when the anger settled and the room was still, you knew the truth. It wasn’t your brothers’ fault. They hadn’t asked for this, to be born as they were, with all the whispers and shadows cast over their lineage. No, it was your mother’s choices that had led to this. Her indiscretions. But even as that truth formed in your mind, you found that you couldn’t hate her.

It was easier to be angry with them—with Jace and Luke—because hating her, the one you loved most, was something you just couldn’t bear.

──────────────────────────────

"I hated you, you know."

Aemond's head jerked up, eyes widening at the unexpected words. He had been sitting quietly in your chambers, absorbed in a thick tome about the horrors of Essos. You stood across the room, brush in hand, painting the pink walls of your chamber as if it were any other day. But there was a tension in the air, a weight to your voice that made his heart quicken.

You didn’t look at him, your gaze fixed on the canvas as you murmured, "When you claimed Vhagar, I hated you."

The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy. Aemond’s mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched you. The stillness of the room was broken only by the soft strokes of your brush against the canvas.

"I feel as if I hate everyone," you continued, voice tight and strained. "I hate Luke and Jace for stealing my titles." Your brush moved faster, more aggressively. "I hate Daemon for stealing my mother. I even hate Baela and Rhaena, if only because they get to have her now, as if she’s theirs instead of mine."

A scoff escaped your lips, but the sound was bitter. Aemond noticed the way your hand trembled slightly, how your breath caught as tears glistened in your lilac eyes.

"I hated Helaena for not running away with me," you whispered, the words coming out choked. "And I hate myself for not having a dragon, for not being someone important, someone worthy of a title."

Tears began streaming down your face, and yet you kept painting, as if the act itself could somehow keep the flood of emotions at bay. Finally, your gaze lifted from the canvas and met Aemond’s. His heart clenched at the sight of your tear-streaked face.

"And I hated you," you said, voice breaking, "for claiming Vhagar and leaving me alone in this world."

The sob that followed was wrenching, and Aemond couldn’t stay still any longer. He moved toward you, closing the distance between you both with careful, deliberate steps. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, your head resting on his shoulder as you wept.

"I don’t want to feel this way," you cried into his tunic, voice muffled and raw. "So pathetic, so angry at everyone. But I can’t help it. And yet, no matter how hard I try, I can never hate her."

Aemond’s chest tightened at your words, his own emotions swirling in a storm he didn’t know how to express. He rested his chin gently on your head, holding you as tightly as he dared, feeling the weight of your pain as if it were his own.

"I know," he whispered softly, his voice rough with emotion. "I know."

And so he held you, offering no more words, just the quiet comfort of his presence as your tears slowly soaked into his shoulder. He wished he could consume your pain and take it away, wished he could make things right. But all he could do was stand there, arms around you, as the world outside seemed so far away.

──────────────────────────────

“How is Helaena?”

It was the first time in what felt like forever that you had left your chambers. Aemond had been persistent, urging you to take some air, to leave the four walls that had become your prison. Reluctantly, you agreed, and now the two of you sat beneath the heart tree in the Godswood, surrounded by the stillness of nature. Aemond had brought a stack of books, ones he knew you both enjoyed, hoping they might distract you.

“The same as ever,” Aemond answered absently, his attention flickering between the pages of the book in his lap and the rustling leaves above.

He paused, glancing up at you. "She’s set to give birth in three moons' time," he added, his voice soft, as if the thought still surprised him.

You looked down, your heart aching at how quickly time had passed. It had been almost two years since you had returned to King’s Landing, and though you tried to avoid thinking about it, you knew things would never be the same. “Is her pregnancy going well?” you asked quietly, your voice small against the whisper of the wind.

Aemond pursed his lips, his brow furrowing in thought. “She has strange cravings," he said, his voice low. "And her belly is… large, perhaps too large for just six moons.” He hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on you. “I’m sure a visit from you would lift her spirits,” he suggested, his tone careful, as though he didn’t want to push too hard.

You shook your head almost immediately, your silver curls spilling over your shoulders. “I’m not sure it would,” you murmured, your voice full of doubt.

Aemond studied you for a long moment, his sharp violet eye watching the way your expression shifted, the way your gaze seemed to turn inward. "She speaks of you sometimes," he said quietly, trying to find the right words to reach you. "She misses you."

You sighed, pulling your knees to your chest as you looked away from him, your fingers tracing idle patterns in the grass. You missed her too.

Aemond, noticing the sadness clouding your face, cleared his throat, quickly steering the conversation elsewhere. “Perhaps when you feel better,” he began, his voice lighter, “you could join me on a ride with Vhagar.”

Your head snapped up in surprise. “Me? Ride Vhagar?” You shook your head. “I’m not sure Vhagar would like me. A loud, annoying girl.”

Aemond raised a brow, his face dead serious. “If that were true, Vhagar would’ve eaten Baela and Rhaena years ago.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you laughed. A real laugh, bubbling up from deep within, spilling out in a way that felt foreign yet so relieving. Two years of being shut away in your chambers, and now here you were, laughing at Aemond’s dry humor. The sound filled the Godswood, bright and full of life.

Aemond, momentarily stunned, blinked at you in astonishment. He hadn’t expected it, not after everything, but when his mind caught up, a broad smile tugged at his lips. The kind of smile that was rare for him, genuine and unguarded.

“Vhagar will love you,” he said, his voice quiet but sure. He hesitated for just a moment, his thoughts turning to words he longed to say but didn’t. Just as I do, he thought. But instead, he insisted with a warmth in his tone, “I’m sure of that.”

You gave a small shrug, murmuring, "Maybe," without truly committing to the idea.

Aemond studied your face for a moment, his heart lighter at the sound of your earlier laughter, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out. "I claimed Vhagar for the both of us."

Your expression shifted in an instant, the color draining from your face as you stared at him. "What?" you mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Aemond averted his gaze, trying to appear casual, though his heart raced. "I remembered what you said—about sharing a dragon. And when your dragon egg didn’t hatch, I decided... Vhagar should be for both of us." He looked up, meeting your startled lilac eyes with his steady violet one. "For you and me to share."

Tears welled in your eyes without warning, and Aemond’s calm composure crumbled. He immediately scrambled to your side, kneeling in the grass and reaching out to comfort you. "No, no, I didn’t mean to make you cry," he said, his hands hovering nervously, unsure of what to do.

You waved his hands away, though a small smile began to form through your tears. "I feel a bit foolish now," you admitted, as tears continued to fall down your cheeks.

Aemond took your hands gently in his, bringing them to his lips in a tender kiss. "And so?" He whispered, his gaze filled with sincerity.

As the tears dried on your cheeks, you let out a shaky breath, though your nose remained a bit red. "But... I think Vhagar is much more suited for you," you finally said, your voice still soft but calmer.

Aemond nodded, willing to agree if it brought you comfort. "Will you still consider joining me?" he asked, his tone hopeful.

You looked at him, your smile returning, this time more playful. "I shall," you said with a teasing glint in your eyes, your hands still resting in his.

──────────────────────────────

"Princess, are you almost done?"

Ser Rowan’s voice was tinged with exasperation as he stood with arms raised, holding the pose you had instructed. You had begged him to model for your painting when he arrived to greet you at dawn, and now the sun was climbing high in the sky, casting warm rays through the window. Despite the time, he remained your patient subject.

"Almost, Ser Rowan," you replied cheerfully, your brush gliding across the canvas as you focused on capturing the details of his expression.

The knight let out a weary sigh, feeling his muscles beginning to stiffen. Yet he would endure anything to keep the smile on your face; he was your willing captive, devoted to your whims.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and Ser Rowan instinctively straightened, positioning himself protectively in front of you. He relaxed his stance when he saw Prince Aemond enter, though a worried look darkened the prince's features.

"Aemond, what’s wrong?" you asked, your brow furrowing in concern as you set down your brush.

The prince was out of breath, urgency threading through his voice. "Helaena went into labor last night. It’s been long and difficult. She’s calling for you."

Your eyes widened, and you opened your mouth in shock, struggling to find your voice amidst the sudden rush of fear and worry.

Before you could respond, Ser Rowan spoke softly but firmly. "Princess, we must go."

You nodded, the news settling in your stomach like a stone, heavy and cold. You hurriedly followed Aemond and Ser Rowan out of your chamber, your heart pounding with a mix of concern and guilt.

Thoughts raced through your mind—what would you say to Helaena? Would she forgive you for not being there these past months? You hadn’t seen her in nearly ten moons, too consumed by your own sadness to leave your room.

As the three of you made your way to the birthing chambers, the air felt thick with anticipation. Upon reaching the door, you encountered another guard who bowed respectfully at your approach.

"The princess has successfully given birth, your Highnesses," he announced, his voice steady.

You and Aemond exchanged a glance, relief washing over you, and he offered you an encouraging nod. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself to enter and see Helaena, the weight of your past decisions lingering in the back of your mind, but hope beginning to spark within your heart.

As you stepped into the chamber, your eyes immediately found Queen Alicent standing in the center, cradling a tiny bundle in her arms. A soft glow of love radiated from her as she looked down at Helaena's babe, a precious life nestled against her.

Your gaze shifted, and you gasped softly when you finally spotted Helaena on the birthing bed. To your astonishment, she was holding another baby as well.

"Twins," you murmured, the words slipping out louder than intended, catching the attention of both the Queen and Helaena.

Alicent's eyes widened in surprise, and a warm smile spread across her face at the sight of you. "Princess, it brings me joy to see you out of your chambers," she said, her voice gentle.

You nodded, feeling a rush of embarrassment as you shifted your gaze back to Helaena. She was already looking at you, her expression filled with a mix of fatigue and joy. Slowly, you approached the bed, holding your breath as you took in the sight before you.

The babe in Helaena's arms had the unmistakable silver hair of House Targaryen, a stark contrast to the dark-haired children of your brothers. You couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl, but the sight of the tiny face, so fragile and perfect, made your heart swell.

"What are their names?" you asked softly, careful not to disturb the babe's slumber. Your voice barely rose above a whisper, filled with wonder.

A tiny smile bloomed on Helaena's weary face, her eyes lighting up with pride. She gestured to the babe nestled in her arms. "This is Jaehaera," she said, her voice tender. Then she nodded toward the child cradled by Queen Alicent. "And that is Jaehaerys."

You nodded slowly, feeling a swell of warmth at the names, though a shadow lingered in your mind. You didn’t dare ask where Aegon was; the thought of him missing the birth of his children felt too heavy to voice. Carefully, you settled beside Helaena on the birthing bed, the air filled with soft silence and the smell of newborns.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, unable to meet her gaze as your eyes traced the delicate features of Jaehaera. The babe's tiny fingers curled and unfurled, and your heart ached with a mix of joy and regret.

Helaena's hand found yours, giving a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry too," she replied, her voice thick with emotion.

Looking up at her, a relieved smile broke through your sadness, tears glistening in your eyes. In that moment, the past felt a little lighter, the bond between you strengthening. But then Helaena's expression turned hopeful. "Would you like to hold her?"

You immediately shook your head, anxiety creeping in. "I don't know how."

"I didn’t know how either before this," Helaena said, her voice soft and encouraging. She carefully passed Jaehaera into your arms. You cradled the babe as if she were made of glass, your heart racing with both fear and delight. "It’s very easy."

A small laugh escaped you, bubbling with nervousness. "She’s very small."

"Yes," Helaena murmured, a hint of nostalgia in her tone. "Just as we were once."

You gazed down at the sleeping babe, feeling the weight of her tiny form in your arms. You glanced up at Helaena, her eyes shining with love and hope, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you felt a glimmer of happiness for the future.

You let out a huge yawn as you finally walked back to your chambers, the weight of the day settling on your shoulders. You had spent most of your time in Helaena's chambers, cradling Jaehaerys and Jaehaera in your arms. Queen Alicent had eagerly encouraged your visits, saying it was good practice for when you would have your own children with Aemond.

The thought felt strange yet comforting. After so many hours spent with the tiny babes, you found yourself warming to the idea of one day having a child with Aemond. Of course, that was a distant thought; you were only twelve now, and marriage was still years away. Yet, the notion no longer filled you with dread.

As your health improved and your mood lightened, Queen Alicent insisted you return to your princess lessons with Septa Agertha. The strict septa had been happy to resume your lessons, and to your surprise, she seemed kinder and softer than before, guiding you patiently through your studies.

Despite your busy days, you always tried to carve out time for Aemond. You cherished those moments, whether you were reading together in the library, basking in the sunlight of the gardens, or watching him train with his sword. Today, you couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly he took down Aegon during practice, his movements fluid and precise.

As you entered your chambers, your eyes immediately narrowed at the sight of Aemond standing amidst the soft pinks of your room, a striking contrast in his dark green leather. He looked entirely out of place, and the nervous smile tugging at his lips only deepened your suspicion.

"It is highly improper for you to visit my chambers so late, Aemond," you teased, crossing your arms as you arched an eyebrow. "Does Ser Rowan know about this?"

Aemond’s smile grew as he replied with a hint of mystery, "Ser Rowan does not know all the entrances to your room."

You rolled your eyes, amused but unconvinced. However, something behind Aemond caught your attention—a small object sitting on your table. You moved closer, but Aemond swiftly stepped in front of you, his hands gently resting on your waist to stop you.

"Wait," he said quickly, clearing his throat. "Before you get angry… don’t. Just trust me."

You eyed him suspiciously but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

"Happy Nameday," Aemond said quietly, almost as if he were embarrassed by the gesture.

You blinked, raising an eyebrow. "Aemond, my nameday was a week ago."

"Still," he muttered, avoiding your gaze for a moment.

With curiosity getting the better of you, you gently pushed past him, approaching the table where the mysterious item sat. There, on the table, was a small brazier pot, the kind used for hatching dragon eggs. Your heart quickened as you slowly lifted the lid.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips when you saw the sparkly navy blue egg resting inside, hot as ever. "Aemond," you whispered, feeling a mix of exasperation and affection.

Aemond stepped up behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder as he whispered in your ear, "I know. But you know what they say—fourth time’s the charm."

You let out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes as you turned to face him. Your noses were practically touching as you corrected him, "It’s third time’s the charm, you stubborn idiot."

"I also brought strawberry cakes," Aemond said, seeing that the sight of the dragon egg had done little to lift your spirits.

You tilted your head with a small smile, "You know the way to my heart, Aemond Targaryen."

The two of you found yourselves lounging on your grand pink canopy bed, nestled among the cushions, feasting on strawberry cakes that Aemond had brought for you. The scent of the sweet berries filled the air, and for a moment, all seemed simple and light in your world.

“Aemond, I’ve been thinking,” you began thoughtfully, wiping a bit of cream from your lips.

Aemond raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a mischievous smirk. “My, my, that is worrisome,” he teased, his voice playful.

You shot him a sharp glare before rolling your eyes. With a lift of your chin, you said firmly, “I’ve decided our first child must be a girl.”

Aemond blinked at you, stunned by the declaration. “You understand we do not get to choose, yes?”

You waved his words away dismissively, as if the very idea of leaving such an important matter to chance was absurd. “I believe if I am firm in my belief, then I shall have the choice,” you replied with the confidence only a twelve-year-old could muster.

Aemond gave you a long, bemused look, as if weighing your words for any sense. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. “Why?” he asked, indulging your fanciful notion.

“Do not mistake me,” you began, leaning back into the pillows with a thoughtful expression. “I love both Jaehaera and Jaehaerys equally. And if we were to have a son, I would love him just as much.”

A big, silly grin spread across your face as you continued, “But I want a daughter. I want to dress her up, match with her, and have her follow me around in little gowns.”

Aemond gave you a knowing look. “You have Jaehaera for that.”

You pouted dramatically, the cake in your hand momentarily forgotten. “It’s not the same. Jaehaera is Helaena’s, not mine.”

Aemond chuckled softly at your logic. “Alright, alright,” he conceded, raising his hands as if surrendering. “I shall pray to the Seven for us to be blessed with a daughter first.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Perhaps a daughter and a son at the same time?”

You glared at him, flicking a cake crumb in his direction. “Why would you wish something like that upon me? Twins?” You shook your head vehemently.

Aemond’s amused smile only widened as he met your deathly serious gaze. “You’re right, my bad,” he said with a chuckle, brushing the crumb off his tunic.

You huffed, but your irritation quickly melted away as you stuffed another bite of cake into your mouth, a small smile tugging at your lips. Despite his teasing, you knew that Aemond would pray to the Seven for whatever you wished—even if that meant asking for something as impossible as choosing your firstborn's gender.

You glanced down at the strawberry cake in your hand, scrunching your nose. "With all this cake you keep bringing me, Aemond, I’m going to grow fat."

Aemond gave you a thoughtful look, his expression serious yet teasing at the same time. "And? Do they not say that more is always better?"

You tried to hold back your amusement, but despite your best effort, a smile tugged at your lips. You sighed, shaking your head as you chuckled softly. "You’re incorrigible."

Aemond tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. "Perhaps. But I speak the truth." His eye glimmered as they held yours for a moment longer. "A bit of extra weight would not lessen your beauty."

You blushed, looking away from him as you fiddled with the edge of your dress. "You say that now," you muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but your heart felt light.

"I shall always say that," Aemond countered smoothly, his voice unwavering, as if he truly meant every word. "No matter what the years bring, you will always be perfect to me."

A warmth spread through you, making your cheeks burn even more. You tried to dismiss it, waving a hand at him. "You just want me to keep eating cake so I’ll be too heavy to run away when you’re being impossible."

Aemond smiled at that, his violet eye gleaming with mirth. "Perhaps. Or maybe I just enjoy seeing you happy. And if it takes cake to do that, so be it."

You laughed then, shaking your head at him. "You’ve won this time, but I’ll have my revenge when I’m too fat to walk."

Aemond smirked, leaning closer to you with a satisfied look. "I’ll carry you, then."

You tilted your head, rolling your eyes at Aemond, wondering why he was looking at you like that, as if the world had shifted between the two of you. Somehow, without realizing it, you had drifted closer, your faces mere inches apart. You could feel his breath, soft and warm, as he leaned in further. His eye fluttered shut, and your heart skipped a beat as you sensed what was coming.

Before anything could happen, your hand instinctively shot up, covering his mouth. Aemond froze, opening his eye wide to see you staring at him with confusion. "What are you doing?" you asked, your voice full of suspicion.

He mumbled something beneath your hand, and you lowered it, giving him a curious look as you tried to catch his words.

Clearing his throat, clearly embarrassed, he murmured, "I was trying to kiss you."

You squinted at him, still doubtful. "Aemond," you began cautiously, "Septa Agertha says if a maiden and a man kiss, she’ll become with child. And I think we should at least wait until the twins’ first nameday before we bring another baby into the castle."

Aemond’s lips pressed together tightly, trying to suppress a laugh. His ears turned red as he responded, "Maidens do not become pregnant because of kisses."

"Then how do they become with child?" you asked, raising a challenging brow, your tone daring him to contradict what you’d been taught.

Aemond’s face flushed deeply, and his gaze flickered away in sheer embarrassment. He seemed to search for a way to avoid the topic. "Your Septa will tell you... in time," he muttered, clearly hoping to escape further questioning.

You were about to protest, about to accuse your Septa of lying again—how could you trust her after she said that about kissing? But the sight of Aemond’s bright red cheeks and the way he squirmed told you it was better to drop it. So, with a sigh, you decided to change the subject. "So then," you asked, "why do people kiss if it’s not to make babies?"

Aemond shifted awkwardly before murmuring, "To show affection. It’s what people do when they love each other. Married couples especially."

You raised a skeptical eyebrow, folding your arms. "I’ve never seen my mother and father kiss. And I’ve never seen Grandsire and the Queen kiss either."

Aemond made an exasperated sound, running a hand through his hair. "Well... they’re different," he said, sounding both frustrated and amused.

You tilted your head again, considering his words. "Different how?"

"Just different," Aemond replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he looked at you. "Not everyone is... affectionate like that."

"So, you want to kiss me because you’re affectionate?" you teased, a small smirk growing on your face.

Aemond’s ears burned again, and he glanced away, muttering under his breath. "Something like that..."

You tilted your head, watching him with amusement before shrugging nonchalantly. "Alright," you said, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. "You may kiss me."

Aemond's head snapped back toward you, his eye wide in disbelief. "Really?" he asked, unsure if you were being serious.

You nodded, offering him a small smile before puckering your lips in a way you thought was appropriate for a kiss. "Go on, then," you said, your lips pursed in a dramatic display.

Aemond stared at you for a moment, utterly bewildered. "You can't stare at me like that," he finally managed, his voice a little strangled as he glanced away again, clearly nervous.

Rolling your eyes, you sighed, "Alright, Aemond," and then did as he requested, squeezing your eyes shut. You sat there, waiting for him to make the first move, your heart thumping in your chest even though you tried to act as though it didn’t matter at all.

The room felt strangely quiet, save for the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. You could hear Aemond shift slightly, feel the warmth of him as he leaned in closer. The air between you felt charged, as if something important was about to happen.

His breath ghosted across your lips, soft and hesitant, and your heart skipped a beat. But just as you thought the kiss was going to happen, Aemond hesitated again.

"Are you certain?" he whispered, his voice soft and uncertain, as if he didn’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable.

Without opening your eyes, you replied with a huff, "Yes, Aemond. Just do it."

Aemond finally leaned in, pressing his lips gently to yours in the briefest of kisses. It was awkward and tentative, like neither of you really knew what you were doing, but it was soft and sweet in its own way.

When he pulled back, you opened your eyes, blinking at him. The two of you sat there for a moment, staring at each other in silence, unsure of what to say or do next.

"Well?" Aemond asked, his voice low, his cheeks still a little flushed. "How was that?"

You pursed your lips, considering. "It wasn’t so bad," you admitted, then smiled, a hint of mischief in your eyes. "But I don't think that’ll make me with child, so Septa Agertha must be wrong after all."

Aemond let out a small, relieved chuckle, the tension easing from his shoulders. "No," he agreed quietly, "that won't make you with child."

You both shared a soft laugh, the awkwardness melting away as you realized it wasn’t as strange or nerve-wracking as you thought it would be.

Still, after a moment, you tilted your head and added thoughtfully, "Mayhaps we can try again another time... just to make sure."

Aemond’s face broke into a wide grin at your words, and he shook his head, still amused. "Whenever you like," he promised softly, his voice full of warmth.

Aemond’s smile remained as you shared a quiet moment, a comfortable warmth settling between the two of you. His words, soft and full of promise, made your heart flutter a little, though you tried to ignore it. Just as you were about to speak, a strange sound filled the room.

You paused, frowning in confusion as the sound persisted. Aemond’s brow furrowed, and he gave you the same puzzled look. "What is that?" you asked, your voice low and uncertain.

Before Aemond could answer, the sound came again, louder this time—a soft, irregular rattling, like something gently tapping against metal. Both of you turned your heads toward the source of the noise, your eyes settling on the small brazier pot resting on the table beside your chaise.

The pot was trembling slightly, the lid shifting ever so subtly as if something within was stirring to life.

You exchanged a wary glance with Aemond, both of you too stunned to speak. Hope flickered in your chest, a fragile, cautious feeling that you tried desperately to suppress, even though it grew with each passing second. You didn’t want to feel it—not again. Not after so many failed attempts, so many disappointments.

But as the rattling continued, you couldn’t help but let that hope bloom, filling your chest with an almost painful intensity. You could feel Aemond's steady gaze on you, as if he too shared your mixture of anticipation and disbelief. His hand lightly touched your arm, offering silent reassurance as you both stood frozen in place.

Finally, the rattling grew louder, more insistent. Aemond moved first, stepping cautiously toward the brazier pot, his movements careful, as if approaching something fragile and dangerous all at once.

Your heart pounded in your ears as Aemond gently reached out and lifted the lid.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. You held your breath, waiting, expecting the worst, but then—

A small, sharp crack echoed through the air, and your breath hitched in your throat. Aemond’s eye widened in astonishment as he stepped back slightly, motioning for you to come closer.

With shaky steps, you moved forward, peering into the brazier pot. Inside, nestled among the glowing embers, was the dragon egg—your dragon egg. And it was moving.

Tiny cracks began to spread across the surface, like delicate lines etched into stone. A tiny chirp escaped from within, soft yet insistent, and your heart leapt in your chest.

Aemond’s voice was barely a whisper, full of wonder. "It’s hatching."

You didn’t dare speak, afraid that if you did, the fragile moment would shatter. Instead, you watched in awe as the cracks grew wider, the shell breaking apart bit by bit.

Slowly, a tiny snout poked through the shell, followed by a pair of gleaming, sapphire-blue eyes that blinked up at you curiously.

Aemond’s hand slipped into yours, giving it a gentle squeeze, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to smile.

"It’s really happening," you whispered, barely able to contain the joy welling up inside you.

Aemond stood beside you, his gaze never leaving the hatchling, and he nodded, his voice low but filled with a kind of quiet awe. "Yes, it is."

The tiny dragon stretched its delicate wings, the membrane translucent in the firelight, revealing the rich, dark blue that shimmered against the glow. It was so small, fragile even, yet there was a certain strength in its movements, as though it knew its place in the world. Its scales appeared nearly black in the dim light, but with each flicker of the brazier’s flame, a glint of deep sapphire blue reflected back at you, shimmering like the ocean at night.

You couldn't hold back the soft laugh that bubbled from your lips, a sound of pure, unrestrained joy. Your laughter caught the attention of the little dragon, whose head turned sharply towards you. It blinked, tilting its head, studying you with wide, curious eyes before letting out a sharp screech in response. The sound, though high-pitched, was surprisingly strong for such a tiny creature.

Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to spill over, as you knelt closer, your hand trembling slightly as you reached out, but you stopped just short of touching it. It felt too precious, too delicate to handle without care.

"Hello," you murmured, your voice soft and gentle, as though speaking to an infant. "Aren't you absolutely beautiful."

The little dragon blinked again, watching you intently. Its tiny nostrils flared as it took in the scent of the air, its wings fluttering slightly as it made a sound that almost resembled a purr. You couldn't help but smile wider, your heart swelling with affection.

Aemond crouched down beside you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder as he watched the dragon with a look of pride and admiration. "You were meant for each other," he said, his voice filled with certainty.

You looked up at him, tears still brimming in your eyes, and nodded. "I think so," you whispered.

For a long moment, the two of you sat there in quiet awe, watching as the dragon stretched its limbs, adjusting to the world it had just entered. It was strange how something so small could carry such weight, as if this tiny creature already held within it the potential for something great, something magnificent.

As the little dragon shifted closer to you, its warmth radiated through the air, and you felt a bond forming, something deeper than words could express. This was more than just a pet, more than a companion. This was a piece of your soul, reflected in scales and wings, fire and strength.

Aemond’s smile softened as he watched you with the newborn dragon, his gaze flicking between the two of you with a quiet fondness. "What will you name it?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.

You beamed at the little creature before you, a warmth blooming in your chest as you finally dared to reach out. Gently, you brushed your knuckle against her soft, dark scales. She—yes, she was definitely a girl, you were certain of it—immediately leaned into your touch, her tiny body pressing closer, as if seeking comfort from your warmth.

"Treasure," you whispered, the name slipping from your lips without hesitation. A wide, contented smile grew on your face. "Her name is Treasure."

Aemond blinked, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected name, but then a grin spread across his face, lighting up his features. Of course, you would name your dragon something soft, something sweet and endearing. It was just like you to choose a name that carried such a feeling of warmth, rather than something fierce and grand.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head in amusement. "Treasure?" he repeated, his eye twinkling with affection as he looked at you.

You looked up at him, still stroking the dragon’s scales, and nodded firmly. "Yes. Because she’s my treasure," you said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Aemond’s grin only widened as he crouched down beside you again, watching as Treasure nestled closer to your hand, clearly content with the name and her newfound bond with you. "A fitting name," he said quietly, and in that moment, as he watched you and your dragon together, he could see how the two of you were meant for each other.

Treasure let out a soft, sleepy sound, curling closer to the warmth of your hand, and you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of peace. The bond between you and your dragon was only beginning, but it was already something special—something that would only grow stronger with time.

this is anything but the end

guyssss help, im literally crying thinking about young rhaenyra (milly) and reader as a baby. how reader probably became rhaenyra's new best friend and was the only thing keeping her going in court. And how rhaenyra would talk to her as a full-grown person, while reader, being a baby, would just babble back. And how rhaenyra would probably walk around taking her baby everywhere and riding on Syrax with her. BYE lol that just makes it all sadder

(side note in my head ive decided to give reader/y/n the most basic hotd name and name her aemma. because when she has her own daughter with aemond, she'll name her laenora after her father)

Treasure The dragon

I can just imagine reader doing that Sweeney Todd trend with Treasure:

ohh mr.todd 💋 i'm so happy 💋 I could - 💋 eat you up I really could. you know what I like to do mr. todd 💋 what I dream 💋

Ser Rowan

(it's rick grimes because I say so) (note I've only watched two episodes of the walking dead)

Reader's Mind in a nutshell

(I feel if I made this into a full time fic, reader could lowkey have saved the family and avoided the dance of the dragons entirely)

Hope you enjoyed!

Names that are in bold are ones that couldn't be added :(

@evernores @jouryuu @dbd-mommy @g-cf2020 @sl-ut @radiantdanvers @sillysillygyalsmh @callsignwidow @missyviolet123 @thelastemzy @lechat-rouge @sonichkkaaascreams @djarinsstuff @yovrnewromantic @waiting-fortheupdate @strawberymilktea @ninihrtss @kenqki @winter-solstice24 @darlingcharling-blog @feyresqueen @momoewn @literishdegree99 @xxxkat3xxx @6000-fandoms

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #hotd #aemond one eye #aemond x you #hotd x reader

794 notes · View notes

ichorai · 6 months ago

Text

i'm not made by design ; part two ; jaime lannister.

part one.

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 9.0k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/murder/injury, this part covers a few events from a feast for crows, politicking, mentions of incest/rape, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, lots of dreams, jaime is a morally grey delight in this part yes, they are being HAUNTED by each other!

a/n ; wow, it's been a long time coming! ok i know this part is quite short and doesn't yet get to where you guys probably want to be, but tumblr has a max limit of 1k text blocks per post now (boo everyone throw tomatoes) so i'll be posting the rest of the story in smaller chunks! expect the third part to be coming soon, and i promise part three will start off exactly where you guys want it to be :) also if any of you can spot any sort of parallels in this part i will kiss you on the Mouth .

main masterlist. read on ao3!

The wintry breeze tousled the two young Stark girls’ hair, whispering frost into their ears. The horse the two were riding whickered as it galloped through the snow. Lyanna was exclaiming something, something lost to the wind, and you only held all the tighter to her from behind.

“Lyanna, I want to get off!” you yelled, tugging at the furs draped over her. “Lyanna, let me off!”

Your older sister laughed some more. Not wickedly, but more out of fond amusement. She slowed the horse down to a languid canter, then to a trot, and led the stallion towards the shade of a tree. There was snow blanketing the branches and the grass which crunched beneath her weight as she swung down. She looked up at you with her large grey eyes, crinkled at the corners as she grinned boyishly. “Were you frightened?”

You held your arms out for your sister to help you down. Only at eight years of age, you were still of short stature, and Lyanna had picked a rather tall horse. She had always been a voracious rider, even more so than all your brothers.

“I wasn’t frightened,” you indignantly replied as she wrapped her arms about your waist and pulled you down onto the ground.

“Right.” She began to stroke the stallion’s mane, his hooves pawing at the snow. “Do you not trust me, then? Did you think I would ride us right off the edge of a cliff?”

“No,” you replied, scuffing your boots against the snow. “I don’t like riding from behind. I can’t see anything from back there.”

There was a moment of silence before Lyanna reached over to ruffle your hair—an action that both she and Benjen often did. Eddard and Brandon often spared you from such irritations, but being the youngest of the family, you were always doted on and hovered over and babied.

“I don’t trust you riding a horse as big as this, so I suppose we can walk back. It’s not too far.”

“Why can’t I just sit in front of you?”

Your sister stuck her tongue out at you. “We’ve got something in common, you know. What makes you think I like sitting behind?” When you glowered at her, she went on, “Let’s get a move on. Ned will complain that I’m stealing you away—especially since he’s just returned. He misses you. Your letters grow briefer and briefer, he tells me.”

You were none too happy about trudging through the snow, but you voiced no complaint and walked alongside your sister, who tugged at the horse’s reins to follow along.

“He’s always going back and forth,” you said, a small frown marring your features. “I wish he would just stay home. The Eyrie couldn’t possibly compare to Winterfell.”

“You know him.” Lyanna’s dark hair was speckled with snowflakes as she turned to you. “Studious and dutiful as ever.” Her voice went an octave deeper and she pulled a mockingly somber expression in a startling resemblance to Ned. You let out a small laugh at that.

“Last time he visited, you were betrothed,” you said, your voice shrinking to a whisper.

The amusement died away from her eyes, turning stony. “Yes. Though I doubt it will be a fruitful union.”

There were a few more seconds of silence as you considered her words, not entirely sure why she would think so. Robert was loud and robust the few times you’ve met him, but you knew little else of Ned’s friend.

“Do you think he’ll bring a wedding proposal for me this time?”

Lyanna’s features contorted with surprise. “Why? Do you want to be married?”

Your cheeks flushed with heat, despite the frost settling over your skin. “Well—if Father says I have to, then I will.”

“I didn’t ask about Father,” replied Lyanna. It was hard for her to believe that you were only eight sometimes. You always tried to act older than you actually were. “I asked about you.”

Winterfell grew larger and larger as the two of you drew nearer to the castle gates. Home.

“I don’t think I’d mind getting married,” you told your sister, eyes downcast and brows pulled together in thought. “As long as I get to stay in Winterfell. I never want to leave.”

Lyanna smiled, all teeth and cheek. “Wouldn’t that be a dream?” she sighed.

The rest of the short journey was made in relative silence, and you left your sister and the tall stallion by the stables (not without her ruffling your hair one last time), and you dashed up to the castle chambers where you knew Ned would be.

He carried no proposals, only a few books he thought you would enjoy and a warm hug.

You awoke with a startled gasp, kicking at the thin blanket that laid over your form. It took you several moments to realize where you were. A boat. Rocking steadily, back and forth and back and forth. You rubbed at your sleepy eyes whilst drawing your knees up to your chest, still blinking away remnants of your dream.

Lyanna. Ned. Still young, still practically children.

One of the tongueless little birds stood in the doorway. It was an ominous sight. Her eyes were large and unblinking, glinting like glass balls within her small head. In her hands was a wooden bowl, full of what looked to be a poultice of sorts. She drew nearer, and the heavy scent of honey and flowers reached your nose.

“What is it?” you asked the child, a coil of pity winding in the pit of your stomach. You knew they couldn’t respond—Varys had stolen not only their youth, but their voices, too. “Is this food?”

A foreign delicacy of sorts, maybe? An Essosi dessert you weren’t familiar with, perhaps. It looked quite unappetizing, though you knew you had no room to complain.

The girl shook her head, then pointed to your hair, which was pulled back into a braid. You understood from just that, and nodded your thanks while accepting the bowl from her. This was hair dye, made from a blend of flowers and other substances you couldn’t name. You supposed it was a necessary precaution—you had an unmistakable Northern look to you, and would surely stick out like a sore thumb here down South. Dyeing your hair and cutting it short would help to somewhat conceal your identity. Short enough, and perhaps you could even be mistaken for a man, at least at a first quick glance.

The little girl left a dagger and a small, rusty, hand-held mirror by your legs and disappeared from your cabin in complete silence, as if she was never there in the first place. They were like ghosts, this crew of children. Everything was so quiet all the time, with only your thoughts and the ocean waves to accompany you.

You unbraided your hair and shook it loose. Hair carried memories. Memories of Catelyn showing you how hair was done in the Riverlands, memories of Benjen tugging at your hair to tease you, memories of Jaime commenting on how your hair was a lovely shade of animal waste. That had been grumpily remarked earlier on, when you and Brienne were escorting him to King’s Landing. Before Locke and Roose Bolton and… Robb.

You propped up the rust-spotted mirror against the wall and scooped up the dagger. The reflection that met you was only barely recognizable. You looked so tired. With a resigned sigh, you began to slice off your hair with the sharp blade. Handfuls fell to the ground. You sliced and sliced until your head felt light and your neck was bare. It’s never been this short before. If Benjen were here, you knew he would surely laugh at you. Brandon would comment that he never knew he had another brother.

Yes, you thought. I can surely pass as a man if I wanted to. Though you certainly shared many features with your sister, you hadn’t the wild beauty Lyanna had. No, you were far plainer than her, colder and sharper than she was. Nothing worthy to note—though your father, quiet as a man he was, once told you that you looked the most like your mother out of all your siblings. That had made you feel more beautiful than anything.

Plain was good, though. Plain meant no eyes would be drawn to you.

You weren’t too sure what color your hair would turn with this dye. You lathered the thick paste over your newly-cut strands, massaging it into your scalp. Your nose twitched from the strong odor—not entirely unpleasant, but also wasn’t a delight breathing in.

As you rinsed your hands of the dye, your skin was left with a slight copperish stain. You stared at the color with sad eyes—would your hair turn out red like Cat’s? Like all your nephews and Sansa?

And, like a fool, you wondered if Jaime would like short, red hair. He wouldn’t care much, you found yourself thinking, perhaps wishfully so. Did you want him to care?

Two children brought you food—rations of dried meat and crusty bread. You wolfed half of it down and handed them the other half. Though they couldn’t speak, the children made for pleasant company. Or perhaps you were just lonely. It was hard to tell.

After eating, you rinsed out the hair dye and wrung the water out with a cloth over the edge of the ship. The cloth came away stained bright red. You retreated back into the cabin to look at the mirror.

It was a shock to see your hair resemble Catelyn’s. It was darker than hers had been, but the auburn, orange-red sheen to your head was unmistakable. You looked like a Tully! You nearly laughed with amazement, but any sort of joy was short-lived, and you lapsed into more silence.

You laid on the rickety bed, thinking of Winterfell and your now-scattered family. Robb and Ned and Cat and the younglings Bran and Rickon might have been taken from you, but… you still had family left. Sansa and Arya could very well be scattered somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, alive and breathing. Jon, at the Wall, as well. At least, you hoped. It’d been so long since your time sending letters to the young boy. Was he hurt that you stopped sending them so suddenly?

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes, and you drew your knees to your chest, willing yourself into a restless slumber.

Days came and went. The little children were growing more agitated, fluttering about the boat with wide eyes and quick feet. They tossed nets overboard into the water—masquerading the boat as a fishing vessel, you assumed. There were many ships out and about Blackwater Bay. Some carried banners of houses loyal to the crown, and others were bannerless. Pirates or fishermen, you couldn’t tell.

So far, all other ships have passed by quietly. But the risk grew with each day. You knew Tywin and Cersei would likely order more fleets to be sent after you, Sansa, and Tyrion. The chances of you being found on water would grow each day—and you couldn’t risk becoming a prisoner again. Jaime wouldn’t be able to help you escape a second time, not with Cersei around.

At least on foot… you had somewhere to run. Being on sea left you nothing but water for miles on end.

And so you told the silent children to let you off at the nearest fishing port. Some part of you wondered if they would object, but they stared at you with round, moon eyes and nodded. You didn’t know whether to thank or damn Varys.

The ship docked in the dead of night, half a mile from Duskendale. One of the little children handed you a map and tapped at where they’d leave you. A pouch full of food rations, more dye, and other necessities was left on your cot. You thanked the child endlessly, who seemed not to hear your gratitude and scuttled away. You grabbed the pouch, the dagger, the bow and quiver full of arrows Varys had presumably left you, and slipped into a large cloak.

Land felt like it was lurching beneath your feet once you stepped onto the pier. Your body was used to the swaying motions of the waters, and would take some time to adjust. You gingerly shook one of your booted feet. The children watched you disembark on wobbly legs, but you dared not wave back at them.

Despite it being nighttime, the docks were busier than ever. Fishermen and merchants littered all over the shore, some selling products and entertainment and others working hard to gather more to sell before day broke. You steeled yourself with a deep breath, and made your way through the busy crowd.

You began trekking your way North towards the Eyrie, the hood of your cloak pulled over your short, red hair.

It took nearly three weeks for you to reach the Crossroads. Nightfall was nearing when you strode in front of the inn, the sky a mirage of bleeding reds from the setting sun and moody greys from the rainclouds. The air smelled of mud and rusted metal. It was certainly no grand castle, but a modest bed was better than sleeping on the cold dirt you’ve been curled up on the past several days. There was a young girl and a dark-haired boy by the front that looked somewhat like your memory of Robert Baratheon twenty-some years ago. At first, the boy denied your request for shelter, but reluctantly clammed up once you offered him some gold, worth more than it ever could in times of war. The two let you pass with not a word more.

Greeting you inside was a ruckus of loud children. Parentless, you realized, as there were none to be seen within the inn’s walls. An inn full of orphans, you thought with a touch of sadness. In that regard you supposed you shared a similarity with all of them.

Just as you slipped onto one of the creaking wooden stools to momentarily rest your weary feet, you overheard a voice. A familiar voice. Low and raspy and unmistakably—

Brienne, you thought, wide-eyed. But she wasn’t alone. A young boy was by her side, yes, that was Podrick, and an older man—a knight, by the looks of his armor, and an even older septon with grey hair and a hunched back. What a queer party Brienne was leading. She was supping on porridge and salted cod.

The impulsive part of you wanted to call out for her and rush to her side, ask if she had found any sign of Sansa, or if she had made any progress on her quest. Instead, you drew in a deep breath, and stood from your stool to take a seat across from Podrick whilst Brienne was busy speaking to the knight. The young squire made a half-gasping, half-choking noise once his eyes raised from the cup he was draining to your cold eyes, recognizing you immediately. You discreetly lifted a finger to your lips to silence him. His eyes went moon-round and he nodded once.

Brienne ignored the knight’s constant jabbering about lips and marriage and castles full of children, and turned to look at her squire in mild concern of him choking on a fish bone. But her eyes landed on you, and her mouth dropped open.

She was very near to bowing her head and saying, “My lady.” But she didn’t, knowing it would draw far too much attention, and stared at you with utter confusion plain over her features.

“Hello,” you said to her. “It has been a while, Brienne.”

“Do you know each other?” the knight bumped in. He spooned some porridge into his mouth.

“Brienne and I were childhood friends on Tarth,” you lied. “I was the son of a cook. A nobody in truth, but Brienne was kind enough to befriend me.”

Brienne was no good at lying, you knew this, but she nodded along to your story.

The knight looked you over. “A little runt boy and a grand beast of a girl. The two of you must have been a sight.”

You could only offer him half a shrug at that.

“What brings you here?” Brienne carefully asked you.

“Someone helped me leave,” you responded with equal caution. Avoiding the knight’s curious eyes, you leaned closer to Brienne. “Is there a place for us to speak with fewer naked children milling about?”

Being around Varys’ little birds for long enough taught you that children were oft smarter than they looked. Somewhere to your right, you saw one of the little orphan boys stick a nut inside his nostril.

Brienne nodded and led you just outside, away from prying ears and eyes. There, you told her everything. From Tyrion’s trial, to Oberyn’s death, to Cersei demanding you to be locked up or killed (whichever suited her taste that day), to Jaime helping you escape, to the birds on the boat, to your journey here. In turn, Brienne told you of her lengthy journey and what she had found on the way. Mostly nothing, lots of war and skirmishes. Sandor Clegane was dead, but Arya had been with him soon before that… not Sansa. The thought of Arya somewhere out there alive, sparked dangerous hope within your chest.

“Varys says Sansa is in the Eyrie, masquerading as Baelish’s bastard daughter.” The thought revolted you. “But I do wonder if the Eyrie is a trap of sorts. I cannot trust Varys. He certainly is no friend of the Lannisters, but neither is he their enemy. For all I know, he may be conspiring with dragons and grumpkins.”

“Sansa would be safe with her Aunt Lysa there, right?” Brienne asked, though even she sounded doubtful of her own question.

“I can’t quite say,” you said, brows furrowed. “Lysa is an unpredictable woman. Frightened and secluded is never a good combination of characteristics. Even so, I doubt Sansa would make her way home up North without being intercepted. It wouldn’t hurt to check the Vale first.”

Brienne nodded solemnly. “We can make our way first thing in the morning. For now, you must rest, my lady. You must be exhausted.”

The sudden reminder of the limitations of your body made your knees wobble. The past few days had you running on little else than adrenaline, fear, and meager portions of salted foods.

“I missed you, Brienne,” you whispered, looking up at her. “I fear trusted friends are few and far in between in these times.” Not that you ever had many friends to begin with. Everyone had always been so afraid of you—something Brienne could relate to.

The term friend dusted pink over Brienne’s large, crooked nose and broad, freckled cheekbones. She was certainly not pretty, not by a long shot, but that was of no matter to you. She was the most beautiful blessing you could have possibly encountered—your chances of survival and finding Sansa were far better with Brienne by your side.

“I missed you, as well,” Brienne managed to choke out after many moments of stunned silence. She had never been good with niceties. “Podrick has been company enough, but the boy is young and easily frightened.”

“I’m frightened, too,” you admitted. “One would be a fool not to be, with enemies at every turn. Young, however, is a trait I have long outgrown.”

Brienne looked up at the night sky. “Youth was a curse on me. I always looked older than I was.”

“Me, as well,” you mused with a thoughtful hum. Memories of the lords and ladies living at Winterfell’s court whispering behind your back… sending you strange looks of distant pity… veering far out of your way in fear of you… it weighed heavy on you, especially in your younger years. “My anger has aged me a decade, I think.”

Before Brienne could respond, there came a commotion of noise. Men on horses, their hooves schlocking through mud and puddles. Instinctively, you drew the cowl of your hood up over your head. They are armed, these men, you thought with grim unease. And there were many of them, just above half a dozen. Far too many for you and Brienne to take alone.

Brienne drew in a sharp breath at the sight of them and unsheathed Oathkeeper. She stepped in front of you before you could even begin to react. The biggest man of the party was so hefty that his beaten horse buckled and shook beneath the sheer force of his weight. His pale face was torn and wept with pus and blood. But Brienne’s eyes were drawn to his snarling helm—with its dull metal nose and sharp teeth of steel. It was the Hound’s property but the man wearing it was certainly no Hound.

The sky grew darker and the storm clouds thundered up above. The young girl that had greeted you into the inn had slammed the door open, now holding a crossbow. Whatever she was screaming was lost to the rain and thunder.

“Loose a quarrel at me and I’ll shove that crossbow up your cunt and fuck you with it. Then I’ll pop your fucking eyes out and make you eat them,” raged the man, his voice nearly as loud as the booming in the sky. Your chest rose and fell in silence as you slowly reached behind you to unsling your bow.

“Leave her be,” called out Brienne, drawing their attention. “If you want to rape someone, try me.”

The outlaws laughed and chortled at that. One japed about fucking horses before fucking her. The rest of their words were unintelligible to you as you focused on drawing an arrow without pulling too much attention to yourself. It proved to be a difficult task when there were seven pairs of eyes trained on Brienne, and, consequently, you, as well.

Brienne said something you couldn’t catch, leaving the man with the helm fuming. He charged forward through the mud. Brienne shuffled away from you—she needed the man to come to her, but not to get too close to you. You were her priority now.

A song of steel screeched through the rain-torn wind as their swords clashed. Brienne managed to cut through the rags of his tunic and slash a gaping hole in his cheap chainmail just before she just barely evaded his swinging axe. The man was screaming expletives at her—whore, bitch, freak.

You nocked the arrow with not a second thought.

Then the drawstring was split in two and you were left with a useless bow. One of the outlaws had made his way to you whilst you were concentrating on the man with the helm—and broke your favored weapon.

“Shhh,” he crooned as he laid the cold, wet blade of the knife he used to cut your bow against your throat. “Enjoy and watch the show, boy.” He must have thought you were one of the orphans that lived here—and not much of a threat, considering he pulled the knife away from you and made a show of pointing it towards Brienne and her attacker. “It’s not every day you see a woman like her battle a man like him.”

You nodded, playing along. You still had the dagger you used to cut your hair tucked against your hip. It was a touch too dull for your liking, but it would have to do for now. You had no other choice. With the man’s eyes drawn back to their messy duel, you drew its blade and drove it forth, straight into throat. His arms flailed for a second before clawing at your face and chest. Pain bloomed over your skin. If you were bleeding, you couldn’t feel it—not with all the rain pouring over you. You savagely tore the dagger out from his throat and drove it through his chest again and again and again. From your peripheral vision, you could see Brienne parry over and over, stab this way and that—and finally skewer her longsword straight through him until its pointy end protruded out his back.

You continued stabbing the man until he fell to the ground in a limp, bloodied heap. Even then you didn’t stop—straddling his waist and bringing the dagger down in furious strokes. It occurred to you that the other men would be upon Brienne a second too late—when you swung around, she was swarmed by the rest of them.

“Eddard!” she called, immediately halting you in your assault on the long-dead outlaw. It took you a moment to realize that she was addressing you, not wanting to call out your actual name. “Run! Run, now!”

Two of the outlaws were coming towards you.

“Brienne!” you yelled just as one of them sliced a cut through her shoulder she couldn’t properly roll away from. The rest of your protests caught in your throat when you watched one of them—one with wild eyes that had irises too small and teeth filed sharp—dive forward onto Brienne, sending her crashing to the ground. He bit a chunk of her face right off.

More men surrounded her. Punching, kicking, and slicing at your friend. No, you couldn’t see her anymore, where is she? Get up, Brienne, get up…

“GO!” you could hear her muffled voice scream. “NED, GO!”

No, no, no…

But if you stayed, you would be dead, as well. One of the outlaws made a grab for you, but you danced back. If not for the two slipping on the watery mud the very next second, you would have been dead.

With your heart beating in your throat, you turned on your heel and fled.

What was a kingsguard without his king? Jaime hadn’t been happy to be sent off to the Riverlands again—his place was beside Tommen. The boy-king with a golden crown sitting atop his golden curls. Cersei had insisted on him leaving, however. She’d grown more restless, more paranoid, more snappy since their father’s death. Lancel, his fool of a cousin, was now a religious fanatic who seemed to be intent on fasting until he passed from starvation, and had confessed his sins of lying with Cersei. Apparently he was not the only one. The Kettleblack brothers, the court fools, and hells, even serving girls, if word of mouth was to be trusted.

He felt a fool for ever loving her. And now she had kicked him out of the castle and away from his duty like one would a dirty mongrel.

Let her run the kingdom to ruin. See if I care.

Jaime wearily pulled at his face. That was the problem—he did care, and he knew he did. Cersei on the throne would mean little good for anybody. Not for his little brother, not for Brienne, not for you. He hoped you were safe, wherever you were.

The knight with one hand had had a long day, even though it was not yet nightfall. He had spoken to the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, in hopes of making some sort of negotiation. Perhaps goad him into a duel of single-combat and spare everyone of the grueling boredom that came with a slow siege. Expectedly, the wind-beaten lord took none of the bait and retreated back into his castle. Then, he had a short, but explosive council meeting with a few of the riverlords. They squabbled over each other like mindless birds over a piece of half-baked bread. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder what his father would do in his shoes, but was quick to relinquish such a thought. Tywin Lannister would never be in this position in the first place. And he was dead, which was perhaps the more important bit. After the council, he paid a visit to Ryman Frey, who was preoccupied fucking some whore who called herself a Queen. He had the big oaf dismissed for wasting so much time and resources, then named his son, Edwyn, command of the siege. He ordered young Edwyn to tell his great-grandsire, Walder Frey, to release all the prisoners for the crown. There was no undoing the Red Wedding, but he could, at the very least, attempt to rectify the troubles it left in its wake.

And now—now Jaime had one more person to visit.

It was his aunt, Genna Lannister, who had urged Jaime to do something about the sullen man with the noose loosely wrapped around his throat. In his state, he posed no danger physically. As a symbol, however, Edmure Tully, was a great danger to the cause. His cause? Jaime wasn’t entirely sure what he was fighting for anymore. It certainly didn’t feel like he was protecting Tommen from all these leagues away from him. His golden hand felt so very heavy strapped onto his stump—why did he still bother carrying it around?

Ilyn Payne made quick work of cutting Edmure Tully down from the wooden gallows he was perched upon. His hair, scraggly and red, hung in limp clumps over his dirtied, bloody face. Eyes deep blue, heavy with exhaustion. Jaime couldn’t help but think of Robb Stark at the sight of him. Gods, they looked alike.

Jaime had Edmure pulled through the tents and mass of Freys and other rivermen alike. One japed about a fish on a leash. A young man holding an instrument was amongst the throng of stares, and he ordered the singer to follow, and the lad obediently did. Onto a ferry they went, where the vessel would carry them to Tumblestone.

“Why?” Edmure has croaked, gripping weakly onto Jaime’s arm.

“Consider it a wedding gift,” Jaime replied.

The Tully eyed him warily. “A wedding gift?”

“I’ve heard your wife is pretty. She’d have to be, for the two of you to be abed whilst your sister and king were being murdered.” Jaime gave him a wry look.

“I never knew. There were musicians outside the bedchamber, I couldn’t…”

“I’m sure Lady Roslin made for a grand distraction, as well.”

At the crass insinuation, however truthful, Edmure frowned and pulled away from the knight. “They made her do it. She had little say in the matter. Roslin never wanted any of it to happen. She wept the entire night, but I thought…”

“You thought it was your rampant manhood that swayed her to tears? It’s a sight any woman would weep to, I’m sure.”

Edmure hung his head. “She is carrying my child.”

Your child or your death? Jaime thought, but tastefully decided not to say it out loud. Not yet. Instead, he asked, “Your king-nephew, Robb. Did he ever speak of his aunt before his end?”

Edmure lifted his gaze to the kingslayer at that. “The Bitter Wolf?” He thought for a moment, eyes distant. “No. She was hardly ever brought up. Robb didn’t like to speak of her. Not after her betrayal with your freedom. If he did speak of her, it would’ve been with Catelyn.”

“Who is now dead,” Jaime dryly said.

“Yes,” Edmured replied, letting his gaze drift down to the waters.

“Much help you are.”

“Where is she now? The Bitter Wolf.”

Jaime saw no point in lying to him. “I don’t know.”

The rest of the ferry trip was spent in silence.

Once at his pavilion, Jaime dismissed Ilyn, but kept the singer around. He ordered the servants there to boil bathwater for the honored guest, and had clean garments brought to him, along with warm food and sweet wine. Edmure still couldn’t quite comprehend why exactly Jaime Lannister was being so courteous, but couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of cleanliness. He clambered into the tub and started scrubbing the grime off his skin.

Jaime pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “After you’re clean and your belly is full, you will be escorted to Riverrun. What happens after that is up to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Jaime. “Your uncle is old. Valiant, admittedly, but his best years are behind him. He has no wife to grieve for him, nor children to succeed him. A good death is the most the Blackfish can wish for. You, however, have many years remaining to you. You are the rightful heir to House Tully, not him. Your uncle serves you, by law. Riverrun’s fate is in your hands.”

Edmure blinked at him. “I don’t…”

“Understand, I presume? All that time with a rope around your neck must have strangled you of all your wits.” Jaime was growing impatient. “You must yield the castle. Yield, and nobody dies. The smallfolk will be allowed to leave in peace, or they may serve Lord Emmon and his lady-wife, my aunt. Ser Brynden will be allowed to take the black and join the Night’s Watch, with as many of the garrison that choose to join. You, as well. The Wall is in dire need of more hands, I’ve heard. If that is not to your tastes, you may go to Casterly Rock as my captive and enjoy all the comforts and courtesy that befits a hostage of your rank. Your wife may join you. If your sire is a boy, he will serve House Lannister as a squire. Once he comes of age, he is welcome to earn his knighthood, along with some lands I will bestow upon him. If Roslin bears you a daughter, she will be well dowered until she is old enough to wed a fitting lord. You may be granted parole, even, once the war is done. All this only if you yield the castle.”

The water steamed and sloshed in the tub as Edmure gingerly shifted about. “And if I will not yield?”

The servants and squires were all listening. The singer watched the two speak with wide eyes. No matter. Let them all hear it.

“You’ve seen our numbers, Edmure. The ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. If I speak the command, my cousin will bridge your moat and break your gate. Blood will spill. Hundreds will die, most being your own people. Your former bannermen will be the first wave of attackers, so you will start your day by killing fathers, brothers, and sons of men who died for you at the Twins. The second wave will be Freys, and there are plenty of them to spare. My westermen will be the third once your archers are exhausted of arrows and your knights so weary their blades will no longer lift from the ground. The castle will fall, and all inside will be put to the sword. Your livestock will be butchered. Your river will rot with corpses. Your godswood will fall. Your keeps and inventories will burn.” Jaime swallowed as he said the next words. It was true that he did not actually mean to do it, but a threat was a threat, and words are wind. “Your wife may have the child before any of this. You’ll want the babe, I presume. I can send him to you once he’s born. With a trebuchet.”

There came a lengthy silence. Edmure was still in the bath. All the servants and squires stared in horror.

Genna had told him earlier that he was not his father’s son. Tyrion was more Tywin’s than he could ever dream to be. Would her mind change if she had heard his speech? Was this what Tywin would have done?

“I could climb out of this tub and kill you right as you are, Kingslayer,” said Edmure, once he finally regained his wits about him.

“You could try,” Jaime calmly replied. The man made no move, so Jaime pushed himself back to his feet. “Enjoy your food. Singer, play for our guest while he eats. You know the song, I trust.”

“The one about rain? Yes, my lord, I know it.”

Edmure’s head swiveled between the singer and Jaime. “No. I don’t want him. Get him away from me.” The tub water sloshed some more.

“Why, it’s just a song, Lord Tully,” said Jaime, feigning innocence. “His voice couldn’t be that bad.”

The knight left his pavilion with the beginnings of Rains of Castamere playing faintly behind him.

The inns you came across the road were growing sparse. Many had been torched, ransacked, abandoned, or torn down. War left much of the Riverlands in ruins. Though you were none too happy about the state of the lands, pillaged, empty villages meant there would be fewer people loitering about, which was all the better for you.

You had managed to outrun the outlaws through the cover of the storm and ruins. It was only when the rain cleared away did you let yourself sit down and silently cry for Brienne. None deserved a fate like that. She was so undeniably good, more honorable than any other man you’ve ever met—and yet her face was torn apart and now she was dead.

Eventually, you made it out of the Riverlands and began to travel along the high road up to the Eyrie. It was the safest option to get there—the mountains were hardly on the table to walk through on your own, considering it was likely running amok with clansmen and thieves of all sorts. Even on the high road, the terrain was far more mountainous than the relatively-level grounds of the riverlands, and the incline noticeably steeper. You were traveling at a much slower pace than before, growing ragged and tired with shorter distances.

On the third day on the narrow pathway towards the Bloody Gate, you came across two men on a cart. Merchants, perhaps. You spied the stacked wine casks in the back of the cart, wondering if they were empty. Surely they must be, you thought. The Vale is not likely to make any wine of their own, not with mountains as sheer as theirs.

As their cart slowly rolled by, being pulled by braying donkeys, you overheard one of the men say, “A singer, it’s said!”

“A singer?” the other merchant echoed.

“Yes, a singer! They say he shoved Lady Arryn right off a mountain.”

Lady Arryn? Your ears perked up at that. Did they mean Lysa?

He glanced at his companion dubiously. “I heard she threw herself out the door once she confessed her love to him.”

“That’s nonsense, have you seen the way she grips that sickly whelp of hers? She would never throw herself to her death whilst little Robin lives.”

That confirmed it. Lysa is dead?

“If I had a son like that, I’d do the very same,” he grumbled.

“Wait! Good sers!” you exclaimed, turning back to hurry after the cart. The donkeys whined protest as they were pulled to a slow stop. They both glanced back at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Sers?” The one with mousy brown hair piped up with a laugh lodged in his throat. “We are no knights.”

“Apologies, it’s a habit now, I fear. I simply wanted to know—” You stopped in your tracks. “What were you saying about Lady Arryn?”

“She’s dead, she is,” the older of the two merchants told you. His nose was crooked in three different places. “Out the Moon Door—or off the mountain—she flew.”

You stared at them for a moment, trying to gauge whether they were being serious or not. Tall tales such as this were not uncommon amongst the lowborn. “And who now rules in her stead?”

“Little Lord Robin is young still—”

“And far too sickly!”

“—Until he comes of age, Lord Petyr Baelish is Lord of the Vale.”

Littlefinger. The realization dawned on you with great unease as you recalled his infatuation with your good-sister and his alliances with the crown. Lannister crowns. This was no good… no good at all…

“Thank you,” you told the merchants. “That’s good to know.”

“Where are you off to?” said the younger one.

“Runestone,” you lied. “I have family there.”

That seemed to appease them well enough. The one with brown hair waved farewell as he set the donkeys back into motion. You silently thanked the Gods for coming across decent men. You watched the cart of wine caskets descend down the path.

Now what? You could hardly stroll straight into the Vale now—not with the threat of Littlefinger handing you right back into Cersei’s mad hands. Should you even trust these rumors, though? Perhaps the septon at the Bloody Gate could clarify the situation for you. Surely he would tell you the truth. But getting there would take weeks, and you certainly didn’t have that sort of time. If word of Littlefinger’s rule in the Eyrie was true, you would be wasting even more time doubling back to escape. And if he heard of your presence in the Vale there was no telling what he would do… have you locked up and sent to Cersei in a cage?

But what about Sansa? Your heart shattered at the thought of leaving her alone at the Eyrie with Baelish. You had to be smart about this. Even if Sansa was in the Vale, and if you managed to get to her, and if you could whisk her out of the castle undetected, there was nowhere for the two of you to go that would be safe. Sansa wouldn’t last a fortnight out in the wilderness. Gods forbid, but perhaps it was best for her to stay in the Eyrie until you managed to find a stronghold that would keep her safe and protected.

Then again, she could just as likely be elsewhere in Westeros. Arya, too. Gods, you wished Brienne was with you. You could still see the blood spurting from her face, her screams cracking through the thunderous air.

Damn you, Jaime. You should have come with me, you said to yourself, knowing it was a foolish chain of thought. He wouldn’t be much help, anyway. All he did when we traveled together was complain and find new ways to irritate me.

You lingered on the path for a few more moments. Then, you frustratedly gestured to nobody, made a noise of displeasure, and turned to follow after the wine merchants.

Back to the Riverlands you went.

Riverrun was now taken, but at a great cost. Brynden the Blackfish had escaped. All thanks to Jaime’s carelessness and Edmure’s wit. This would never have happened if Tywin was around, Jaime couldn’t help but lament. It was no wonder his aunt Genna told him he was nothing like his father.

He was a fool, and his father knew it.

After a series of threats to both Edmure and his wife, the Tully lord managed to sullenly tell him what he knew of the Blackfish’s whereabouts. Which, to Jaime’s dismay, was very little.

“He swam away,” Edmure had told him. He had the very same blue eyes as Catelyn did, as well as Robb. The very same look of loathing in them, as well. There was a time when you looked at him like that. “The Water Gate’s portcullis was raised. Not enough to be noticed, only three feet or so. My uncle is a strong swimmer. He pulled himself beneath the spikes and I can only assume the current helped him from there.”

Damn it all.

Jaime had hounds and hunters on the prowl for the Blackfish, but he had little hope of catching him. And Edmure was to be heading west the following morning. Jaime was glad to be rid of him, though he worried that the man would slip through the guards he would be traveling with. The knight wasn’t too keen on hunting for the Tully a third time.

News of Ryman Frey’s death was brought to him by young Edwyn, the former’s son. Hanged, apparently, by a band of outlaws nearby Fairmarket, which was boldly close by. Thoros, or Dondarrion, or this mysterious Stoneheart woman. There was little to do about the matter now—Jaime ordered more guards posted and that was that.

That night, he practiced his shoddy, left-handed swordsmanship with the silent Ilyn Payne. He managed to last a grand total of three hours before giving into his cramping muscles’ begs for a rest. Afterwards, he poured the both of them cups full of Hoster Tully’s wine, and told Payne of how he used to kiss his sister when they were children. It was innocent at first, until it wasn’t. It felt nice being able to freely tell someone of everything knowing he couldn’t possibly relay such information to anybody else—Payne’s lack of a tongue ironically made Jaime chattier than ever.

“Tyrion once told me that whores oft avoid kissing their patrons. They’ll fuck you until your legs fall off, he said, but they keep their lips far from yours. It’s what separates work from real romance. I wonder if my sister ever kissed Kettleblack.” Jaime thought for a long moment. “I kissed the Bitter Wolf.”

Payne spared him no reaction.

“She was crying.” Jaime took a sip of wine, leaving out the fact that he had shed a tear or two. “Not because of the kiss, though. I hope not, at least. I’m not that bad of a kisser. Cersei never cried when we kissed.” Though, after he said that, he realized basing his assumptions around Cersei wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do. You and Cersei were many leagues apart from one another.

Payne drained his cup and gestured for Jaime to refill it.

As he did, Jaime went on. “If not for Tyrion’s reckless call for a trial by combat, I would have married her. The Bitter Wolf. We would be at Casterly Rock, and Tyrion would be at the Wall, and my father would still be alive, and my son would sit the Iron Throne, and all would be well. Or not. Cersei would make matters difficult. I doubt Y/N would be pleased about her predicament, either, come to think of it.”

He decided to change the subject back to Kettleblack when Payne’s silence stretched for a little while longer.

“It would be ill-fitting to slay mine own Sworn Brother. I should geld him and send him to the Wall—make up for Tyrion’s loss in some way. He’s been to the Wall, perhaps he had no taste for returning. It’s bloody cold there, I’ve heard. Of course, if I were to lay a hand on Osmund, there would be his brothers to consider, as well. Brothers can be dangerous. Aegon the Unworthy had Ser Terrence Toyne dismembered into pieces after finding him abed with his mistress, and forced her to watch. Toyne’s brothers tried to kill the King for it, though their plans were ultimately foiled by the Dragonknight. It’s written in the White Book. All of it, including every knightly deed and chivalrous act. It doesn’t tell me what to do with Cersei, though.”

Ilyn dragged a finger across his scarred throat.

“No,” Jaime said. “Tommen has already lost a brother, and the man he thinks is his father. If his mother were to die by my hand, he would hate me for it. I’m sure his sweet little wife would use that hatred to her benefit, as well.”

An ugly smile stretched at Ilyn’s thin lips. Jaime misliked the crude gleam in his eye.

“You talk too much,” Jaime told the mute.

The next night, Jaime found himself in Hoster Tully’s solar, looking over a map, wondering where the Blackfish could have gone. Many of his hunters had returned that morning, torn and bleeding. Direwolves, they had told him. A monstrous pack with a large she-wolf leading them. He wondered if that could have been the wolf that had mauled Joffrey what had felt like a lifetime ago.

In consequence, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder about you. Did the direwolves like you at all? He strained his mind to remember, but couldn’t seem to recall. It confused him when his chest constricted at the thought of forgetting you.

The war was practically won. Dragonstone was taken, and Storm’s End would be very soon. Stannis was welcome to the cold fruits of the Wall—if Roose Bolton hadn’t already destroyed him. And the Riverlands were successfully taken without Jaime ever having to raise a sword against neither Stark nor Tully. All in all, he was to be content.

But where did that place you? Once everything calmed down, what would happen to you? To Sansa, who surely deserved no harm that would come to her? She was just a young girl and you… you were far from the paragon of innocence, to be certain, but surely he could have Tommen pardon you for any of your crimes. Your crimes being allegiance to your own nephew, which Jaime could hardly fault you for.

Then again, Cersei was the problem. There was no chance she would sit idly by and let you live. Once he returned to King’s Landing, he had to find a way to whisk Tommen from her crutches before he would turn as corrupt as Joffrey. A new council full of abled men would be in order, as well.

More and more days passed. Jaime had the entire Tully garrison safely released from their keep, which displeased his Aunt Genna greatly, but Jaime was intent on letting them go. There was little harm they could do when they were scattered, weaponless, and hungry.

He dreamed of Cersei most nights. Of her golden hair, which then molded into golden hands. In his dreams, he always had two hands. Sometimes touching her, stroking her, holding her—dreamy memories of old. Sometimes he was strangling her, which he certainly had never done before.

Other nights he dreamed of Brienne. Her big, brutish face red with rage and exhaustion. She would swing Oathkeeper at his neck and he awoke just before his head rolled off his shoulders.

Some of the nights, however scarce they were, were far more precious. He dreamt of you, your hair freckled with snow, your eyes alight as you watched children play beneath you. He was in Winterfell, he realized, and with a shocked start looked back down at the children. His? No. They were your nieces and nephews, of course. Their faces were a blur, but their red hair was unmistakable. Save for the littlest girl and the bastard boy. Snow, Jaime remembered.

“We should have one,” your dream-self said to him, so serious that Jaime wondered if it was actually you standing there in front of him. “A little wolf-lion.”

Did Jaime want that? Would they have golden hair like his? Like Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen? But how could he have another child when he was never a father to the ones he already had? It felt wrong to even consider it. Dishonorable. Any romantic notion of a normal life with you was quickly dashed.

“I know we can’t,” you continued on before he could respond. “They’re all dead.” You gestured down to the Starklings. “And I’ll be joining them soon. But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“No—” he said, reaching out to you, but you had already faded into a blur.

Not all of his dreams with you were as bleak. Once he was abed with you, and another time he was bound by rope as you pointed an arrow at his forehead while he cackled maniacally.

A week after releasing the last of the garrison, Jaime woke up with a start after dreaming about a cloaked figure that looked eerily similar to Cersei, though he knew it wasn’t her. His mother spoke soft riddles, where Cersei would bark harsh insults. He couldn’t quite tell which he favored. He threw the covers off him with his stump.

The room was frigid. The hearth’s warmth had waned away and the windows had been left pushed open when he fell asleep. In the darkness, Jaime made his way to close the shutters, but his foot touched against a wetness on the ground. Blood had been his first thought, but blood would not be so cold. Rain, perhaps, but he would have heard the sound of pattering coming from outside.

Jaime drew the damp curtains apart, letting the moonlight stream through. Moonlight and snow. Down below, the yard was spotting with white, growing thicker and thicker in the minutes he watched. After a moment, he even began to see his breath misting in front of him.

Winter is here, he thought. Marching south, and our granaries are half empty.

He watched the snow fall, and stood there thinking of you. It irked him that you haunted his every thought. Nonetheless, he hoped you were warm, wherever you were. If he was as fanatically religious as his dear coz Lancel, he would have even prayed for your safety.

When morning dawned, Riverrun’s maester came to pay him a visit. He was pallid-faced and shaking.

“I know,” Jaime said, glancing at the bound letter in the old man’s quivering hands. “The Citadel has sent a white raven. Winter has come.”

“No, my lord,” said Maester Vyman. “The bird came from King’s Landing. Forgive me, I took the liberty to open it, I did not know it was meant for your eyes…”

Jaime took the letter and sat by the window to read. It was Qyburn’s hurried hand, but he knew it to be Cersei’s fevered words.

Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“Does my lord wish to answer?” asked Vyman, hovering by the door.

A snowflake landed on the letter. He was reminded of the snowflakes in your hair, in his dream. It was quick to melt, blurring the inked words and streaking down the paper.

Jaime rolled the paper back as tight as he could with his one hand, and handed it back to the maester. “No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.”

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jburrgf · 4 months ago

Note

Hiii! I was wondering if you would write a fic about joe and the readers “first time” like in college!?🧡

right here!

King Of My Heart.

And all at once, you were the one i’ve been waiting for, king of my heart, body and soul.

pairing: joe burrow lsu boyfriend! x virgin girlfriend reader!

summary: lsu joeyb9, virgin girlfriend, older boyfriend x younger girlfriend, college couple, together to marry, smut with a lot (yes, a lot) of fluff.

description: after one year of relationship, you feel safe enough to have the most perfect night of your life with your boyfriend joe burrow.

The night air in Baton Rouge was thick and humid, as it often was this time of year. The LSU campus buzzed with excitement after another win, and as I stood on the balcony outside Joe’s apartment, I could hear the distant echoes of celebration. Laughter, music, and the occasional cheer from passing students filled the night air. Normally, the sound of victory would have lifted my spirits, but tonight, everything felt... different.

The truth was, tonight wasn’t just about LSU winning another game. It wasn’t about Joe’s performance on the field, though he’d been exceptional as usual. Tonight was about something else. Something I had been thinking about for weeks, maybe even months. My stomach twisted with a mix of excitement and nerves, knowing that tonight could be the night I gave Joe something I’d never given anyone else — myself.

I’d always been the kind of girl who believed in waiting. It wasn’t about following some strict set of rules or adhering to any expectations; it was about finding the right moment, with the right person. I’ve always said that I would wait until college, and here I am. I wanted my first time to be special, with someone who cared about me, someone who knew me in a way that went deeper than just the physical.

And Joe was that person.

He had been my best friend long before he became my boyfriend. We met on my first year of college, and his third one. I asked for transference when Joe came to play at LSU. Joe had been patient with me in ways I didn’t even know I needed—never pushing, always waiting.

Tonight felt like the culmination of all of that. But even so, I couldn’t help the nervous energy that buzzed through me.

Taking a deep breath, I glanced down at my hands, clutching the cool bottle of water I’d been holding for what felt like an eternity. My fingers were tight around it, betraying the tension I felt inside. I could hear Joe inside, rummaging through the fridge, probably making one of his famous post-game sandwiches. He had this thing where he could eat just about anything after a game — his appetite always amazed me.

I could picture him now, standing in front of the open fridge, his broad shoulders relaxed, his hair still damp from the quick shower he’d taken when we got back to the apartment. I smiled to myself. He had no idea what was running through my mind.

Another deep breath.

I turned and stepped back inside. The air-conditioned chill hit me immediately, contrasting with the muggy night outside. Joe was at the counter, just as I’d imagined, spreading mayo on a slice of bread, his brow furrowed in concentration like he was planning a play for the next big game.

He glanced up as I walked in, and his eyes softened. That was the thing about Joe — his eyes always softened when he looked at me, like I was the one thing in the world that could bring him peace. It had always been that way between us, even when we were kids. There was something so comforting about the way he saw me.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and familiar. He flashed me a small smile, then went back to his sandwich-making. “You hungry?”

I shook my head, a little smile of my own forming. “Not really.”

He looked up again, pausing this time. He could sense something in my voice, or maybe in the way I was standing there, lingering in the doorway like I didn’t know what to do with myself. Joe had always been good at reading me, even when I didn’t say anything. Especially when I didn’t say anything.

“You okay?” he asked, setting down the knife and turning to face me fully.

I felt my heartbeat pick up. This was it—the moment where I could either back out or go forward. I swallowed hard, my nerves dancing in the pit of my stomach. “Yeah,” I said, and then, before I could second-guess myself, I added, “I think I’m ready.”

Joe’s expression softened even more, but there was something else there too — surprise, maybe? Or was it understanding? His eyes searched mine for a long moment, and I could see the realization slowly settle in. He set down the bread and wiped his hands on a nearby dish towel, taking a step closer to me.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice gentle, like he didn’t want to push me in any direction I wasn’t ready to go.

I nodded, biting my bottom lip nervously. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t move at first. Instead, he just stood there, looking at me with those intense eyes of his, like he was trying to gauge every emotion I was feeling without me even saying a word. And in a way, he could. Joe knew me better than anyone. He knew my fears, my insecurities, my hopes.

Slowly, he reached for my hand, his fingers brushing against mine in a way that sent a shiver down my spine. His touch was always so warm, so comforting. He led me over to the couch, sitting down beside me, his thumb tracing gentle circles over the back of my hand.

“We don’t have to rush this, Y/N,” he said softly. “We can wait.”

“I don’t want to wait,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Not anymore.”

His gaze never left mine, and I could see the love in his eyes, the way he was taking in every word I said. He reached up, cupping my face gently, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “Okay,” he said quietly. “We’ll go slow. You’re in control, okay? Whatever you need.”

Those words—“whatever you need”—wrapped around me like a blanket, soothing the nervous energy that had been building up all night. Joe always knew how to make me feel safe, and in that moment, I knew without a doubt that I’d made the right choice. This was what I wanted.

Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against mine in the softest of kisses. It wasn’t urgent or rushed, but tender, like he was letting me set the pace. I kissed him back, my fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his shirt as I pulled him closer. The kiss deepened, but it never lost that gentle, careful rhythm—Joe was making sure I felt every step of the way.

As his hand slid down to rest on my waist, I felt the warmth of his touch seep through the thin fabric of my dress, and my heart pounded in my chest. This was real, and I wanted it more than anything. I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation, but all I saw was love.

“I’m ready,” I whispered again, and this time, I knew I meant it with every fiber of my being.

Joe smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I love you,” he said, and my heart swelled with the weight of those words. “And we’ll take this however you want, at your pace.”

With a deep breath, I nodded, and in that moment, the world outside faded away. It was just us, here in this quiet space we’d carved out together, and for the first time, I wasn’t afraid.

Joe stood up, taking my hand as we moved together toward his bedroom. The room was dimly lit, just the soft glow of a single lamp casting shadows across the walls. It felt surreal—like the world outside had paused, and all that mattered now was the two of us. My heart was racing, and though my nerves were still there, they had settled into something else, something calmer. Maybe it was the way Joe was holding my hand, his thumb brushing small, soothing circles on my skin, or maybe it was the way he looked at me, like he saw only me and no one else.

He led me to the edge of the bed, and we stood there for a moment, facing each other. His eyes, those familiar deep blue eyes that had seen me at my worst and loved me still, held mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, his voice low and soft, giving me one last chance to back out if I wanted to.

I nodded, feeling a sense of certainty wash over me. “I’m sure, Joey. Please… I want this. I want you.”

A smile flickered across his lips as he reached up to gently cup my face, pulling me into a kiss that was sweet and unhurried. His lips moved against mine, soft and slow, like he was savoring every second, every touch. I melted into him, my arms wrapping around his neck as I pressed closer. It wasn’t the first time we’d kissed like this, but tonight felt different—deeper. There was something unspoken between us, something that made each kiss, each touch, more meaningful.

As we kissed, Joe’s hands slid down my sides, his fingers brushing over the fabric of my dress. Slowly, he pulled back, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper. “I will.”

With that, his hands moved to the hem of my dress, and he paused, his eyes meeting mine again, silently asking for permission. When I gave him a small nod, he gently lifted the dress over my head, leaving me in just my bra and underwear. The cool air hit my skin, and I shivered slightly, though it wasn’t from the cold. It was the weight of the moment, the way his eyes lingered on me, like he was seeing me for the first time.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his voice full of awe, and I felt a blush rise to my cheeks.

I’d never been in this position before, never had someone look at me like this. I suddenly felt vulnerable, exposed in a way I hadn’t anticipated. But Joe’s gaze wasn’t harsh or judgmental; it was soft, filled with love. He stepped closer, his hands settling on my waist, pulling me into another kiss. His touch was warm, grounding me, reminding me that this was Joey —my Joey. The boy who had known me since we were basically teenagers, who had always made me feel safe.

As we kissed, his hands moved up my back, fingers tracing the clasp of my bra. He paused again, looking into my eyes, silently asking if it was okay. I swallowed, my heart pounding in my chest, but I nodded, giving him the go-ahead.

He unclasped it slowly, carefully, letting it fall to the floor between us. My breath caught in my throat as I stood there, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. Joe’s eyes never left mine, though, and I could see the love in them, the way he was making sure I was okay with every step.

“You’re safe with me,” he whispered, and I knew he meant it. Those words wrapped around me, calming the flutter of nerves in my stomach.

I reached for him then, my fingers gently tugging at the hem of his shirt, wanting to close the gap between us. He let me pull it off, and soon we were standing there together, bare in every sense of the word. But instead of feeling exposed, I felt... free. Like this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Joe’s hands found mine again, and he pulled me gently down onto the bed. We lay there together, our bodies close but not rushing. There was no urgency, no need to move faster than we were ready for. Instead, we took our time, letting the moments stretch out between us.

He kissed me again, his lips soft and tender, and I kissed him back, feeling the heat between us grow. His hands moved over my skin, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch of me. I shivered under his touch, a mix of anticipation and nerves swirling inside me. But there was also something else—something warm and steady.

Trust.

That’s what it came down to, I realized. I trusted Joe with every part of me. And that’s why I was ready.

His hand slid down to my hip, then lower, his fingers brushing against the edge of my underwear. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching mine. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

I nodded, my voice catching in my throat. “Yeah... I’m okay.”

He kissed me again, and slowly, carefully, he slid my underwear down, his touch never faltering. I felt a rush of nervous excitement as the last barrier between us disappeared, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I could handle the intensity of it all. But then Joe was there, his hand on my cheek, his eyes holding mine, and I felt the fear slip away.

“We’ll go slow,” he promised again, his voice low and steady. “I’m not going to do anything you’re not ready for.”

I nodded, my throat tight with emotion. “I know. I trust you.”

With those words, I felt the last of my hesitation melt away. This was what I wanted. This was Joe. And I was ready.

He kissed me again, his lips soft against mine, and then his hands were on me, touching me in ways that made my heart race and my breath catch in my throat. It was slow, careful, every movement deliberate and filled with love. He didn’t rush, didn’t push. Instead, he let me set the pace, following my lead, making sure I was okay every step of the way.

As things progressed, the tension between us built, and I felt myself getting lost in the moment, in him. The world outside disappeared, and all that mattered was Joe and the way he made me feel—safe, loved, cherished.

I felt loved, I felt touched in a good way, in my soul. Joe's fingers were waging war on my skin, squeezing me and making me his. When I felt him between my legs, the world stopped. I was wet, I didn't need to hide it from him.

“My God” he stated, feeling the humidity. Joe let out a sigh, as if he was going to reach his peak right then and there. “Baby, you’re so wet…”

I moaned, loud and clear. Indeed, I was, as I had never been before. Joe had seen me naked several times, but nothing came close to this, what I was feeling now. He bent down between my legs, and when he started sucking me, I saw stars. I let out another moan, drawn out, begging to have him for myself. Not feeling him was killing me, even though I knew I had never had him like this.

He continued there for several moments, until I asked him to stop. My first orgasm of the night was in his mouth, and when my boyfriend knelt on the bed again, he was already hard. Totally petrified, sweaty and dying to fuck me.

Joe's dick was huge, and even though he didn't brag about it, it was true. I needed two hands to hold it from the base to the head. It was thick, but just the right amount. And it was literally pointed at me.

“You know what to do” he said, holding his cock by the base. I approached him little by little, kissing his red head as I looked at him. Joe groaned, and I automatically groaned too.

I did as much as I could, with my mouth, with my hands, and when I saw it, I was practically gushing. Joe noticed, and climbed up my legs soon after, laying down between them while bringing his hands to my neck. I groaned, feeling all my strength draining away.

I felt when Joe got ready to penetrate me. He played with me, passing his glans across my moist lips, while I moaned loud enough for all the neighbors to hear me.

The pressure was great, and initially, I could handle it. Joe didn't move until I nodded that he could. And when he did that, I saw stars. The pain was intense and excruciating, and he was moving so well that at a certain point I couldn't tell the difference between pain and pleasure.

“You’re doing so well, love” He commented, the moan leaving his lips. I moaned back “So hot, moaning for me.”

And I actually groaned again. My ‘apex, which came moments before, had become palpable to me. As Joe increased his thrusts, I saw the sky descend to earth, it was something magnificent.

When Joe threatened to go faster, I tried to run away. He held me by my waist, preventing any movement.

“I know, love,, I know.” He said, as if answering 'me. I groaned, because I knew he was serious. Joe went deeper inside me, and I gave another moan.

I couldn't stop moaning. I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't say anything. Joe, now moving faster, was moaning as much as I was. His pleasure makes me melt from head to toe.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” I didn't answer, but he knew it was true. “I’m not going to stop," he said, and in fact, he didn’t stop. Now, I couldn't move anymore. “so tight, beautiful…”

The phrase made me squirm again. Every word that came out of his mouth made me squirm. Joe was on top of me, all over my body, and it was driving me crazy. I couldn't even think straight.

“I’m going to cum.” He said, almost breathless. It only took a few movements for him to come out of me and leave his jets under my belly.

He was sweaty, his cheeks red, drops falling down his toned abdomen. Joe was simply the most beautiful man in the world.

I trapped my legs between him again and made him lie on top of me. I gave him a kiss, and when we pulled away again, I smiled.

“It made me hungry.” I commented with a smile

“I’ll cook something for you” Joe replied.

When we got up, Joe helped me to the bathroom. The shower we took together sealed the moment we had before. We went to the kitchen right away.

The kitchen was filled with the delicious scent of bacon sizzling in the pan, and Joe hummed softly to himself as he moved between the stove and the counter. I sat at the small table, watching him with a smile, my heart swelling with affection at how natural this all felt. Like we’d done this a hundred times before, even though this morning was the first of its kind.

Joe glanced over his shoulder at me, catching my eye. “You look awfully pleased with yourself,” he teased, his grin playful.

I laughed softly, resting my chin in my hand as I leaned on the table. “I’m just... happy,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks warm with the confession.

He turned off the stove and brought over two plates of food, setting them down in front of us before taking a seat beside me. “Me too,” he said, his voice quieter now, more sincere. He reached out, his fingers brushing over mine as he took my hand. “It was perfect.”

My heart skipped a beat at his words, the warmth of his hand sending a familiar flutter through my chest. “It was,” I agreed softly, my thumb tracing slow circles on the back of his hand. “You made it perfect, Joe.”

His eyes softened, and he gave my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go to pick up his fork. “Well, let’s see if I can keep the streak going with this food,” he said with a grin.

I laughed, my heart lighter than it had felt in a long time. As we ate, the conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and stolen glances. It felt like nothing had changed between us, but at the same time, everything had. There was a new kind of ease in the air, a quiet understanding that we had crossed into something deeper.

“Do you have practice today?” I asked, wiping my mouth with a napkin as we finished our plates.

Joe leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head with a soft groan. “Yeah, I’ve got practice in a few hours,” he said, glancing at the clock. “But we’ve got some time before I need to head over.”

I nodded, feeling a small pang of disappointment at the thought of him leaving, even though I knew it was just for a few hours. The time we’d spent together this morning had been so perfect, and I wasn’t ready for it to end just yet.

“Wanna hang out for a while before you go?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual even though I could feel my heart racing a little at the idea of spending more time with him.

Joe’s smile widened, and he reached across the table to take my hand again. “I’d love that.”

We spent the next couple of hours curled up on the couch, the TV playing softly in the background as we talked about everything and nothing. Joe had always been easy to talk to, but today it felt different—like there was a deeper connection between us now, a closeness that went beyond just words.

At one point, he pulled me into his lap, his arms wrapping around my waist as I leaned back against him. His chin rested on my shoulder, and I could feel his breath warm against my neck as we sat there in comfortable silence. I had never felt more at peace, more content, than I did in that moment.

“I could get used to this,” I murmured, my fingers tracing the lines of his hand where it rested on my stomach.

Joe chuckled softly, his lips brushing against my ear. “Me too,” he whispered, his voice sending a pleasant shiver down my spine.

We stayed like that until his phone buzzed on the coffee table, breaking the quiet. Joe sighed softly, shifting beneath me as he reached for it. “It’s Coach,” he said, glancing at the screen. “I’ve gotta head out soon.”

I nodded, trying to hide the disappointment I felt as I climbed off his lap. “I guess the real world is calling, huh?”

Joe stood up, stretching again before pulling me into a quick hug. “Yeah, but I’ll be back tonight,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “You can stay here if you want. Make yourself at home.”

I smiled up at him, feeling a warmth spread through me at the thought of spending more time in his space, surrounded by his things. “I might just take you up on that.”

He grinned, his hands settling on my waist as he pulled me closer. “Good,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss me again—slow, gentle, but full of the promise that this was only the beginning.

When Joe came back that evening, I was curled up on his bed with a book I’d found on his shelf, the smell of dinner wafting through the apartment. I’d decided to make us something simple—a pasta dish I knew we both liked—just to keep things light after the intense day we’d shared.

He walked into the bedroom, his hair still damp from the shower he must have taken after practice, and smiled when he saw me. “Hey,” he said softly, crossing the room to sit beside me on the bed.

“Hey,” I replied, setting the book down and turning to face him. “How was practice?”

“Not bad,” he said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to my lips. “I missed you, though.”

I felt my cheeks warm at his words, and I smiled, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I missed you too.”

He looked over at the book I had set down, raising an eyebrow. “Reading one of my books, huh?”

I laughed softly, nodding. “I was bored, and your bookshelf was too tempting.”

Joe chuckled, his hand resting on my thigh as he leaned in closer. “You know, I’ve been thinking about today,” he said, his voice low and serious now.

My heart skipped a beat at his tone, and I looked up at him, searching his face for any sign of what was going through his mind. “Yeah? What about it?”

He sighed softly, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my leg. “I just... I keep thinking about how lucky I am,” he said, his eyes meeting mine with a sincerity that took my breath away. “To have you. To be the one you trust.”

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I blinked them away, my heart swelling with emotion. “Joe...”

“I’m serious,” he said, his hand moving up to cup my cheek. “You could’ve chosen anyone, Y/N. But you chose me. And I don’t take that lightly.”

I leaned into his touch, my heart aching with how much love I felt for him in that moment. “I chose you because you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “You make me feel safe, Joe. You make me feel loved.”

He smiled then, that soft, lopsided grin that always made my heart flutter. “I’m gonna keep doing that,” he murmured, his lips brushing over mine. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

I kissed him then, slow and sweet, pouring everything I felt into the simple gesture. When we pulled back, I rested my forehead against his, our breaths mingling in the quiet space between us.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered, my voice steady despite the emotion swirling inside me. “I’m yours, Joe.”

His arms wrapped around me then, pulling me into his chest as he held me close. We stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away. It didn’t matter that the day had been long, or that practice had worn him out. In this moment, it was just us—together, safe, and completely in love.

He smiled then, his eyes softening as he leaned in to kiss me. It was a slow, lingering kiss, full of all the love and promises we had been building between us. When we finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin.

“Good,” he murmured, his lips brushing over mine again. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

#joe burrow #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fluff #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow x reader #joeburrow #joe burrow smut #bengals

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softmiso · 4 months ago

Text

suck it and see | eddie munson x reader

🦊 kinktober day 22: deepthroating (ft. eddie and reader's first time together, finger sucking)

🥮 other details: nsfw/18+, ~600 words, realized this could be gn!reader :)

🍁 cross-posted on ao3

“Oh, God,” you gasped at the first sight of Eddie’s cock.

“It’s just me, sweetheart,” he joked.

You looked up from where you were kneeled in front of him, taking him in your hand. Something about the look in your eyes, the feeling of your soft skin against him, halted his joking energy.

Eyes still on him, you sat up a little, mouth hovering over his length. He braced himself, a hand threading itself into your hair. Rather than putting your mouth around him as he’d expected, you pursed your lips and let your spit fall onto his tip. Eddie chuckled in disbelief.

With the added help, you let your hand glide up and down his cock. You went on like this for a tad too long, wanting to rile him up, get him sensitive for what was to come.

“C’mon, baby,” he groaned, “if you keep going, I’m gonna cum like this.”

“We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” You asked almost mockingly.

Eddie shook his head, gaze still upon you. The look in his eyes was hard to decipher. It was something between desperation and lust—no—greed. He wanted so badly to use your mouth.

And who were you to deny him?

You circled your tongue around his head, tasting the precum that had gathered at the tip, and Eddie’s mouth fell open. Tilting your head, you licked up the side of him, right up a vein that protruded from the supple skin.

“Fu—oh!” He moaned out, taken by surprise when you finally took him into your mouth. You started to bob your head slowly, at a torturous pace, really. You sucked gently on the downward movements, earning a moan from him.

Soon enough, you started to speed up the pace. After a few moments, however, something felt like it was missing. You loved the feeling of his cock in your mouth, but it wasn’t enough. You needed to feel fuller; you needed him deeper.

With that, you took him down, down, down, until he was as deep as possible. You hummed at the feeling of his cock down your throat. It was euphoric, all-consuming. Eddie felt the same, more intensely even, being on the receiving end.

You found a new rhythm, never pulling off too far. You could feel Eddie’s hand tighten in your hair, his hips twitching to buck up. For a moment, you pull off fully, and his eyes widened.

“Use me.”

And back down you went. With that, Eddie’s gaze darkened, and his other hand found its way into your hair. He held your head firmly, pushing down experimentally. You looked up at him, a hand coming up to his hips, silently telling him to move them to his heart’s desire.

Finally, you felt him back where you needed him. He set a good pace, giving you time to breathe every few strokes. Shortly, you’d feel his thrusts become more erratic, his hands trembling where he held you. With every new stroke, his cock hit your throat harder and harder. Tears started to stream from your eyes, and you hummed against him as you had before.

With one more thrust, and a loud groan, he held you down as he came down your throat. You savoured every drop before finally pulling off him gently, so as not to overstimulate him. You both panted slightly, staring into each other’s eyes in awe of what had just taken place.

Eddie’s hand then made its way from the back of your head to your face. His thumb stroked your cheek, gather some of the tears that had fallen earlier. His thumb kept moving, though, now to your lip. Almost instinctively, you took it into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digit. You saw a glimmer in his eyes.

“You’re amazing, angel.”

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

#stranger things #stranger things one shot #stranger things smut #stranger things fic #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie smut #kinktober 2024 #kinktober #my fics #softmiso kinktober 2024

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winterzsurprise · 5 months ago

Text

Change My Mind [2]

Pairing: BTS x reader

SUMMARY: As a make-up artist, you were expected to glamorize your clients with brushes and products that cost a week-worth of food, not to befriend them outside of work, let alone have them save you from dates yet here you are five years later as one of their closest confidants.

Being a stylist of the world's biggest boyband is no easy feat, someone is doing flips, someone can't stay still and one's asleep but its fine, you can work around their chaos but then one day, you find out they're all your soulmates, a whole different can of chaos you don't think you can handle.

Tags: Soulmates AU, Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Not Beta Read, Slow Build, Polyamory, Attempts at Humor

Words: 8.6k

I posted this a day later than the one on ao3 because I forgor :''DD

Seeing the support and comments from both website got me off my ass to fix the storyline, even made a lot of changes on the chapters I've had preserved.

this chapter got rewritten a LOT, and was longer than it initially was so I hope y'all don't mind long chapters.

<<<Prev || MASTERLIST || Next>>>

__________

There's been times where your heart has truly fluttered for a man throughout your lifetime. Too many times has it been because some of your bosses (read: Jimin) flirted with you but you have never felt anything remotely giddy for anyone else outside the group.

Except for the man now sitting in front of you, flashing you a dimpled smile after handing out his card with an ease you only see in your friends and male leads in dramas. An action more attractive than any kabaedon or flexed muscles.

He's attractive but you don't like like him.

Yoo Guwon came to you as a bashful giant, rubbing the back of his head whenever he’s flustered and a constant sheepish smile featuring his deep set of dimples indented on both cheeks. He’s charming and articulate with his words just like a lawyer would be. Everything about him reminds you of another gentle and clumsy giant probably hunched over his music equipment back in the BigHit building.

It’s only been a few hours but you surprisingly covered most of the basic grounds of first meeting conversations during the short time you drove around Han River in a two seated bicycle. From the meager questions of ‘what dreams do you have?’ to the more complex and deeper ‘If the world falls into ruin, will you burn my body when I die?’.

Too graphic for a first date but you wanted to test the waters and you concluded that he’s too perfect.

He knows the right words to say, the proper way to act and it makes you suspicious. Your mother has never recommended you to a good guy before, having a track record of ten shitty suitors who all ran their mouths about their mediocre achievements, and dared to ask you about your purity before ranting about how dirty you are for not saving yourself for your husband the moment they find out you're not a virgin anymore. Then all of a sudden, she led you to good boy Guwon.

And it makes your skin crawl.

What did that woman eat? Has your father fed her something bad this time? What is she planning? It’s scary how she has finally advocated for an actual nice guy.

After taking you to a museum you're sure Namjoon has visited once, he drove you both to the Han River to rent a double seated bike to drive around with before ending the night with a nice reservation somewhere in the Seocho district.

The place is as sophisticated as fine dining areas usually are. With an intimate lighting, marbled tabletops matched with soft cushioned seats and high ceilings to make space for modern glass chandeliers, the restaurant was no doubt expensive, the type you have to reserve a spot two months prior to be able to experience its greatness. The point was driven home when you saw the amount of zeros it cost for one can of soda.

You asked him how he managed to get a table and he went down the rabbit hole of the many advantages he got from successful cases, ranging from a free monthly subscription to fruit baskets to a free week-long voucher to a five star hotel somewhere in Busan.

Going back to the butterflies, while not as wild as it got when Hoseok possessively wrapped an arm thrown around your waist to pretend as your boyfriend to ward off a persistent suitor, they're there, albeit subtle.

Very subtle.

Maybe it's in the way he didn't think twice to hand out his card towards the waiter in the most suave way with the thick golden watch decorating his wrist, sleeves neatly folded up to reveal the thick cords of veins on his forearms with his hair strewn messily and a dimpled smile that made you react like that.

You ignore the voice comparing his uncannily similar traits to someone else.

Meeting Guwon wasn't like how the movies illustrated love at first sights. They talked of fireworks exploding in the background and hearing the sweet chimes of wedding bells upon eye contact but for him, it's just that. A meeting far more formal than you'd like. He has a lot of qualities that check your list of husband material traits yet instead of butterflies, you could only feel an echoing hollowness in your chest as you listen to him list out his future plans.

It felt like surrendering to the fate the divinities had weaved out for you which is being an untethered forced to love someone you don't even feel any spark with.

He's a nice man who’s offering a comfortable future and you're just a woman who wishes to live a lavish life at home while your husband wastes his years away in the office. You might be a hopeless romantic who wished for soulmates and the like but you're not blind to the opportunity Guwon offers you.

You haven't texted the gc anything during the date other than the selfie you took before you left for the date but there's been constant vibrations in your purse and it's no doubt the guys asking for updates but for a moment you wanted to try to focus on the man before you.

Not that it wasn't hard to try with Guwon anyways.

Whenever the man spoke of his achievements and hobbies with a humble approach, he never forgot to ask you for your opinion or input on the topic. You also noted how he has never cut you off and let you speak whenever you wanted, listening with an eagerness only your friends usually show. He asked relevant questions with a genuine curiosity, eager to know more about you.

So when he asked if you wanted to go on a second date that night, it came to no surprise for anyone when you accepted it albeit the heaviness in your heart.

It was funny how eagerly you searched for a husband you could bring to your parents' doorsteps but the moment someone with all the qualities you seeked came, it felt disappointing. Boring even.

But you can learn, this man is your ticket to living without working anymore.

It came to no one's surprise that your mother was overjoyed, she wasted no time calling you before you could even change to squeeze the memory of today out of you.

The shrill scream of victory she let out that night was unforgettable because finally, a suitor you actually liked. Your dad even congratulated her off-screen for her matchmaking achievements before telling you to bring Guwon home to meet them.

Logically, you’re aware you've won the love roulette—Guwon has it all, he checked every box on your list, yet it felt like defeat and it tasted foul, bitter on your tongue.

You couldn't tell them that it was you deciding to settle, that would break her heart.

Tapping the end call button felt like the dam breaking and all the water held onto for so long flowed out. You fall lifelessly on your bed with a heavy sigh. Taking a couple evening breaths, you finally opened the group chat with an overwhelming number of unread messages.

[Today, 08:49]

[08:49] Mimi: I'd run my bank dry to take you on dates if you'd dress so pretty like that, noona~

[08:49]Tete: We're really seeing this for free when the poor guy has to pay for it. #livingapriviledgedlife😁👍

[08:49] Hobi: Wow noona🤯

[08:50] Yoongs: 👍

[08:55] Tete: Wait, I don't think those shoes fit you, go back home and change it😁

[08:56] Jinnie: Hey, you're showing too much skin on the first date! Go back and change!

[08:57] Joonie: Ignore these haters noona, I hope you enjoy your day😊

[Today, 21:48]

[21:48] Jinnie: are you home yet? You haven't seen our messages in HOURS.

[21:48] Tete: NOONA DID YOU GET MURDERED?!😱

[21:50] Joonie: Let's be rational guys, don't jump to conclusions. The date might just be going great if she's busy enough to not check her phone😊.

[21:51] Mimi: doing great? don't scare me like that hyung😵‍💫

[21:51] Tete: BUT WHAT IF SHE GOT KIDNAPPED HYUNG????

[21:51] Hobi: please reply soon, we're worried🥲

Jungkook's absence from the conversation didn't come to you as a shock, the kid doesn't even reply to you for a week despite being one of the people who raised him. Nonetheless, you sat up from your bed to record a quick video of you giving them a thumbs up and turning the camera to show your room.

The latter was an assurance to Taehyung that no, you also didn't get kidnapped into someone else's house to be someone's housekeeper, and no, it wasn't a clone either.

The moment your message gets sent, the replies blow up your phone almost instantaneously.

[22:28] Mimi: noona you're alive!

[22:28] Joonie: How did the date go?😊

[22:28] Jinnie: how nice of you to remember to update us PEASANTS.

[22:28] Mimi: How was Guwon?

[22:29] Tete: I KNEW WE SHOULD'VE WENT WITH YOU ANYWAYS

[22:29] You: Shockingly, he's a pretty nice guy. Not too bad on the eyes, and pretty smart. I think you'd get along well with him, joon. He's a lawyer so he covered most of the expenses today😁

[22:29] You: Overall, it was great, we're gonna go on a second one. He's pretty cool.

Instantly, messages from the members, even Jungkook’s to your surprise, flooded your screen.

[22:30] Tete: Noona you've been cursed! We need to bring you to the nearest shaman to break it!!

[22:30] Mimi: don't joke with us noona

[22:30] Mimi: I just got goosebumps!

[22:30] Joonie: Congratulations are in order then? Will we be expecting him around you soon?

[22:31] Yoongs: I need to meet him, need to know if he's good enough

[22:31] Yoongs: men are trash, I need to see him for myself before I decide

[22:32] Yoongs: and you know what they say about lawyers, they LIE. I wouldn't trust him

[22:32] Jinnie: WE need to meet the man who managed to steal your heart! I want to talk to him😊

[22:32] Mimi: don't use that emoji again, hyung

[22:32] Hobi: SCARY JWANN😱

[22:32] Joonie: Let’s not threaten anyone please.

[22:32] Joonie: But I'm really happy for you 😁.

[22:33] Tete: Those periods really scares me hyung…

[22:33] Tete: Somehow, I don't think you mean it…

[22:33] Joonie: What makes you think that, tae?😁.

[22:33] Tete: 😰

[22:34] Ggukie: a few drinks will fix you up, noona😁

[22:34] Mimi: you'll invite me this time right?

[22:34] You: I don't know, you already used your mischief hours this week, I doubt Sejin would be so kind next time.

[22:34] Hobi: if he does that right now during practice, I also wouldn't be so kind to him😊

[22:34] Mimi: you are scaring me hyung…

[22:34] Hobi: good😊

[22:34] Tete: Hyung, are you just gonna ignore Jungkook leaving?!?!!?

The messages continued for a good five minutes, mostly consisting of holding Jimin back from leaving practice and him sending pictures of the infamous Hoseok death glare from across the room before your doorbell chime rang, making you shoot up straight.

A beat. Then it continues in three quick successions, the knocks almost in sing-song and sounded like two hands were used to produce the tune, giving you an inkling on who might be visiting you at this late hours of night.

Padding out of your room, the front door suddenly swings open without warning and you yelp. By the doorsteps stands the intruder, a tall man in a black coat with his face hidden by a mask and a cap. Your body would've frozen a thousand times over if you didn't know this stranger who's hugging two paper bags, one overflowing with snacks and the other a breeze away from tearing apart from the weight and water drenching the material of the bag.

"Hi noona!"

After today, seeing Jungkook felt like a cure, his presence alone repelling the heaviness in your shoulders and you ushered him inside and he wandered into your home with ease, approaching the coffee table to place down the shopping bags.

Suddenly you remembered what he had scheduled prior.

"You're putting me on Hoba’s punishment rotation, what are you doing here?"

He giggled. “We both know he won't, hyung loves you more than me.”

He falls on your couch with the ease of someone who has visited your space numerous times throughout the years, propping up his feet on the back support and folding his arms underneath his head before staring up at you, expectantly.

"Anyways, I brought us food and drinks, don't I deserve a little praise?"

Sometimes it's easy to forget how young Jungkook really is, forced to grow and act mature to blend in with his surroundings, you've always seen him stand with pride alongside his hyungs. Seeing him awaiting for your praise so eagerly like a pup fills your heart with awe.

"Yeah yeah, good job. Now move over, let me sit down."

You tapped his arm, motioning him to move over so you could sit next to him, something he obeyed without resistance, busying himself in removing the contents from the soiled paper bag instead.

“Couldn't you have put some effort into it? At least sound grateful.” He pouts. Placing down the cluster of beer cans, you turned to him and pinched his cheeks.

“Oh my dearest darling, thank you for saving this noona of yours. Such an amazing baby I have here.”

Despite being the one who asked for it, Jungkook only rolled his eyes with a barely held back grin as he slapped your hands away, making you laugh, and turned to the bag holding the snacks he bought. You didn't miss the redness dusting his cheeks or the cheeky grin that tugged his lips wide as he spilled the contents of the last bag onto the table.

There's a significant amount of sweets and snacks laid before you, as well as stacks of canned beers and you turned to him with furrowed brows.

"Wouldn't this ruin your diet?"

He waved you off with a huff. "I work out enough to eat all of these in one sitting."

Instantly, your mind brings you back to white walls and gray furniture, faced with manager Sejin who warned you about interfering with the idols' diet at the start of your career. If it wasn't for Bang PD waving off their concerns, saying they needed to be rewarded for their hard work anyways, you would've been long booted out of the company.

It's a matter long settled yet it remains to weigh heavily in your head.

Seeing the hesitation in your eyes, Jungkook continues.

"I can show you proof of my efforts,"

He then reached down to the fabric of his shirt tucked into his jeans and tugged it up, flashing you the tightly corded muscles in forming on his abdomen and the thin happy trail you often see when patting his sweat down during concerts and you hastily pulled it back down with a yelp, cheeks growing hot while he laughed.

As he throws his head back in his mirth, you couldn't help but notice the way adulthood has taken away the fullness of his cheeks and has sharpened his features. A far cry from the sensitive young boy who cried his eyes out every time his hyungs got hurt.

There was no denying that Jungkook had grown without you noticing and it makes your chest swell with pride knowing he's been raised well by the others, in extension, although not so much, you as well.

"Don't worry so much about me, noona. I can handle the consequences now, you leave the reprimanding to me."

Under the warm overhead light of your living room, even with the exaggerated puff of his chest and his nose turnt up high, Jungkook's shoulder had never looked sturdier, reliable, in your eyes. You smiled, reaching to pinch both his cheeks making him grin wider than he already was.

"Look at you acting so cool, when did you grow so much?"

He rolled his eyes, pulling your hands away from his cheeks and entangling it with his. “I've always been cool, you just don't pay attention to me, noona.”

Before you could reply, he's already moved to reach for the beverages on the coffee table, popping two of them open and handing you one can, immediately you take a swig.

The beer fizzled in your tongue and left a trail of burns down your throat. The sensation is refreshing nonetheless and you place it down next to him before picking up the large bags of chips and standing up.

"I'll go put these in a bowl, go put something on the tv."

"Can I play anime?"

You waved at him dismissively, unable to find it in yourself to say no to him as you head towards your kitchen to transfer the junk into a bowl when a shrill tune from your bedroom cuts through the air, someone was calling you. You look over to Jungkook, scrolling through his phone, no doubt looking for a movie online.

"Gguk, can you pick up the call for me? My hands are busy right now."

There's a shuffle of feet behind you and in a moment, your phone quietens down. Finished with filling one bowl, you turn to find Jungkook leaving your room with a deep look and your phone in hand. His jaw set tight as he stood there with furrowed brows, eyes lit with irritation.

Looking at his reaction, you asked about your mysterious caller.

"Who was it?"

When he turned to you, the tick in his jaw dispersed. All of a sudden, he's smiling at you with mischief twinkling in his eyes, the change giving you a whiplash.

"It was the others, didn’t answer their calls cause I want you for myself tonight, noona."

(Later on, you'd find yourself staring at the many unread messages and two missed calls from Guwon, wondering in your drunken state if you've muted your phone at some point earlier.)

Hearing it from his lips now, your body locks, heart stuttering in your chest and butterflies exploding in your stomach, spreading a tingly feeling throughout your body and you laugh.

"Where did you hear that line from, brat? You just activated my fight or flight!"

"Taehyung says that and gets thanked but when I do it, I'm punished?" He pouts, stomping as he approaches the island counters and crossing his arms on the marble surface.

It reminded you of a bunny you saw from a video on the internet, angrily thumping their feet at their owner when it was being purposely ignored.

“In his defense, he does it while he’s acting like my crazy ‘exes’ and saves me from dates.”

“That’s just favoritism! I saved you once from a date!”

You threw him a deadpan stare. "Throwing me over your shoulders and kidnapping me isn’t the same as Tae and Jimin acting crazy enough to make the other guy uncomfortable to save me.”

Hoseok had your favorite troublemakers kneeled on the floor with both their hands up and facing the wall at the time, punishing them for being an hour late to their practice. He had called you in, asking if they had been accompanying you during —they weren’t.

Long story short, you didn't risk sharing Hoseok’s wrath with the two and took Jungkook instead, a decision you quickly regretted later on in the night when instead of approaching to act like one of your exes when you gave him a signal, he hoisted you up onto his shoulder and ran away while your date only watched in terror.

“Now that’s blatant favoritism! I didn’t kidnap you, we ran away together into the sunset! It was romantic!"

"Not for the other guy, no! He was shitting bricks when he called my mom. She got me squatting the entire afternoon when we met again."

Mentioning it alone made phantom pains throb in your knees and thighs, you shivered. If torture wasn't a socially unacceptable and punishable offense in the modern world, you were sure your mother would have stripped you down to your underwear and made you squat under the sun in front of your family house instead.

The absolute fury she unleashed on you that day is enough proof that she would've done it with no hesitation if it was lawfully appropriate.

"That's too much for a failed date."

"No reason to dwell on it. Main point is, don't take notes from dramas anymore."

With a last roll of his eye, Jungkook then picked up the bowls and brought them to the coffee table following you who had returned to your seat ahead of him. Once the two of you are situated back on the couch, he navigates through the streaming app for an interesting title before eventually settling on the romance anime he claimed to have heard amazing reviews about.

Without hesitation, Jungkook navigates himself into a familiar between your legs and leaned back on your chest, head finding his rightful space under your chin with a precision gained from doing so for years.

It goes without saying that Bangtan is affectionate. With the pressure they had during their rise to fame, it wasn't shocking that they comfortably seeked each other's comfort and spared no skinship. As one of the only staff within constant exposure that's close to their age, you too became one of their pillars of serenity.

It was the reason you had crushes on everyone at least twice during your time as their make-up artist, not that any of the boys knew nor does it matter.

Stability and work takes precedence over something as shaky as love.

There's only so much comfort another man can offer, your mother says from years before.

Jungkook more than anyone else in the group.

As a boy who sacrificed his childhood and time with his parents to pursue his dream, you felt more inclined to watch over him than the others who were adults by the time you joined. You were there for his first heartbreak, his first drink, his high school graduation; the point is, you were there and you held him every time he struggled with problems—mostly girl problems—he's too shy to seek his hyungs for.

But now with his growth spurt, cuddling up to you like he used to when he was younger with his gangly legs awkwardly hanging from the couch, carelessly leaning his head in between the mounds of your breast while his large hand mindlessly drew circles on your knee, you found yourself wondering about the appropriateness of it all.

A man and a woman alone in a room at night in close proximity, body leaning against each other. Society would argue they wouldn’t end the night as friends anymore after the encounter.

You paused mid-drink and grimaced.

It must be the beer talking.

"Noona."

"Yeah?"

"Wrap your arms around me, it's cold."

You raised an eyebrow at him. "It's not though? I always keep my house warm."

He let out an exasperated groan before reaching behind to grab your arm and roughly slinging it on his shoulders.

As time continued its cycle and episodes started to fly across the screen, the pile of opened beer cans on the table expanded. You really tried to focus on the movie but the feeling of his fingers tracing stars on your bare thigh left you oddly bothered. Jungkook has shifted his position higher at some point during the movie, his body now turned sideways, successfully squeezing himself into the small space between you and the back of the couch, legs entangling itself with yours while an arm is thrown across your body.

This position puts his nose closer to your ears and it makes you shiver. The feel of his hot breath fanning across your skin has given you more goosebumps in under an hour more than you've had throughout your life.

Even drunk, you could feel the building tension thickening around you and the will to tell him to off ebbs away with every caress of his fingers.

Gone were the innocent traces of stars and hearts on your thigh, his hand now grabbed onto your waist almost possessively, thumb rolling slow circles on your bare stomach; the motion conjuring the most unholiest of thoughts known to mankind.

When the credits started rolling, you knew you had to draw the line before you lost yourself to intoxicated thoughts and end the night with regrets.

"Time for you to go home now, your hyungs must be looking for you."

You tried prying his hand from your waist so you could reach for your phone on the table only for him to tighten around you, stopping you from moving away. He groaned, head nuzzling closer into your neck and his lips grazed your skin.

Instantly, electric jolts shoot through your body.

"Jungkook, I need to get my phone and tell someone to fetch you from here."

"Can't I just stay the night? I'm too comfortable right now…"

The gruff in his voice and the sensation of his lips moving on your skin has your stomach fluttering and you're too drunk to address the growing heat in your abdomen but thanked the sense of professionalism seeping through the fogs of your intoxicated mind.

Managing to pry him off, you reached for your phone and opened up SMS to tell Jin to pick their youngest up.

[01:21] You: Jwannn

[01:21] You: can you pick up your kid from my house? He's drunk and stinkyyy

[01:23] Jinnie: your knight in shining armor is on the way!

“Just let me stay the nighttt,” he whined into your skin.

"I don't have any more spare beds other than this couch for you to sleep in, Gguk. I turned the other room into a closet, remember?"

"I can just sleep with you on the bed, we used to do that, didn't we?"

He attempted to reach around you again but you pushed his limbs away once more before slapping his arm.

You tried not noticing how thicker and harder the muscles felt, you really did.

"But it's different now, Gguk. Come on, go wash up and drink water, I've already told someo—"

The moment you rose to stand, his arms shot around your waist in record speed and pulled you flush to his front, nuzzling his nose on the back of your neck before he sighed. When the first hot exhale hits your skin, you flinch away but the limbs wounded tightly around your middle restrict you from moving.

You try to ignore the heat simmering under your skin but it was hard when you felt the press of his plush lips on your nape as he leans closer into your skin.

“You always smell so nice, noona.” He whispered breathily, the sensation of his moving mouth sending shivers down your spine and you shivered.

“I-I can give you my lotion brand later, let me go so I can get it.”

“But I'm comfortable here…”

Mustering every strength left in your body, you manage to pull an arm out of the death grip he had on your body and slapped his hand. Jungkook easily ignores it.

“Come on Gguk, let me out now. This isn't appropriate.”

"How is it different now?"

The alcohol intoxicating your system loosened your grip on your inhibitions and your lips regrettably moved faster than your brain.

"You're a man now, Gguk. Honestly, we shouldn't be even doing this right now. It's inappropriate."

You try to stand once more, managing to pry him from your waist and standing up before his arms hooked around you once more and tugging you back down, this time on his lap as he burrows his head onto your back.

"Gguk?"

"Yo-you see me as a man, noona?"

As a child your mother has taught you how words could heavily influence and drastically change a situation, now as an adult, you've mastered the art of speech. But as you sit still on his thighs, body warm and inhibitions blurred by the alcohol, your loose lips have led you back to the very thing you try to avoid.

"It's hard not to think so when you've grown up this much."

In a flash, Jungkook is now hovering over your face as he places you back down on the couch, his nose a hair's width from touching yours and his hands planted on each side of your head.

There's a feral hunger swimming in his eyes as it stared into yours, desperate and intense before it fell to the plush of your parted lips and his gaze darkens. All of a sudden, you're a prey pinned down by an apex predator who's ready to devour you at any given moment.

Fire alarms blared in your mind and you regained control over your senses.

“Jungkook.”

"Noona."

You tried wriggling out of his grasp but it was no use, he's stronger. "Get off of me, kid."

“How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not a kid anymore?”

“I'm not hearing anything out when you're acting like this, Gguk.”

He scoffed. “I just want to sleep here, in the same bed, nothing else is gonna happen. Why is it such a bad thing?”

“It's different now, Gguk. Come on, let me go.”

“How is it so different? You and Jimin hyung cuddle sometimes, I've seen you fall asleep next to Hobi hyung once, why is it different with me?”

“It's different because we're both drunk and things could happen.”

“I wouldn't mind it.” Jungkook responds with a cheeky smile. His grip on one of your wrist loosened enough that you were able to hit his arm and he giggled in response.

“But I do. It wouldn't be fair.”

Even something as small as letting one member stay at your home without the others can be the loudest announcement for the rest of the group. All those times you've rejected your friends, with reasons like ‘I don’t want to risk everything’, and ‘I don't want to hurt the others’, to turn back around to accept their youngest would be hypocritical of you.

He scoffs. "You tell us about all your stupid dates, don't you think it's more unfair for us?”

A familiar weight grows in your chest. Guilt tasted like rust on your tongue and dug into your heart with a ribbed knife. Your own late night thoughts manifesting before you and you pushed him away.

After everything, you were all friends, you trusted them more than you do with your other circle. There's not a secret left undiscussed between the eight of you so it was no surprise that you had indulged them with the details of your quest for a husband. Nobody ever raised any complaints with you sharing your days so you never thought twice about it.

It's been five years since Jin had confessed, three for Taehyung. Their eldest had confessed for the sake of him finally being able to move on after your rejection and with how he acted after, you had believed him. It was different for Taehyung who had continued to act like normal after his confession, neither dejected nor did he show signs of letting go but he did introduce a date to your group once, a year later, so you had assumed the same.

Were you wrong after all?

“Jungkook, we're drunk. Let’s talk about this tom—”

“I've never been more sober in my life than I am right now, noona.”

You didn't respond, couldn't reply.

What were you supposed to even say?

Jungkook usually obeyed you and his hyungs without hesitation, happily offering his aid whenever he could. He's the type of friend who's run himself dry just to fetch you a cup of water from the other side of the world but now as he hovers over you, he became a whole new person.

Greed has always been an irritating parasite that eats away at a person's morals but somehow in your drunken mind, you thought it looked so good on him. It fits him and his generous character the way one light clothing molds well with the dark fabrics. His familiar scent of vanilla and coconut clouded your senses, calming your panicking mind into a hush, leaving nothing but the thoughts of how his lips tasted and wondering if he’s as sweet as he smelled.

He let out a shaky exhale from through his mouth as he watched your parted lips with a rapt attention as if hypnotized by the way they subtly trembled with every breath that passed through.

In the pregnant silence of your room, his voice cuts through like a knife.

“Can I kiss you?”

He whispers against your lips, voice breaking in the middle from the weight of his request, honeyed and pleading, as if your kiss holds the answer to the problems of the world and holds the power to break him.

His hand travels up to cup your cheek oh so carefully like you're fragile china yet you feel yourself shatter under his touch.

You are losing grasp on your sober thoughts as lust starts to cloud your already compromised judgment, his request far too tempting to ignore.

Maybe a kiss wouldn’t hurt.

But wouldn’t it be unfair for the others who have expressed their romantic intentions to you since years ago?

It was a last ditch effort to reason with your mind and your body froze from the cold wave of realization. In the short time after his question, you recall the confessions you turned down to not ruin the relationship Bangtan has established for themselves and the bitter taste it left on your tongue.

“Jungkook… we can’t.”

Watching his expression contort into confused hurt almost made you want to take your words back, but your mind takes you to memories of apologetic and understanding smiles you’ve received throughout the years and the aches from those moments resurfaces, squeezing your heart in a tight grip.

“I-I’m sorry I can’t control my feelings, I just wanted to tell you about it… Thought that maybe after this, I could move on.” An apologetic voice whispers, the memory of premature confessions in the middle of a cleanup resurfacing.

“I can’t—I can’t do it to them, it’d be unfair.”

You pushed him back and he relented, letting himself be sat back onto the other side of the couch defeatedly. Despite it, his tight grip on your waist remained, pulling you flush to him and burying his face in your chest as if trying to hear the lie in your words through the beatings of your heart.

“I’m also seeing Guwon now.”

“Then don’t let me meet him. I-I don’t know if I can take it.”

It was heart wrenching and at the same time, left an uncomfortable twist in your stomach. Jungkook never had to beg since you first met him, everything he could ever want was given to him by you and his hyungs without hesitation. Hearing him plead for you to never bring Guwon around if fate had actually paired you both, it was a different kind of pain.

It felt like thorns growing and rooting its stems of pointy ends into the deepest parts of your heart. You hated this, but you don’t want to hurt any of your boys by accepting one.

Relief comes in the form of Taehyung when he busted into your apartment while Jungkook has excused himself to your bathroom to sober up just a moment before. Seokjin trails behind him, calmer than the younger man who declared his arrival with a deep voice and a loud bang of the door. You immediately thought of the elderly couple and the new family of three living next to you and internally facepalmed.

“Noona! We’ve come to take Jungkook away!”

Kim Seokjin’s face has never been more handsome when he closed the door behind him, and you verbalized your thought, leading his ears to glow red in embarrassment.

“Am I only handsome to you when I’m closing the doors?! This face that people fawn over all over the world?!”

“It’s your true calling, door guy.”

“Oh shut it hyung, you’re making my head hurt.” Jungkook mutters as he reentered the living room, looking far better than when he left.

The tension was palpable, the effect of a rejected profession still raw and thick in the small joined space of the living room and kitchen and you caught Jin's eyes as the two youngest bickered, there’s a knowing look passed between you, an unsaid ��let’s talk later’ hanging in the air.

“Hey, just because you got to escape Hoba’s practice without scratch doesn't mean you're hot shit, show me some respect!”

Seokjin scolds, accompanied by a playful kick to their youngest’s butt. Immediately the stuffy air dissipates and Jungkook responds in kind; by kicking him in the shin, hard enough to launch Seokjin into another lengthy nag.

It was a quick retrieval after his rant. Jungkook lets himself be towed out of your apartment by an oddly enthusiastic Taehyung who's going on about a new game trailer he saw online while Jin has offered to be left behind to clean up the mess. It was no doubt obvious, the familiar awkwardness and tenseness brought by a rejected confession lingered in the air when they arrived, it only took him one look at you and he already knew.

The moment the door slams shut behind the boys, he immediately began:

“Did he admit it?”

His voice was soft yet it rang loudly in the pindrop silence of your living room. The sigh he let out echoed more when you nodded.

“I told him to not do it, you know? But you know how stubborn he gets.”

You didn’t reply. You simply move, walking to the trash bin to put the empty beer cans in and Jin follows close with the bowls stacked on top of each other to place in the sink. It was a brief moment of reprieve. He let the moment from earlier simmer in your stomach, let the smoke from it fill your lungs and weigh your heart till you burst.

Out of the seven boys, you've always turned to either him or Yoongi as they're older than you, so it came to nobody's shock when you break and told him.

“It just never gets better, I always feel guilty even if I didn’t choose. I’m just lucky I didn’t have to suffer through seven of these, I don’t think I could take it and just quit.”

It was a thought you’ve entertained when Taehyung came to you with his heart in his hand, giving it to you carelessly despite knowing how you’ve handled the other confessions. He was all dopey smiles and flushed cheeks, it continued even when you’ve pushed his heart back to him with an apologetic look.

Seeing the happy creases in his eyes iron out despite the huge boxy smile continuing to play on his lips, the existing pressuring guilt reawakened. Taehyung’s heart that gleamed and glowed gold, vulnerable for you to take and use from where it settled in the middle of his offering palms. You could’ve taken advantage of it all as they were rising in fame, when they were facing discrimination from the other companies and had found comfort in you but you didn’t.

Even with the attraction you've felt for them, you were nothing but a makeup artist to the company. Another asset to deploy and replace if it got annoying to handle. You couldn't risk your career on uncertainties, this is your dream job.

You loved them all equally and held them in the same regards as the others, they’re your best friends, chosen soul companions even without the marks to solidify it.

They loved you and you loved them all but you wouldn't bet your life on an uncertain future.

“You should give us more credit, you know?”

He says from the kitchen sink, the sound of water slowing into a halt. Seokjin didn’t move for a while. When he did, it was to place down the plates, washing his hands before turning around to face you.

“We’re grown adults now, we can handle rejection so don’t feel too bad about it. You can choose and we’d even help you keep it a secret from everyone besides us eight.”

It was genuine. Even in the haze of your intoxication, those words felt like a cool balm for your aching heart. While Namjoon’s words were cited research, formal and factual and Yoongi’s were calming droughts to ease the discomfort of sadness brought by gloomy thoughts, Seokjin speaks from the heart, true and unbiased but says it with a gentleness and care.

Guilt sets like a boulder on your heart. Being able to feel, to experience such a privilege when all you've done is break his heart since your hunt for a husband, the weight in your chest multiplied and tears sprung from your eyes.

You wanted them but you couldn't risk your dream job, couldn't risk a friendship as precious as theirs for kisses and hugs that eventually has its ends.

You didn’t even notice it when he crossed the distance between you both and pulled you plush to his chest but you recognized the familiar sensation of plush lips pressing against your forehead.

If it lingered a few seconds past what's platonically allowed, you didn’t mention it.

Seokjin’s muted scent of freshly baked cakes brought silence to the rampaging waves of thoughts in your mind and if you pressed your nose flush to his chest to bury yourself in his fragrance, he didn’t say anything, bringing one hand behind your head protectively.

“I'm sorry to put you through this pain, Jinnie. I-I didn’t know.”

“I knew you didn’t know but I'll be fine... eventually.” He breathes out before leaning down to bury himself into the nest of your hair. "As long as you're happy, then I am too."

It was heavy, being loved and held so preciously even after you’ve turned him down, it felt cruel, sadistic even. But like the selfish woman you are, you accepted it. Soaked in his affections greedily.

“You know, he asked me to never show Guwon around you guys.”

He sighed. “I knew he would.”

“Do you want that as well?

Silence followed but you heard his answer loud and clear.

The second date happened after the first leg of the tour in Seoul.

Although planned suddenly, you appreciated the downtime after being lost in the haze of rushed outfit changes, reapplying makeup, and patting sweat from foreheads. If anything, you were thankful you could loosen up after earlier. The awkward tension didn’t go amiss, it only took Namjoon and Yoongi one look between you and Jungkook before taking charge on how the night progresses.

Yoongi didn't waste any time waving you over to ask for help for his makeup, even when he was already being prepped by one of your older colleagues, Ji hae. Thankfully, the woman lets you take over, saying she wanted a snack anyways.

The man didn't bother asking you what happened and settled comfortably in his chair but not before offering you the snack he bought earlier and was laying neglected on his lap. Yoongi asked about Guwon in a hushed voice, because while you were living in a reverse harem with most of his brothers, he was genuinely curious about your boyfriend-to-be.

Maybe it was the fact he has never admitted his affections for you that made it comfortable to discuss topics you could never talk about with the others with him, but you let your tongue a little loose.

And he listened.

Yoongi has always been a man of action not words, his love language has always been opening water bottles, blankets appearing from nowhere when you're passed out on their couch, and listening attentively. Despite what the world says about his nonchalance and silence, in your eyes, he's the sweetest guy on the roster—not that you'd tell Jimin that of course, he'd riot if he were to find out.

By the end of the concert, Guwon asks you on an impromptu date. A simple late night walk on a market nearby because there's apparently a food fair, and as usual, the expenses are on him. Hungry with a principle of never turning down free food, of course you accepted.

Though you had a long time deciding whether to go or not with Jungkook’s confession still fresh.

Minutes later, he's waiting for you by the exit. The scene of him leaning on his Mercedes, waiting for you to reach him at the bottom of the stairs looks like it was pulled out of a kdrama.

Oddly enough, they didn’t question your lack of updates in the group chat but Jimin reached out later on and you suspect he told everyone your whereabouts instead, hopefully minus the date part to spare the others (read: Jungkook) from heartbreak.

The fair looked like a mirage of a paradise in the night hidden away in a small gently-lit up alley. The path was lightened up with gentle lanterns hung above you, the warm colors setting a more intimate scene. It wasn’t as luxurious as dinner from yesterday or as calming as the bike ride around the Han river but you appreciated it nonetheless.

You’re ready to drop dead but you pushed through, you wanted this relationship to work. Because then, maybe the monsters—your mother and her wide selection of personalities as well as aunties, her friends, trying to refer you to their horrible sons—haunting you from under your bed will finally leave you alone.

It was cruel that you’re using someone else to erase the memory of being professed to by one of your best friends.

Guwon was happy enough to take charge the whole date, leading you from food stall after food stall, ordering whatever your eyes lingered at which is half of what the fair offers. He understands your lack of responses as it is, tired from work, and talked enough for the both of you. Which you are grateful for.

He talked about his job and what happened that day, willingly telling you about the story of how he and his co-workers clicked back in College, never to part till now in the field they wanted. He spoke of his dreams, how he envisioned his dream home by the province surrounded by nature and the cat named Nabi waiting for him at home.

There's nothing more blatant of a signal than the last part, whether you accept it or not depends on you.

Normally, you would've frowned at the thought, immediately thinking of running away but as the night deepens and stalls start to close, the idea grows more and more tempting despite the logical voice in your head disagreeing. Seeking a distraction and possibly leading on a kind man is cruel, both to him and you.

But at the end of the day, it’s just an escape from the reality you're stuck in, a temporary answer to a long time problem.

How harmful can it be?

People had hookups before, you’ve had hookups before your mother has started a hunt for your husband this year so what are you so reluctant for?

If this man is to be your husband, you should check your physical compatibility right?

You shivered. God, you sounded like one of those shitty guys you’ve dated before.

"Hey, the stalls just closed. Are you fine with me driving you back to your house?"

His voice cuts through your deep thoughts and you turn to him. Even in the dimly lit corner of the alley, Guwon looked attractive as ever with his dimpled smile and laid back attitude, his soft eyes gleaming under the lanterns, affections overflowing from his gaze and you. shuddered from its weight.

Staring at the man, you wondered if you'd ever fall in love with him as he seemed right now.

Soon enough, you both arrive in front of your apartment building. However, not every plan goes through as you thought it'd go and you find two familiar figures rushing down to meet you.

Taehyung didn't hesitate to run up to you with open arms and a wide smile. He didn't even care that you both almost toppled over if it wasn't for Guwon hand supporting you from the back.

"Wh-why are you two here? Shouldn't you guys be resting?"

Jimin shrugged but you caught the mischievous glint in his eyes as a small smile tugs his lips. "Hyung got so worried and wanted us to make sure you got home safely."

"Even a thumbs up would be great but you ignored every text and call! Jin hyung panicked and sent us out, if you didn't come home, he would've had a huge manhunt for you." Taehyung chimed in, pulling away but keeping his hands on your shoulders as he stared deep into your eyes, as if trying to hypnotize you into believing them.

Jimin snickered. “Yoongi hyung was an hour away from declaring you missing so the good dongsaengs we are, we decided to camp outside your apartment.”

You would've accepted his explanation, it was logically sound yet the dark glint of mischief and something else in his eyes as his gaze bounced from you to Guwon told you a different story.

They've always had to interrupt your dates when it becomes sour but this was the first time they've confronted a potential partner outside the intentions of ruining a date because you wanted it to suck.

This was them laying their claim over their own, a silent statement. A declaration you try not to think so much about, fearing you'd dig yourself deep and fall to your death.

“These must be one of your kids?” Guwon asks from behind, reminding you of his presence and you turn to him with an apologetic look.

“Yeah, Taehyung and Jimin. I practically raised them.”

Jimin scoffs and your head snapped to him, widening your eyes in warning to which he ignored. “Just because you’re a year older, doesn’t mean you could say you raised us you know?”

“See what I deal with everyday?”

Guwon laughs lightheartedly before patting your head to get your attention. “Since your kids are here to protect you, I should get going now.”

“Drive safely.”

“See you soon?”

“Definitely.”

Then he placed a haste kiss on the edge of your lips, catching you off guard and you froze. Guwon was already in his car by the time you realized what happened and turned to chastise him. You couldn't even knock on the passenger window when the arms coiled around your shoulders tightened and tugged you close.

Letting Guwon kiss you in front of one of the men who confessed to you once was the first mistake, second was looking up at Taehyung whose hug is starting to hurt.

Gone were the usual giddiness and child-like enthusiasm that would pour from his eyes. It was replaced by a colder glare, almost blank and emotionless as it narrowed behind you and jaw locked tight. There was something primal in the way his hand behind your head was pushing you closer to him as if he was hounding over his game from another predator.

Goosebumps prickled your skin awake.

If butterflies exploded in your stomach and ignited a molten heat in your abdomen at that very moment, it's a secret you’d take to your grave.

“Tae?”

“Noona, I think we should head inside. It's getting cold.” Jimin’s sweet voice sounded forced and you resisted the urge to look at him.

While their reaction to being challenged is obvious, you couldn't, for the life of you, figure out why he should feel like that when he’s been seeing other people since his confession. From your past dates where he attended as one of your escape plans, he’s never expressed such an intense show of displeasure so you thought his fleeting crush had passed.

Until tonight.

When Taehyung pulled away, the traces of his hostility were gone and you had to double take at how vastly different he's appearing now. He has his lower lip pushed out into a pout, eyes wide with mirth as he reaches up to cup your cheeks, his warm palms heating your cold-nipped skin.

“Aigoo, you're so cold noona. Let's go in and binge that foreign show you've been following.”

With hands now intertwined, he leads you inside the building where Jimin was already standing inside and was holding the door open for you both. You were being tugged into your own home yet you couldn’t help but feel tense as Taehyung and Jimin welcomed you back in with the same dark look you saw earlier.

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