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minisugakoobies · 2 months

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Yours for the Night | HHJ

Pairing: Hyunjin x Reader Genre: smut, porn with the barest of plot, frenemies to lovers, Model!AU Rating: M (18+) Warnings: so. much. cockiness from Hyunjin, arguing as a form of foreplay, a bit of dumbification, what's a little fucking between frenemies?, dick pics, exhibitionism, nipple play, mentions of slut shaming, grinding, fingerfucking, pinching, just a tiny bit of spit, unexpected use of pet names, oral sex (f receiving), wet and messy, biting, dirty talk, maybe a little degradation (talking about reader being cock stupid), unprotected sex (bc used), riding/cowgirl style, praise/use of "good girl," soft dom!hyunjin vibes, rough/hard sex, multiple positions, creampie, multiple orgasms Word Count: 8.8k Disclaimers: NSFW, obviously I don’t own SKZ - they just inspire me Summary: “Let me lay it out for you, so there’s no misunderstanding. If you can stop pretending for five seconds that you don’t want me the way I want you, you can have me tonight.” Or, Hyunjin makes you an offer you simply can't refuse.

A/N: I finished this earlier than expected, thanks to the inspiration that is Hyunjin at Milan Fashion Week. Have you seen him?? 🥵 Anyway, it's all because of his stunning beauty that this filthy lil pwp exists. Enjoy! 😘

Unbeta'd as usual. I would *love* to hear your thoughts - my inbox is always open (anon is on, but hateful comments will be blocked. Be kind, writers do this for free and with love!) 💕

SKZ Masterlist

It’s Friday night, you’re out for drinks with your friends, and you are frustrated.

It’s not the club that’s bothering you. You’re here tonight at Felix’s request. He’d told you all it had been too long since you’d gone out as a group, so all nine of you and your friends crammed yourselves into a couple of rides and headed for downtown.

Nor is it the incredibly tight, short, and backless dress you’ve poured yourself into that’s annoying you, though it’s certainly not helping. Your fingers anxiously grasp at the hem, tugging it down your thighs as you take a seat at the table where Felix and Seungmin are currently talking.

No, it’s something personal that has you wound tighter than a corset tonight. Work has been kicking your ass lately, and it’s put a huge damper on your sex life. You haven’t been out with anyone new in the last few months. Haven’t had any time to reach out to any of your small group of casual hookups who would typically lend a hand. Most nights you’ve even been too tired to masturbate.

Put simply, you’re ready to fucking pop.

Which is why you’re wearing this bodybinding dress and staring at the dance floor like a wildcat stalking its prey, searching to find someone to help you with your problem. Unfortunately, you’ve been here for hours, and no one’s caught your eye so far.

Your clutch rattles on the table, drawing your attention. Everyone who would usually text you is here, so out of curiosity, you take out your phone. The notification tells you that Hyunjin sent you a photo.

You glance across the room at where Hyunjin is sitting in a booth with Changbin, deep in conversation. Why would he send you a photo right now?

Your confusion only grows when you look at the photo. It’s a selfie, Hyunjin raising his champagne glass in a toast to the camera, perfectly tousled dark hair spilling over his brow as he fixes you with his signature smirk. It’s a gorgeous shot, of course, because he’s a gorgeous man, but again, why is he sending you selfies in the middle of tonight’s celebration? Or at all? Hyunjin’s never been the type to send you photos before, of himself or the group or anything.

He’s never really been the type to text you, period, outside of the group chat. Probably because the two of you aren’t really friends. Frenemies would be more accurate. You share the same group of friends, but have nothing else in common. Which is fine, you don’t have to be close to hang out, but he’s… well… he’s an acquired taste, and you’ve never developed an appreciation. Hyunjin’s snooty and cocky - overly so, in your opinion, even if he is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. Most of your conversations consist of nothing but arguing. He’s very stubborn and loves to get the last word in on everything. Which drives you crazy because you prefer to have the final say.

So to say this sudden selfie has you perplexed is an understatement.

Ignoring whatever Felix and Seungmin are talking about, you fire off a question.

You: What is this? Hyunjin: Are you that drunk? It’s me

Reflexively, you scowl at your screen.

You: I know it’s you You: But WHY are you sending me a photo of yourself? Hyunjin: You’ve been staring at me all night Hyunjin: I thought maybe you’d like something to take home, to keep

Again, you look over, only to find him looking at you, lips curled to match his photo. Heat flames through you. Could he be more conceited?

Maybe the vanity isn’t totally unearned, considering that he’s an actual model, making a living using his ethereal beauty to sell products. His own lifestyle is just as luxurious as the images he appears in. Like right now, he’s wearing the finest black suit, obviously couture, with a few silver necklaces draped over his tie that you’ve no doubt cost more than your entire outfit alone.

And sure, he has a jawline carved by the gods, thick eyebrows that frame expressive, cat-like eyes, and ridiculously pouty lips that you’ve found yourself staring at once… an hour on average. Maybe in your weakest moments you’ve even dreamt about what it would be like to kiss those lips.

But does that mean he has to be a dick all the time?

You: You’re such an ass Hyunjin: Deny it all you want, but we both know you can’t keep your eyes off me Hyunjin: Not that I blame you You: It’s amazing your head still fits through doors Hyunjin: You’d be the first to notice if it didn’t

Your nostrils flare. No matter what you say, he always flips it back on you. Admittedly, you are a little tipsy, so you’re not fully on your game, but it’s still annoying as fuck. And right now, you really don’t need another reason to be frustrated.

You: Whatever, Hyunjinnie

You cast another glance at Hyunjin, delighting in the way he frowns at your response. He hates it when you call him that.

You take a moment to locate the rest of your friends. Changbin’s still sitting with Hyunjin. Jeongin and Chan are doing shots at the bar. Minho and Jisung are in their own little world on the dance floor, arms draped around one another. Neither Felix nor Seungmin seemed to have noticed that you have dropped out of their discussion. Part of you feels guilty for ignoring them, but, well, you’re a little fired up now, and the only thing that would make you feel better would be getting the last word in with Hyunjin for once.

You take a sip of your cocktail, floating the cold liquid on your tongue as you devise your next line of attack, when your phone buzzes again.

Hyunjin: I have another photo for you You: Why? Hyunjin: Because I think you’d like it You: Oh really? Like you know what I like Hyunjin: Always so argumentative Hyunjin: You’re pretty easy to figure out Hyunjin: The staring makes it incredibly obvious

Such an ass.

You: Fuck off Hyunjin: I will not You: What’s your game, man? Hyunjin: No game Hyunjin: Can’t I just do something nice for you?

The man is a riddle. An enigma draped in Versace.

You type out “I guess there’s a first time for everything” and press send, putting your phone down long enough to watch him get the text. Hyunjin laughs to himself, smiling down at his screen, and there’s this weird feeling of satisfaction in your stomach at the sight. Whatever, you like making people laugh, even assholes like him. So what.

You tell yourself that you’re not going to wait at his beck and call, jumping to read his texts as they come in, if in fact he keeps sending them, but then your phone vibrates again and you snap it up immediately, because you’re a liar.

Hyunjin: Just trust me Hyunjin: You want this Hyunjin: But I want something first You: Oh here we go You: There’s the catch A hand waves over your phone. “Hi, hello, are we boring you?”

Quickly, you turn it over before Seungmin can see your text thread. “No, sorry, I was just, uh - “

“Hey, leave her be,” your savior Felix says, pushing Seungmin lightly. “She’s had a rough couple of weeks. She shouldn’t have to suffer through your boring work stories, too.”

“Hey!”

Seungmin and Felix dissolve into arguing as you covertly flip your phone back over.

Hyunjin: I’m not asking much Hyunjin: Just a photo of you. A photo for a photo

He can’t be serious.

You: I’m not sending you a nude Hyunjin: Did I say nude? No, I did not Hyunjin: A normal selfie, that’s all

Again your suspicion rises. What is he playing at? Where is this going?

You: But WHY? Hyunjin: Maybe I can’t stop staring, either

Your breath catches in your throat. When you look up, he’s gazing at you again, but his expression is less smug than usual and more… ravenous.

You turn away so fast, your neck cracks.

Hyunjin: So? Send me a pic.

There’s no reason for you to agree to this. Absolutely no reason at all. Beyond, of course, your burning curiosity.

It’s really going to get you in trouble one day.

Grabbing your clutch, you slip off your chair. “Ladies room,” you announce, glancing at Felix and Seungmin, who aren’t listening anyway, still squabbling. You wander just far enough out of sight of your friends, find a spot with good lighting back near the bar (because even if it’s just for Hyunjin, your vanity will not let you take an unflattering photo), and snap a quick picture, firing it off right away.

As you’re sliding back into your seat, your phone vibrates. Hyunjin sent another photo.

You swallow reflexively. Holy shit. It’s a shot of his crotch, dress pants straining to contain what is clearly a massive cock, gripped through the fabric by long fingers.

Hwang Hyunjin sent you a dick pic.

So it’s not big dick energy, it’s just big dick, is the first coherent thought you have once the screeching inside your head stops. It occurs to you that you’ve been gawking unblinkingly at your phone for at least several minutes, so you raise your head to make sure your friends aren’t watching you, and thankfully they’re not. Really, you should know better than to underestimate just how much Felix and Seungmin love to bicker.

But what are you supposed to say to Hyunjin now? Your thumbs hover, waiting for inspiration, but you’re stuck.

Hyunjin: Wow, are you speechless? Hyunjin: Guess there really is a first time for everything

Even without looking, you know he’s smirking at you from across the room. Suddenly, you need another drink, so you mumble “bar” in Felix’s direction and stumble away. As the bartender mixes you another cocktail, you grip your phone tightly, waging an inner war with yourself.

You should look at the photo again. You shouldn’t look at the photo again. You should delete it, and Hyunjin’s number, and maybe throw the phone in the nearest trash bin too, just for extra comfort. But holy fuck, do you want to look at the photo again!

What you really don’t want is to think about the effect that photo has had on your pussy, because it’s humiliating how much she’s throbbing right now.

“I’ll take one of those as well, thanks.” A hand waves towards the bartender, and your treacherous brain immediately recognizes those fingers as the fingers from Hyunjin’s photo, and starts picturing what those lithe digits would look like wrapped around your throat. Great. Now your brain has joined your pussy. Traitors.

You say nothing as Hyunjin takes the seat next to you. Partly because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten under your skin again, albeit in a very different way, but also partly because you’re still not sure what to say.

“You know,” Hyunjin bends towards you, close enough for his warm breath to tickle your ear, “if I’d known that all it would take to get you to stop arguing with me was showing you my cock, I would’ve introduced you much sooner.”

“God, you are just - just the worst,” you snarl, teeth clenched hard enough to give you a headache.

“Now really, is that any way to speak to someone who just gave you a gift?” Hyunjin sips his drink calmly.

Well, there’s the Hyunjin you recognize. What you don’t understand is how he’s still making your cunt drip with need. All you can think about right now is what he’s hiding under those suit pants. Are you really this dumbstruck by cock?

(Yes. Yes, you are.)

“Me and every other woman in this club, I bet. You probably air dropped it to the whole room.” You wouldn’t put it past him. Maybe that was his plan the whole time - work you up then leave you begging while he hooked up with someone else. As if you’d beg.

“Oh no, that was just for you.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

With a roll of his eyes, Hyunjin clicks his tongue. “Come on. You know how selective I am when it comes to my clothes or my liquor. Why would I be any less selective about who I fuck?”

“Who you fuck?” Whoa, who said anything about fucking? Besides your duplicitous brain and pussy. “Who - who said - that’s not - I mean -” You’ve suddenly become the Big Bad Wolf, huffing and puffing, unable to form a complete sentence.

Hyunjin rises, leaning over you as you gaze up at him from your barstool. He places his hands on the bar, one arm on either side of you, bracketing you in, wild eyes trailing down your figure slowly before he smiles, hungry and sharp, and you realize, no, here’s the wolf.

“Listen, there’s no reason we can’t fuck. Friends fuck all the time.” His hand glides over your shoulder, light as a feather, and you watch dazedly as goosebumps ripple along your skin. His touch is electric.

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

Hyunjin shrugs, lips twisted in a droll smile. “Close enough. This doesn’t have to be complicated. You said it yourself - you’re in need.”

“What? When did - I never said that!” Again you struggle to speak coherently, sputtering in your confusion.

Hyunjin frowns. “Ah, you’re right, I misspoke. That was Felix who said that, wasn’t it? On the ride here?”

You curse inwardly, remembering the private discussion you and Felix had had on the way to the club, when you were discussing your dry spell. Or at least, it was supposed to be private, but obviously someone had been listening in. Felix had offered to play wingman for you, saying he wouldn’t let anything keep him from helping you “in your time of need” - a bit dramatic, but that was Felix for you.

You’d waved him off, insisting that you could snag someone without any help. But here you are, drowning your sorrows at the bar with no possibilities in sight. Maybe you should’ve accepted Felix’s help after all.

“That’s not…” Sighing, you shrug. There was no point in trying to deny what he’d heard. “Fine, yeah, I came here tonight hoping to leave with someone, but I didn’t mean you!”

“That’s because you didn’t know I was an option.” Again his gaze travels down your body, lingering like a slow caress. “But after seeing the way you look tonight, I had to offer myself up.”

Always. So. Cocky. You want to deny that his words have an effect on you. Want to. But can’t.

And like that, your resolve starts to slip.

“You really want to help me out?” you ask. He nods, irises blown as his eyes flicker to yours, and it puts fire in your belly, has you biting your lip in contemplation. “What makes you think you have what I need?”

Hyunjin doesn’t bother to check if any of your friends are watching as he steps closer, like he doesn’t care if anyone sees the way he cups your cheek. Or how he slides his thumb over your lips, dragging the bottom one down before lowering his mouth towards yours. He hangs there, just for a second - just long enough for you to tip your face up in a wordless answer.

His touch has nothing on his kiss. Your whole body thrums from head to toe, fizzing like the champagne on your tongue earlier, sweet and effervescent. His hand falls to your hip, squeezes there suddenly, and you feel a rush of heat between your thighs.

Hyunjin’s plush lips part, letting the tip of his tongue briefly nudge against yours before he pulls away, leaving you blinking dumbly. He lets out a low chuckle, gently wiping a drop of spit from your chin.

“I just know.”

You’re too busy licking the inside of your lips, hunting for any lingering trace of him, to respond.

“Let me lay it out for you, so there’s no misunderstanding. If you can stop pretending for five seconds that you don’t want me the way I want you, you can have me tonight.” His eyes dip to your mouth and back, and you find yourself holding your breath, waiting for him to make a move again. Needing him to. “Just think about it.”

And then he walks away, leaving you nearly toppling off your seat, floundering in his wake.

The ice cubes in your cocktail have all but melted by the time you remember you ordered another drink. Sipping it slowly, you replay the last several minutes in your head. Did all of that just happen? Did Hyunjin really just offer himself to you? And then kiss you like that?

You feel like you’re going out of your mind.

“Just think about it.”

Hyunjin’s last words echo in your head as you wander on wobbly legs back towards the table where Felix and Seungmin are still standing.

And oh, god, do you think about it.

For the rest of the night, no matter how many conversations you have with your other friends, no matter how hard you dance, no matter what you do - the sole thought occupying your brain is what it would be like to fuck Hyunjin. Again and again, you picture him above you, beneath you, behind you, big cock stretching you out, making you scream his name.

But it’s not worth it to give in to him. It can’t be. Good dick - if it’s good - can’t be enough to undo all the annoying shit he does, can it?

You cut yourself off early in the night, explaining that someone needs to stay sober enough to call for rides, but really you’re afraid that if you get completely blitzed, you’ll end up admitting something you don’t want to admit and going home with Hyunjin. Your friends honor your noble sacrifice by achieving impressive levels of drunk, ranging from delightful (Felix repeatedly booping you on the nose, calling you his “widdle buddy”) to disastrous (Chan, who gets upset when the guy he hits on in the bathroom doesn’t respond - turns out he was hitting on his own reflection - before falling asleep in a stall).

Since the club is in the middle of downtown, you arrange for two cars to pick you and your friends up - one heading east, one heading west. Changbin, Chan, Hyunjin, and you pile into the ride heading west. Changbin hops into the passenger’s seat before you can slip in, leaving you smushed in the back between Hyunjin and Chan’s gigantic thighs.

Said thighs are splayed a bit as Chan’s head lolls back, a loud snore erupting out of him as the car makes its first stop outside Changbin’s apartment.

“Can’t take him anywhere,” Changbin grunts, snapping a rather unflattering photo of Chan sleeping with his mouth wide open, obviously saving it to drop in the group chat at the most opportune time. “Can you two make sure he gets home okay? I know it’s a bit out of the way, but, well, look at him.”

Chan continues to rumble like a fighter jet, unaware of everything going on around him.

“Yeah, don’t worry, we got him,” Hyunjin replies, and you just nod. “Night, ‘Bin.”

Changbin gives the driver Chan’s address and then he ducks out of the cab. Your place is technically the next closest, but getting Chan back to his place safe and sound is the priority.

With Chan sleeping next to you, it’s basically just you and Hyunjin alone now. A fact that has also occurred to Hyunjin, whose hand has been drifting further and further around your waist the entire ride. Now it slides around openly, tucking you against his side. You could fight it if you so desired - he’s not holding you tightly. He’s giving you the chance to escape.

You’re not sure you want to.

“Have you thought about it?” he murmurs, nose against your ear.

Your body reacts to the tone of his voice, thighs rubbing together, as you nod.

“And what did you decide?”

“I - I don’t know.”

A puff of air tickles your skin as he laughs derisively. “Do you really need some convincing?”

Chan snuffles loudly, reminding you that there’s another person right next to you, since your entire focus is on Hyunjin, and the way his hand is now creeping beneath the open back of your dress, and slowly moving up your rib cage.

When he cups your left breast, you stifle a gasp. But you can’t stop the tiny “ah!” that escapes when he gently pinches your nipple. You attempt to cover it with a cough, hoping the driver’s lack of visible response means he didn’t hear you. Meanwhile, next to you, Chan doesn’t stir.

“Feel good?” Hyunjin coos quietly. “Must’ve felt good, given the way you’re squirming right now.”

Your hips have started to rock of their own volition. Brain, hips, pussy, all on your shit list.

“But just think how much better it’ll feel when it’s my mouth.” His tongue flicks the shell of your ear before he sucks your earlobe into his warm mouth. A preview of what’s to come. It makes you squirm even harder, dying for any sort of relief for the aching between your legs.

Remarkably, you manage to speak, hissing, “You’re a demon.”

Hyunjin laughs. “You’ve no idea.”

His hand stays where it is until the car pulls up at the curb outside Chan’s house. It takes a minute for the two of you to wake Chan, then another minute for him to realize where he is, then yet another minute for him to slide out of the car. Hyunjin sighs and also climbs out of the cab to make sure Chan gets into his house safely.

When Hyunjin returns, the driver glances in the rearview mirror. “So, one more stop, or two?”

You blink at the question. The air in the cab feels heavy with implication. Hyunjin says nothing, but looks at you expectantly, and you understand - the choice is yours.

You glance at your hands, as if they’ll help you choose. Your watch informs you that it’s 2:12 in the morning. Don’t they always say not to trust any decisions you make after two am?

When the driver clears his throat a little too loudly, Hyunjin’s fingers grip your chin.

“Well? You heard him - one stop or two?”

You meet his gaze, surprised to find a fire burning in his eyes.

Maybe you’d be a fool to run towards it, seeking warmth where there might only be danger.

Fine, then. You’re a fool.

“One.”

With a satisfied grin, Hyunjin gives the driver his address.

You’re a little tense during the elevator ride up to Hyunjin’s apartment. Hyunjin, on the other hand, looks completely relaxed, quietly leaning against the wall with his normal blasé expression on his face. Like you’re not about to cross a boundary here that you never expected to cross. Like this was inevitable.

As soon as you’re both inside and his door is locked, he turns to face you, and you suck in a deep breath, waiting impatiently for him to touch you again.

Instead, he asks, “Do you want some water?”

“Um, yeah, sure.”

He must read confusion on your face - at least, you hope it looks like confusion and not disappointment - because the corner of his mouth lifts in a small smile.

“A few questions first,” he says, walking into his kitchen, sliding his suit jacket off as he goes. “Are you in good health?”

“Am I - am I in good health?”

Hyunjin tuts. “I’d ask if you need me to repeat myself but clearly you heard the question.”

You stare at his back, brows furrowing as you decipher his meaning. “Are you asking if I’ve been tested recently? Yes, I have been. Nothing to report.”

“Good, me too,” he replies, yanking his tie off and tossing it onto the counter before opening the fridge and grabbing you both a bottle of water. He eyes you as he opens his. “Are you on birth control?”

“Is this what you’re like on a date? Does your foreplay always involve interrogating your partner with clinical questions?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He tilts his head back as he drinks, so he doesn’t catch the glare you shoot his way. “Answer the question.”

“Yes, dick, I’m on birth control.” You take a swig of your water. The memory of his touch in the taxi is fading more and more with every second that passes. With a clearer head, you’re starting to question if you’ve made the right choice.

“Good,” he repeats, wiping his mouth. “I prefer to fuck raw.”

You clench around nothing at the thought, but scowl anyway. “What about what I prefer?”

Hyunjin just hums, fingers brushing your cheek before they tap under your chin. “Do you want me to use a condom?” There’s no drollness or sarcasm to his tone. He’s genuinely asking.

“No.” Your pride takes a tiny hit at the way you answer him immediately, without hesitation.

Just as quickly as his gentle tone came, it disappears again, vanishing as Hyunjin flashes a smug smile. “That’s what I thought.”

“That’s what - oh fuck off.” There he is again, that cocky asshole. Reflexively, you curse at him, ready to fight. “Fuck you, you don’t know anything about me.”

“How many times do I need to tell you that I do? You’re so easy to read.”

“Really?” Okay then. You’ll call his bluff. “Go ahead, Hyunjinnie. Tell me what I like.”

He rolls his eyes. His fingers make quick work of his cufflinks, setting them on the granite top beside him, and he slides his sleeves up, revealing toned forearms beneath.

“Well, for starters, you love getting under my skin with that infantile nickname.”

“No shit. Everyone knows that.”

“You live for arguing, especially with me. Can’t let a single sentence go by without snapping back.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re always wrong.”

Hyunjin doesn’t take the bait, merely leans back against the counter, examining you so openly that you feel exposed, so you cross your arms, as if that will help you block his penetrating gaze. He takes a few seconds before speaking again.

“No, it’s not that. Though I’m sure that’s what you tell yourself. If it were, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

He speaks so calmly, so self-assuredly. It’s maddening, even though you’re burning with curiosity. Makes you want to know more, so you press him again. “Okay, then - what is it? Why am I here?”

“Because you wanted someone to take control.” He spreads his arms wide. “And here I am.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know. You want someone else to be in charge. Make the decisions. Do the work for you. Then fuck you so hard that all those thoughts just fly right out of that pretty little head of yours.” He says it all so matter-of-factly, like it’s completely evident, your deepest desires laid bare for all to witness.

You want to dismiss his words, act like he’s so far off the mark that he’s on another planet, but you’re too surprised by his answer to respond with anything other than stunned silence. His arrogant smile returns. Clearly he was expecting you to fight, so your lack of a snappy comeback only confirms to him that he’s right.

“Just look at what you’re wearing,” he continues. “That tight dress screams ‘please fuck me stupid!’ Lucky for you, that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

You find your voice. “Oh, now you’re judging my clothing? And - and slut shaming me?”

“Please. I’m always judging your clothing. But it’s a taste thing, not some sort of moral judgment.” He smirks. “And I’m very supportive of sluts, thank you.”

As he sips his water, you replay the entire evening in your mind. Sending you the photos. Kissing you. Making the offer. Fuck. He really did do the work for you tonight. Was there ever a chance you were going to say no? Judging by Hyunjin’s attitude, this moment was never in doubt. He knew you’d end up here with him.

The other realization that dawns on you is - you’re not mad about any of that. The only thing you’re mad about is that, once again, he’s right about something. And he knows it.

Okay. Fine. You want to be fucked stupid. But does he have to be so fucking rude about it??

“Maybe this was a bad idea.”

He suddenly steps towards you. His expression is so intense that you move without thinking, backing all the way into the fridge. Your heart feels like it might burst through your ribcage at the slightest provocation, breath leaving your lungs in tiny exhalations as his thumb ghosts your cheek.

Not because you’re scared. Because you’re excited.

“Tell me you don’t want to kiss me.”

Hyunjin says the words softly, but there’s a firmness to his gaze that makes you swallow hard.

Your lips don’t move.

He kisses you. Wraps his hands around your waist, pulls you to his demanding mouth, head turning this way and that as his lips crash onto yours.

You kiss him back. Just as greedily, just as deeply.

His hand strokes your thigh. “Tell me you don’t want me to touch you.”

You make no noise.

His fingers crawl beneath your skirt, dancing over the silk of your underwear. Your gasp warms his tongue. A throaty growl chokes him.

“So wet for me.” He brings his hand up to show you the evidence, skin glistening. As if you didn’t already know.

He surges forward, pinning you to the fridge, mouth blazing a trail from your ear to your neck as his fingers press into your soaking slit.

“Ah, Hyunjin!” you whimper, clutching wildly at his bicep. The swell of his arm bulges as his fingers slowly search your inner walls, like they’re mapping every inch of you. When they trace over your g-spot, they linger, brushing again and again. “Oh my god!”

“Tell me,” he implores, husky voice breaking, like he’s barely in control, “tell me to stop and I will. Tell me you don’t want this - don’t want me - and I’ll call you a ride and we’ll never talk about this again.”

His forehead bumps yours, eyes smoldering with bright intensity, hand still plunging.

This time, you speak, chest heaving as you gasp for air.

“Don’t - don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

A smile spreads across Hyunjin’s face. He pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your waist, the other hand still working between your thighs. You moan, feeling his erection digging into your hip as he presses himself against you, holding you firmly in place while he adds a third finger to the two already fucking you open.

“Say it,” he commands, mouth wet and hot on your cheek. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want, oh, fuck, I, I want you to fuck me, Hyunjin.”

In an instant, he’s disentangled himself from you, and you can’t help but whine very loudly at the sudden loss of his fingers. Hyunjin just smirks at your naked desperation, spinning you around so you’re in front of him.

“Come on,” he says, lightly pinching your ass to make you move. You yelp, smacking him on the arm, but he just laughs. “I’m not fucking you in here. Let’s go.”

“Asshole,” you curse, but you go anyway, because all you want is for him to touch you again, and if he’s refusing to do it in here, then why would you want to stay? You’re going wherever his hands go.

Maybe you should feel ashamed, for giving in so easily. But you don’t. All you feel is desire. This is what you want. What you need.

Hyunjin’s fingers press lightly on the small of your back as he guides you down the hallway to his bedroom. It’s just as ostentatious as the rest of his place - expensive-looking light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, dark leather headboard and frame for his gigantic bed, which is covered in piles of plush-looking blankets and pillows. There’s a gorgeous painting taking up most of the wall above his bed.

He doesn’t give you much time to admire the room, because as soon as you’re in front of the bed, he spins you again, hands reaching for the zipper of your dress, sliding it to the ground, leaving you standing there in nothing but your panties. Before you can tell him to stop pushing you around, he’s kissing you fervently, like he’s been dying the entire time his mouth has been away from yours these last few minutes, and suddenly you forget that you’re irritated.

Hyunjin backs you onto the bed, breaking away from your lips long enough to urge you to move towards the headboard, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it to the side as he follows. When his fingers grab for his belt, they find yours already there, making short work of the buckle. He groans in delight, deciding to use his hands to grope your bare breasts while you unzip his pants.

“Can’t wait to see it in real life, huh?” he asks, dragging his thumbs over your nipples. He chuckles when you just whimper, back arching slightly to encourage him to keep touching you.

The truth is, yes, you can’t wait to see Hyunjin’s massive dick, but more importantly, you can’t wait to feel it inside you, so you continue with your task, pushing his pants and boxers down together. And god, what a cock it is, long and thick and positively darkened with need. Smeared drops of excitement coat the head, and the sight makes your mouth water.

He rises up to kneel between your legs, grabbing his cock with one hand and giving it a few lazy pumps. “Well? Don’t tell me you’re speechless again.”

“Goddamn it,” you huff in exasperation, “you’re the fucking worst.” But you can’t stop staring as he gently squeezes the head, making a pleased noise, relieving himself a little while he watches you writhe in impatience.

“You’ll be singing a different tune in a moment, sweetheart.”

Your nose wrinkles at how easily ‘sweetheart’ drips off his tongue. “Just put it in me already,” you demand, leaning back on your elbows, licking your lips as you peer up at him, trying to send a blatant “fuck me!” signal with every inch of your body.

Hyunjin tuts, lifting one of his gorgeously thick eyebrows. “Right to it? Is that what you really want?” In one swift motion, he hooks a finger under your panties and drags them down and off. It’d be a more impressive move if anyone but him were doing it.

“I just… I thought we were gonna fuck?” Isn’t that what you’re here for?

“Of course we are. But is that how you typically do it? No foreplay, no build up?” His fingers rake down your stomach, trail over your thighs, causing your body to twitch with shivers. “That doesn’t sound like any fun at all.”

It’s not how you’d prefer to do this, no. You’re just surprised that he agrees. So you say nothing in reply, visibly closing your mouth while he maneuvers you into position, pushing your legs up so your knees bend, your thighs meeting your stomach, completely exposing your cunt to him.

“That’s better. Just let me play with you a little first, sweetheart. I promise you’ll like it.”

Your instinct is to argue with him, tell him he has no idea what you’d like, but you’ve already done that tonight. And you were wrong. So again, you bite your tongue.

Until he extends his own, letting a string of spit fall onto your pussy.

“Ew, Hyunjin!” You’re disgusted, but not with him. Why do you find that so hot?

“Too much?” he inquires, letting go of your legs as he glances at you. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen a real expression of concern on his face before. It rattles you slightly.

Biting your lip, you shake your head. “No - keep going.”

He nods, hands reaching for your thighs again. “If I hit any hard no’s for you, say something, and I promise I’ll stop, okay?”

“I will.”

He bows over you again, licking a straight line up your slit. With a moan, you let your head drop back against the pillows. His mouth feels absolutely divine.

Where others in the past just dove in, Hyunjin takes his time. He drags his tongue around slowly, licking through your soaking folds, tasting you. It reminds you of the way you’d seen him drink a really fine whisky, holding it in his mouth, quietly identifying every note, every flavor. Relishing, instead of rushing.

When his lips brush over your clit, leaving teasing kisses, you moan. Hyunjin hums, a self-satisfied little rumble, and lifts his head. “See? Told you you’d like this.”

“Please, shut up and suck my clit.” It’s meant to be an order but definitely sounds like a pathetic whine. Whatever, as long as he listens.

He listens. Those plush lips that you can’t stop yourself from staring at roll over your already throbbing little nub and warm pleasure runs down your spine before pooling in your belly. His dark hair keeps falling in his face, obscuring him from your view, and for some reason you can’t have that. Tentatively, you reach out, hand shaking a little.

Hyunjin hums when your fingers slide through his soft locks, pushing the strands back, holding them in place so you can see his eyes, the way they squeeze shut when he sucks noisily on your clit. The sounds he makes are so loud, completely uninhibited, moaning and grunting as his lips smack and his tongue laps.

He uses said tongue to fuck you expertly, his movements so confident, so sure. He reads every quiver, listens to every moan, figures out how to work you up with quick, teasing shallow plunges, before slowing it down, going deeper, tongue brushing your walls like he’s speaking a language only your body understands.

“Hyunjin,” you sigh, unable to tear your eyes away from him.

His mouth parts from you long enough for him to speak. “There it is. There’s the tone I was looking for. Enjoy this, sweetheart. I know I am.”

You’re enjoying it so much that you unexpectedly whimper when he stops again a moment later, feeling a little embarrassed as he exhales a quiet laugh into your warmth. “Just hold on,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue up your slit to pass over your clit again and again, before sliding a finger into your clenching hole.

“Ohhhh.”

The combination is so good, his finger filling you while his mouth suctions to you, that your eyes flutter shut. He pulls out and glides back in, all the way to his knuckles in one smooth motion, your wet folds parting so easily for him. He’s done an amazing job of spreading your slickness around, coating your inner thighs, messing his bed beneath you.

“Gonna make you come,” Hyunjin says, spreading you open with two fingers now. “Need you to come before I can fuck you just like you want. Can you do that for me?”

The tension in your gut tells you that that shouldn’t be a problem. Both fingers have curled inside you, stroking over your soft spot, making you pant, clutching Hyunjin’s satin sheets for dear life.

“Hy-Hyun-”

Before you can even finish saying his name, the tension snaps, nerves firing from your cunt to your toes, causing your legs to lock up. Hyunjin groans, moving his hands to grasp at your thighs, trying to loosen their squeeze.

“Easy, sweetheart, don’t take me out just yet.” When your body finally starts to relax, he grins. “There we go. Good girl.”

If this were any other time, you’d snap at him for dropping that pet phrase on you. But you’re too blissed out at the moment, practically purring as he starts to kiss his way up your torso.

When he reaches your breasts, he joins you, a low rumble sounding from the back of his throat. His nose nuzzles between them, as he leaves loud kisses on their swelling curves.

Another thing Hyunjin isn’t wrong about - his mouth feels much better than his fingers do on your nipples, tongue gliding like warm velvet against the pert nubs. You continuously moan, until you’re nearly panting, fingers once again finding his dark locks and threading themselves between.

“How am I doing, sweetheart?” he murmurs.

“Good.” It doesn’t even occur to you to tell him anything but the truth. “So good, Hyunjinnie. Ah!” You flinch as he suddenly nips the other nipple, teeth clamping gently. “Why?!”

“You and that damn nickname. I must not be doing enough if you’re still calling me that.” He rises onto his knees, shaking his head. “Guess I just gotta fuck it out of you.”

And just like that, you feel that spark again.

“Sure you will, Hyunjinnie,” you simper, voice dripping with honey, so sickeningly-sweet as you coo his name. It has the desired effect, making Hyunjin’s eyes flash.

He reaches for you, pulling you up into his lap, before you can so much as breathe. “You doubting me, sweetheart?” His hands press into your hips, urging you down on him. Both of you groan as his cock slides along your cunt, and the sparks inside you ignite.

“I’m not your sweetheart,” you spit back, feeling that familiar sense of agitation, but it’s not annoyance now, it’s anticipation.

“And I’m not really yours, but let’s play pretend for the night,” he drawls, and you look at him with wide eyes, but he kisses away the wonder on your face, working you up with teeth and tongue, until you’re frenzied with need. Your fingers clutch at his biceps, nails sinking in to tether him closer.

His hands on your waist guide you down again. As his cockhead breaches your lips, you keen, head falling forward onto his shoulder.

“Holy fuck,” you gasp. The stretch is delicious, cunt already throbbing around his thickness.

Both of you freeze when you’re fully seated on him, no sounds in the room but the rhythmic cadence of your panting intertwining with his.

“You know,” Hyunjin speaks through grit teeth, focused on the spot where your bodies join, “we could’ve been doing this a long, long time ago.”

You don’t know what to say to that. How long has he wanted this? You’re not sure the exact answer for yourself, except that it’s longer than you’d ever truly want to confess.

“Maybe - maybe if you weren’t such a - oh, oh, oh!” Your lame attempt at a retort is lost to the rapid snapping of Hyunjin’s hips when he starts to thrust up into you. There’s nothing you can do but bounce in his lap, clinging to his shoulders as he finally fucks you just as hard as he’d promised. “Hyunjin, please!”

Hyunjin grunts, perspiration trickling down his forehead as he concentrates on giving you what you wanted. His jaw flexes, brows drawn together in a frown, and even with this fierce expression on his face, he’s so beautiful that you can’t help yourself, diving forward to kiss that gorgeous mouth of his like you’ve always imagined, as if you weren’t just kissing him a few minutes ago, but like it’s the first time, tracing his lips with yours, imprinting the feeling of them against your own to store away in your memory for later.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” His words are the oxygen you inhale, tongues pressed together like the pages of a book. “I think I prefer you this way. So needy for my cock.” He smirks. “Kinda want to keep you like this.”

He digs his fingers into the plump roundness of your ass as he grinds into you, sliding you back and forth. Your hips undulate, rolling you down on his big cock, feeling every inch of him rubbing against your walls.

“Hyu-hyu-hyun!”

It’s impossible to get an entire word out, given the pace at which Hyunjin’s strokes are jostling you. Your staccato cries get louder when he switches it up, laying you on your back and shoving a pillow under your hips. His thighs smack into your ass with every plunge of his thick length, and again you can do nothing but try to breathe, drowning in euphoria as you are.

“Yeah, you’re best just like this. Stuffed full of cock, no room for thoughts. Or arguments.”

“F-fuck!” You were trying to say ‘fuck off’ but Hyunjin chose that moment to thumb at your clit, giving the aching nub the friction it so badly needed. Your hips buck up, making Hyunjin groan.

“Just like that, so good for me.”

You whine involuntarily at his praise, hips lifting again, trying to take him deeper. Every stroke of his cock lights you up, your body tingling from head to toe. The strong thrumming in your gut is going to overtake you soon and you’re finally going to get what you’ve been needing for weeks now. And it’s Hyunjin of all people who is going to give it to you.

You’re pulled out of your reverie as Hyunjin suddenly pulls out, falling onto his side next to you.

“What are y- oh!” You gasp as he turns you on your side, facing away from him. One hand lifts your leg, sliding it back until your calf loops over his. Then he enters you again, and again, thrusting in deep, powerful movements. “Oh, fuck, goddamn.”

“That’s right,” he growls, arm beneath you bending, hand coming to a rest around your throat. Not squeezing, but holding you in place, back pressed to his front. You’re both covered in sweat, bodies gliding over one another, making it hard for him to keep his pace. So his fingers spread on your chest, locking you in place, giving him leverage to pound into you. “Take it, sweetheart. Take what I give you like a good girl.”

“Ahhh,” you moan, “don’t - don’t call me that.”

“No? You don’t like being praised?” Hyunjin releases his hold on your thigh, running his others fingers around where his cock keeps sliding between your lips. “Your pussy tells me another story. You’re soaking my sheets.”

“Nah - ah - not that, ’s not that.” With this slightly slower rhythm, you’re able to speak, but full sentences still seem hard. “Like praise. Hate - hate good girl.”

“Ohhh, I see.” Hyunjin laughs breathily. “I should’ve known. You’re too proud. Think it makes you look weak if I call you that? Hmm?”

Even in your desperate state, you know he’s not far off from the truth. You don’t want him calling you that, because it feels like giving in to him. Letting him take control completely. Possessing you. His good girl.

The real, honest to god truth is - you can’t let him call you that, because you do want it. And you hate how much you want it.

So you deny it. Or at least, you try to. But all you can stutter is a weak “You’re s-such a d-dick,” as he continues snapping his hips into your ass, making your entire body jiggle in his strong grip.

Hyunjin drops an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, wet and sloppy. You curl your fingers into his arm as you sense that you’re approaching the precipice of your orgasm. You can tell that it’s going to be an intense one, one of those climaxes that clears your mind of all thought and leaves you literally shaking in ecstasy. Just as he’d promised.

You do appreciate a man who follows through on his promises.

Hyunjin must feel the way you’re starting to clench around him, groaning into your shoulder. “Ahh, I think this little cunt’s trying to tell me something again, sweetheart. You gonna come for me? Hmmm?” His fingers rub over your clit, the sudden touch making you jolt. “Come on, be a good girl and c-”

Twisting your head, you smash your nose into his cheek, clumsily seeking his mouth. Cutting him off with heated kisses, hoping he’ll interpret it as annoyance fueling your actions and not see it for what it truly is - untamed desire.

A strangled cry passes from Hyunjin’s lips into yours, and with one more tweak to your clit, you come undone. Your body locks up, thighs going rigid, cunt clamping around his cock so fiercely that Hyunjin hisses loudly, forehead resting on the nape of your neck.

“Fuck, you’re so goddamn tight,” he whispers in your ear. Sweat drips from his skin onto yours. “You’re gonna make me come. Is that what you want?”

You can’t answer. You’re gone, completely gone, beyond words, capable of making only the most broken, pathetic sounds, wantonly mewling as slowly grinds into you, cock rubbing against your clenching walls. When your legs start to go slack, he resumes his thrusting, but at a languorous pace, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to go easy on you now that you’re approaching overstimulation, or if he’s trying to slow himself down.

“I think it is what you want. I think you want me to fill this little pussy up with my cum, don’t you? Hmm?” His nose prods at your cheek. “A sweet creampie for my good girl?”

The whine that you let you out is pitifully loud. White hot shame spikes through you, but only for a second, the emotion quickly burnt away by your fervent need.

“Come on, tell me. Tell me you want it.”

“Ahhh!” You gasp as his cock sinks in deeper, hitting your g-spot. It’s almost too much, the delicious drag, and your fingers dig into his arm, nails sinking into his skin. “Fuck!”

“Tell me,” he says again, but this time there’s a plea laced into the command, a desperate edge in his tone that strikes a chord somewhere deep inside you, and suddenly you want to give him anything he needs.

“Hyunjin, I want it, p-please!”

Those are the magic words. Hyunjin groans, his hips falling out of their slow rhythm, jerking erratically as he does exactly what he said, shooting his load deep inside you, moaning your name the entire time. You grip the sheets so hard, you’re afraid you’ll tear them, shoving your hips back against his, riding out his climax with him.

“Pussy’s sucking me dry, sweetheart. So greedy,” he pants, trailing kisses along your neck. “Think it wants more.”

“Hyunjin!” You sob his name again, voice breaking. All it takes is his fingers pinching at your clit and you’re coming again, stomach twitching, breath leaving your body in one big rush.

When your body stops trembling, Hyunjin finally slips out of you, his hand falling away from your cunt. He lets out a tired laugh.

“You can take your nails out of my arm. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Oh.” Your neck burns a little in embarrassment. You hadn’t realized you were still holding on to him so tightly, unconsciously keeping him in place. Keeping him close to you. You relax your grip, and he slides his arms around you further, locking you into his embrace.

It’s… nice, being in Hyunjin’s arms. Really nice. Lying there, in your messy, tired state, you feel rather content.

But the longer you lie there, just breathing together, not speaking, your head starts to fill with thoughts again. Questions. The most pressing being, at what point is he going to kick you out? Because despite everything that just happened, he’s still Hyunjin, and you’re still you, and -

“It’s already started.” Hyunjin hums, lightly shaking you. “I can hear you thinking again.”

Your reflexes kick back in. “It’s just what I do. You should try it some time.”

To your surprise, Hyunjin starts to laugh. You roll over, nose bumping his as you give him a curious look.

“What?”

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” He brushes a finger over your cheek. “You’ve got a fighter’s instinct. It’s one of the things I admire about you. But maybe, just maybe, you don’t have to fight me all the time?”

You stare at him as you try to make sense of the rather casual confession of admiration he just dropped. Nope. Can’t. Not right now.

“I…” You pause. “Sorry. It’s just a habit.”

He smiles, something genuine that slowly shifts into his familiar smirk, and even as spent as you are, you feel a stirring inside you. “Guess we need to work on that.”

In the morning, you might regret what you say next. But the night’s not over yet. “Maybe you just didn’t fuck me stupid enough yet.”

Hyunjin accepts your challenge with a kiss.

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theoldsports · 5 months

Text

married.

Coriolanus Snow x reader | 5.5k words

alcohol makes consent messy, substance abuse, manipulation, arranged marriage, public humiliation, two-way abusive relationship <3

Coriolanus may well replace Lupin as my favorite guy to write for. he’s fucked up. i can’t fix him, but i could certainly make him worse.

As quietly as possible, [Y/N] closed the door to Coriolanus’s lavish new apartment behind her. She didn’t particularly want him to know that she had left the apartment in the first place. There were always too many questions.

[Y/N] had recently moved in with Coriolanus since their engagement. Her parents had arranged their marriage with his grandmother, affectionately called the Grandma’am not long before she passed. Coriolanus was about the most desirable bachelor in the Capitol. Not only was he an excessively handsome twenty-three year old, but he was also growing increasingly wealthy and had recently received his first assignment as a Gamemaker working on creating a new arena structure for the Hunger Games. Everyone who was anyone in polite society knew of Coriolanus Snow.

And [Y/N] hated him with everything she had. She had to see his defiant smirk in school every day for years since they were twelve or so. She hid from him every chance she got at home. [Y/N] slept in another room away from him. The only advantage of their marriage were the politics and name recognition for the both of them.

“I didn’t realize you were going out.” Coriolanus said flatly, snapping [Y/N] from her thoughts. She hadn’t even realized he had been in the apartment’s common area. He was sitting calmly in an putrid-looking armchair, alarmingly still.

[Y/N] gasped and clutched her chest in surprise. “Is there a problem with my leaving?” She said quickly.

“No problem.”

[Y/N] looked at him curiously. “Okay.” She said and moved passed him to her bedroom.

After a moment of pause, Coriolanus appeared in her doorway. He leaned against her doorframe with a hand in his pocket. “Where were you, by the way?” He asked plainly.

“I don’t see how that’s your business.”

“It was beginning to get late. Our engagement party’s in two hours. I cannot very well attend an engagement event without my fiancée. So. Where were you?”

“Dry cleaner’s.”

Coriolanus let out a scoff. [Y/N] could see him get hot under the collar. “You expect me to believe you were—Where’s the laundry?” Coriolanus questioned.

[Y/N] reached into her coat pocket for the stub of her laundry receipt. “Dropping off, not picking up. You’re on Lucky Flickerman’s next week. Dropping off my dress ahead of time. Anything left you would like to accuse me of?” [Y/N] sighed, leaned against her desk chair.

“Do not speak to me like that,” Coriolanus begun, sighing. It was obvious that he felt undue humiliation from her response. “It’s childish and unbecoming.”

“So is your being a hypocrite.” [Y/N] snapped back instantly.

The pair fought daily. Never had Snow laid a hand on her, but it wouldn’t be surprising if he did one day. [Y/N] didn’t recall any particular fights he had been involved in at the Academy, but it doesn’t mean they didn’t happen.

“Stop acting like a child!” Coriolanus repeated. “Are we not allowed one remotely pleasant moment together? You know I don’t want this just as much as you, but here we are. Can’t we be civil?”

“I am capable of civility, yes. You, on the other hand…”

“You’re disgusting. You don’t know how to listen. It blows me away. I asked you a simple question that a married couple should ask the other when one is gone. Now you’re screaming at me like a little girl. Grow up.”

“Grow up? You wanna talk about childish; you’re selfish, demanding, and cold. I’m scared to death of you. You make me feel like a toy, not a person, Coriolanus. I was always pretty fucking certain children had toys, not grownups.”

“Good gracious… Fine! Be that way. Cause a fucking scene!” Coriolanus screamed. His temper flared. He got that look in his eye that only men can get when they lose something they wanted. “My coat and tie are black. I’m assuming you’re not intending to clash or something, so just letting you know. Y’know. Communication. The polite thing to do.” He reported and stormed out of her room to his own. Her door slammed so hard behind him that she feared in may splinter off its hinges. What must the neighbors think of them?

[Y/N] resisted the urge to shout for Coriolanus to drop dead.

She was left to ready herself alone. As she pulled out her dress (that wouldn’t look foul against Coriolanus’s coat and tie) from the closet, she caught a glimpse of the engagement ring on her finger. White gold with a moderately sized ruby set in the middle. She was told both the gold and the stone were real, but she had her doubts to some extent. She found it was difficult to believe anything Coriolanus said. The ring made it clear that Coriolanus didn’t truly know [Y/N] because she had always worn silver jewelry. She felt isolated from all her prior jewelry pieces as now, none of them matched.

Then, [Y/N] stepped into her dress. A flowing black ballgown with a full petticoat and a glittery exterior over the fine satin it was made from. She couldn’t quite complete the buttons running up the dress’s back. She sat down at a small vanity Coriolanus had purchased her to do her hair and makeup. She assumed he would be hard pressed by the fact she couldn’t button the back of her own ballgown; that she was incapable or needy.

After dragging kohl and shadows over her eyelids, among other things, she set out to find the correct pair of shoes to match the dress.

The problem with dressing to match Coriolanus is that he was excessively tall. This meant every dress had to be accompanied by the tallest heels one could find. [Y/N]’s ankles ached just thinking about a night in shoes like that again. With her makeup done and her dress unbuttoned down the back, [Y/N] set out to find the red heels Coriolanus had purchased for her. She sat unceremoniously on the floor with her large skirt fluffed out around her to dig in her closet for the shoes.

Coriolanus was fastening his white gold and ruby cufflinks that matched [Y/N]’s engagement ring when he knocked at her door.

“Yes, what?” She shouted from the floor.

Coriolanus pulled the door open without asking if she was decent. “I was going to ask if you were ready, but I can see that you aren’t.” He sighed. Coriolanus never apologized after a fight, instead he tried to placate in whatever way possible. He was incapable of an apology, [Y/N] thought. Whether it was buying her something, taking her out, helping her find something she had lost, that’s what he would do to ease his own guilt. If he could feel guilt.

[Y/N] sighed as well. She was unwilling to engage in verbal sparring with him now. She lowered her head in a visual show of defeat. “I can’t find my other shoe,” She said weakly. “The red ones you got me.”

“The red heels?” He asked quietly. Coriolanus perceived she was not much in the mood for his attitude, and felt his residual anger cool off several degrees.

[Y/N] nodded hopelessly. She didn’t want to go to the engagement party. She didn’t want to be marrying Coriolanus under terms such as these. [Y/N] felt like property and everything hurt.

“Let me look,” Coriolanus said. What he meant to say was ‘I’m sorry for everything,’ but what he said was: “I’ll help you look. Don’t wrinkle your dress, alright?”

[Y/N] stood up awkwardly, holding the falling bodice of her dress up. She felt uncomfortable being so vulnerable in front of him like this. “Sorry, I couldn’t button the back.” She said. With her free hand, she reached around the back of the dress in an attempt to close it.

“Don’t apologize. I’ll get it. Turn,” Coriolanus commanded plainly. [Y/N] did as he said. He notched the buttons down her back with ease. “You should’ve called for help. I didn’t realize you were struggling.” He said. He patted her shoulder to signify he was done with the back of her dress. Coriolanus moved in front of her closet and bent down to find the missing left red shoe.

It was silent for a moment. “Of course you weren’t aware I was struggling.”

Coriolanus offered no reply. He understood what she meant.

“Aha!” He said after a few moments, holding up a matching set of shoes. Coriolanus placed them on the floor in front of her so she could step into them. He offered [Y/N] a hand for stability as she did so.

“Thank you,” she said. “Hey, Coriolanus?”

“Hm?”

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” he replied, standing up from the carpeted floor. “Are you?” Coriolanus’s blue eyes were piercingly inquisitive. Eyes that didn’t want to know you, but to consume you.

“Yes.”

“Really? Why?” Coriolanus asked. It didn’t feel rude or hot-tempered. It was merely a plain question. It made [Y/N] feel safe to answer, even though she remained guarded.

“I’m presenting myself as the soon-to-be wife of the most important thirty-under-thirty in the Capitol in an arranged marriage. And you hate me. You have hated me since we were children. My life is over, Coriolanus. This is for you and for my family’s honor, evidently. What do I have left?”

“You think I hate you?” Coriolanus asked, bending his neck to look at [Y/N]. “I don’t hate you.” [Y/N] wasn’t sure how truthful the statement was.

“Well, at least, you don’t like me.”

Curiously, Coriolanus placed a hand on her neck and dragged his thumb across [Y/N]’s jawline. “That’s such shit, [Y/N]. I didn’t realize you thought that of me. That you… Felt that way at all,” he started carefully. “Rather, and this sounds silly, I enjoy arguing with you. I sort of thought you did as well. You’re ruthless, I admire that,” He smirked and paused for a breath. “I do like you. Believe it, or not. I’ll just have to figure out a way to show you better,” Coriolanus’ hand slid from [Y/N]’s throat, down her side and back to eventually rest at her waist. She blinked up at him, surprised at the luxury of such unexpected contact from him. “Your life is not over. You wanna work, work. You want to not work, stay home. Please, allow me to do what I can for you. I can open doors. Whatever you want, name it. Things, opportunity,” [Y/N] nodded at the word ‘opportunity.’ “You’re meant to be my wife and I’m… really, I’m one of the best resources there is around here. Let me use that advantage. Had I known sooner, I wouldn’t have wasted all that time and money buying you things you hate.” He attempted a casual joke, holding her too close to him.

They were closer physically than they had ever been. Due to their proximity, [Y/N] had to rest her hands on Coriolanus’ chest as she stared up at him. She didn’t know what to say, so she nodded and straightened the red rose at his lapel. “You just might get yourself that unified front with me if you bring home your work…”

“You’re interested in Gamemaking? Since when?”

[Y/N] rolled her eyes. “We’re going to be late. We can speak about this later.”

“By all means.” Coriolanus leaned down awkwardly and kissed her. Maybe it was out of duty, maybe out of desire. Neither of them knew. They had shared the occasional peck on the lips for social reasons before, but this felt a bit different. It was charged somehow. A promise.

When they separated, [Y/N] stared at Coriolanus. He was all eyes - blue, blue, blue. He blinked at her. She blinked back. “Come on, we’ll be late to our own party.”

—

The whole ride to the event venue, Coriolanus had kept his hand on [Y/N]’s thigh. This was an unusual gesture. Normally, he didn’t chance touching her, even by accident. It was an unspoken agreement to keep their distance.

“I’m gonna be sick.” [Y/N] groaned into her palm as she exited the vehicle, led by Coriolanus toward the door of the event hall. The building had been destroyed when they were children in the war and had been recently restored to its former glory.

“Same thing as earlier, or did you decide I’m the worst person on earth?”

“Same as before. Haven’t decided about the second thing. My parents are going to be here too. You remember them?”

“Yes. I’ve met them… Twice, I believe—”

“Tread carefully.” [Y/N] said, offering no additional support.

Coriolanus nodded in solemn understanding. His eyebrows knitted together, knowing one more nasty, exhausting troublespot would be in his way tonight. He hated social gatherings as much as [Y/N]. With all the gentleness he could muster, Coriolanus took her hand. “Heading inside… Unified front?”

“If I must.” [Y/N] said.

With that, the night took off. Bright flashing cameras reflected off the black and white marble of the building, and applause rang off the large, cavernous walls. Everyone was shaking their hands, greeting and congratulating them, and stopping them for overly pictures at every turn. For a moment, [Y/N] truly believed that everything in her life was perfect, because everyone around her seemed to assume that it was. It made the pill of her future easier to swallow.

Coriolanus led her around the room with ease. He introduced her to many individuals whose names she would not remember tomorrow. She was beginning to develop a stunning routine of artifice with him as Coriolanus puppeted her around the room. Each interaction functioned with a greeting from Coriolanus to the stranger, he would remove his arm from [Y/N]’s waist and drag it down her arm into her hand in order for her to showcase her striking gown. Then he would say “isn’t my fiancée beautiful?” or “isn’t she just divine?” or “what a lucky man am I?” [Y/N] would chuckle and compliment him back with “my Coriolanus, ever the charmer!” or “isn’t he just divine?” or “what a lucky woman am I?” accordingly. They would smile sickeningly and pretend they were in love, he would lean in and kiss [Y/N] on the cheek, and she laugh warmly at his ‘spontaneity’ and place a hand on his chest, or straighten his tie.

After that, they would move on to greet the next poor sucker and repeat the process.

Eventually, [Y/N] dragged Coriolanus off to the side so she could relax her artificial grin. “Sorry, I need a moment. My face hurts. And that last man and his wife, was that his wife? They stunk. They smelled so foul it is unreal.”

Coriolanus smirked. “Those were my next door neighbors growing up. Vile. They’re very heavy morphling users, if you couldn’t tell with the glazed over look and twitchy eyebrow.” Coriolanus mocked.

[Y/N] laughed, hard. “Oh, you’re terrible!” She jeered. “Damn, what I wouldn’t give for morphling tonight…”

“Don’t tell me you’re a junkie, now.” Coriolanus pressed.

“Junkie is such a strong word…”

“Well, since I can’t get you high out of your mind at the moment, best I can offer is posca. I can grab you a glass and you can hide from the onslaught for a moment.” Coriolanus offered.

“Please. A particularly stiff glass if you can swing it. Or whiskey!” [Y/N] said. She watched Coriolanus turn to leave for the bar. [Y/N] tucked herself in a corner behind a noble Corinthian column for a moment of peace. A few people came and went that she greeted with that 1000-watt fake smile of hers, but she was mostly left unbothered. [Y/N] caught sight of a clock and realized Coriolanus had been gone for several minutes longer than he should have. She excused herself from talking to some old woman that claimed to be some distant great aunt or something of Coriolanus’ and set off to locate him and her posca.

Cutting through the crowd, [Y/N] spotted tall Coriolanus over most everyone’s heads, holding two glasses of posca, and speaking to her parents.

Fuck.

Her parents.

[Y/N] rushed sharply towards Coriolanus. She stopped short of approaching. She wanted to listen in for a moment to what they might be saying. [Y/N] knew her parents were of the socially treacherous sort. She turned her back to them and stood, pretending she didn’t know they were there.

“…Hasn’t given you too much trouble.” She heard her mother laugh.

Coriolanus laughed uncomfortably back. “Ha, not too much, no,” He said. “She’s quite fiery, for lack of a better word, though. Tough. She’s a tough woman.”

“You’re a strong young man, Coriolanus. I’m sure you’ll find a way to put her in her place. You can’t have her compromise your image and all that, you know. She can just be so destructive.” Her father said.

[Y/N] felt her heart sink. The positive interactions she had with Coriolanus were slipping out of her mind by the second in overhearing the conversation.

“Ah, yes sir,” Coriolanus said. “We’ve got a whole lifetime for—“

[Y/N] turned around and stomped over to Coriolanus. “There you are!” She said, returning that winning smile to her lips. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, dear,” [Y/N] the pet name coming from her mouth made her nauseous. She grasped Coriolanus’ arm firmly. “And you got me a drink? You really are a dear, aren’t you?” She smiled and turned to her parents. Coriolanus felt tense beside her; she could feel it in the muscles in his arm.

Both her mother and father embraced her lovingly. “Oh, [Y/N], you look beautiful as ever.” Her mother said.

“Thank you,” [Y/N] said flatly, not returning the compliment. “If you’ll excuse us, there was someone else I wanted Coriolanus to meet. We’ll be back around soon. Love you!” She muttered, pulling Coriolanus away from her parents.

“Give me that.” She said, as soon as they were out of earshot, taking the glass of posca from Coriolanus.

“They’re…” he started in reference to her parents.

“Dreadful. I know,” [Y/N] heart felt broken. She didn’t even have a chance with Coriolanus without their humiliating influence. She didn’t want to dive into rationalizing his overheard conversation. So she just morosely stared down at the floor.

“They’re cruel to you,” he remarked as [Y/N] drank. “They told me I should work on breaking your spirit.”

[Y/N] took a long drink from her glass. “Are you going to? Break my spirit, I mean.”

“Haven’t decided,” Coriolanus replied. “Is tonight terrible so far for you?”

“Absolutely and unendingly.”

“Shame, since it’s supposed to be for us,” Coriolanus frowned. “Here’s what we’ll do. Drink up and we’ll dance. You told me you liked to dance once. Still true?”

“Uh, yes. You remember that?” The truth was that Coriolanus forgot very little.

“Too much talking, not enough drinking.” He replied, reaching out to tip the stem of her posca glass up, forcing the drink towards her lips.

“You’re a dick.” [Y/N] snapped. Her voice echoed from the round glass at her mouth.

“Never heard that one before.” Coriolanus said sarcastically.

A total of five empty posca glasses were settled on a cocktail table between them after about forty-five minutes of chatter and drinking. Coriolanus seemed looser than before, but focused as ever. The third glass, and the last half of Coriolanus’ second, had sent [Y/N] over the edge into drunkness, however.

“Dance with me now?” [Y/N] slurred slightly.

Coriolanus held his hand out as an affirmative response. She took it and he led her towards the dance floor. “FYI, I’m going to lead. You’re falling apart.” He leaned in to whisper teasingly as they approached the shiny wooden floor.

“If you’re shit at this, I reserve the right to take over as lead.”

“You have zero faith in me,” Coriolanus said, grabbing her too firmly in a waltz hold. She placed her hand on his broad shoulder. “Don’t think, just follow. I’ve got you.” He said, staring at her. Blue, blue, blue eyes, completely unreadable. Coriolanus sloppily led her around the dance floor, keeping the spins to a minimum. Sober, he was probably a fairly decent dancer. [Y/N] was reflexively a fine dancer as well, but a bit sloppier than normal. The thing that was actually holding back her dancing abilities, were the damn red heels. Her feet ached and she didn’t think she would be able to keep up with much more than a waltz in them.

The next song began after only half the length she had expected from a waltz, [Y/N]. It was a brisk foxtrot; all reliant on footwork. As Coriolanus led her into the first sidestep, [Y/N] kicked off her heels without missing a step. She harshly kicked them aside, sliding them to the edge of the dance floor. [Y/N] found she felt tiny now in front of Coriolanus. His smirk doubled at the sight as well. “Better?”

“Much. How about you shrink six inches next time so I don’t have to grow six inches. Seems fair to me.”

Coriolanus laughed cordially. His laugh turned into a sigh when he noticed [Y/N]’s lack of reply. “Are you angry with me?” He was aware that she usually was angry with him, he was asking specifically she to the conversation with her parents.

“Yes, why?”

“Because you’re being extremely rude.” Coriolanus said sharply.

“And?”

“No reason, just making conversation.”

Coriolanus couldn’t figure out what [Y/N] was looking at over his shoulder, but he didn’t care enough to ask. “Wanna make it up to me?” [Y/N] asked. “Posca wasn’t enough.”

“I’ll consider it. The terms?” He replied, spinning her through a tempo change.

“I want to make my parents hurt. I don’t live under their roof anymore. She’s been staring at me since I took my shoes off. See? I’m embarrassing her. And you know how big you owe me.”

This gave Coriolanus pause. Really, he didn’t owe her anything worth a damn. She was as bad to him as he was to her. “Why?”

“You said you could grant me opportunity. Grant me the opportunity of making her feel a fool for making me marry you, Coriolanus. I’m drunk. This offer is only going to work right now.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Blowjob.”

“I have an idea,” Coriolanus said immediately. [Y/N] grinned. His job was having wicked, awful ideas, so it was nice when he delivered. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“By the end of tonight, you will,” Coriolanus grimaced. He rotated the pair of them on the dance floor so [Y/N]’s back was to them and he could keep eyes on her parents. “I’m going to touch you.” He whispered in her ear when the music shifted to something more akin to a rumba.

“What?”

In seconds, [Y/N] felt Coriolanus’ nose slide from where he had whispered in her ear and down her neck to above her pulse point. He planted one kiss to her throat. Coriolanus waited before kissing her again to make sure she didn’t throw him halfway across the event hall in rage first. After that, he felt he had the go-ahead to work more forcefully. Coriolanus sensually kissed hard up and down the right side of [Y/N]’s throat, while both of them tried to keep their fuzzy brains clear enough to keep dancing. He kept kissing and sucking at her neck until she let out a nice loud sound of pleasure. That was when he pulled away. He was happy to see a nice purple bruise starting to form on her exposed neck.

“How was that?” He asked dryly, trying to hold off a pending erection.

“You’re out of your mind. Do it again.”

“I’m pretty sure my boss is here, [Y/N]. That was… great, but unless there’s—“

“We got lectured our entire growing up at the Academy to make sure we were to be winners by any means necessary, Coriolanus. Push the envelope. It’s our night. We can do whatever we want. Let’s make it count, at least. With all these cameras here? You keep this up, and your face will be on every periodical in Panem.”

“Yeah, for terrible reasons!”

“Any press is good press and you know that. ‘TROUBLE IN THE ARENA?: GAMEMAKER’S FIANCÉE BREAKS DOWN AT PARTY,’” she said, showing a fictional headline example. “Below it, a nice picture of me crying and you dusting me off like a dutiful husband. Have your way with me and eventually I’ll snap and cry and accuse you of something you didn’t do, then you can ‘put me in place,’ so to speak. Control the fucking news cycle til everyone knows your name.”

[Y/N] could tell that Coriolanus had in fact agreed to gamble with his image when his hand slid down her back and grabbed her ass. His mouth ducked back into her neck as well, biting harder than [Y/N] expected. [Y/N] let out a painfully loud moan without meaning to.

“You want a show, let’s give ‘em a show.” He muttered against her skin. Coriolanus pulled his hips flush against his. The fabric of her ballgown being the only meaningful barrier between them. After a few moments, they had given up any chance at a rumba. Coriolanus stood over her, kissing her bruisingly hard anywhere we could reach.

“Coriolanus,” [Y/N] muttered. She gripped his shoulder tightly to steady herself. “Fuck, that feels good.”

Coriolanus took his hand out of the one that was clutching hers and slid it up to grab her face harshly between thumb and forefinger. “Can you shut up for a minute? I’ve let you run your mouth all day. It’s getting annoying,” He said, the mask of kindness slipping from his eyes. “You have had a complaint about everything. I put up with it, too. It’s getting… really,” Coriolanus’ hand gripped her ass harder over the ballgown. “Fucking annoying. You’re already making me do all this because I’m a dick. Stop being a brat. Please keep your mouth closed until I want it open, okay?”

He was holding her face so tightly that she couldn’t even nod. That’s when she saw the cameras start flashing, as Coriolanus gripped her by the face like a spoiled child and rubbed her ass in front of everyone she knew. “Yes.” She tried to mumble, but it came out squished.

“Great, then, we’re clear. Don’t think, just follow.” Coriolanus leaned forward and kissed her blazingly. That’s around the time [Y/N] could hear her mother in hysterics stomping to the bathroom. She sighed with relief, but also burned with humiliation. It felt like Coriolanus was practically trying to fuck her with her clothes on.

[Y/N] couldn’t believe this. This wasn’t brutally argumentative Snow, this wasn’t pseudo-gentle Snow. Who was this? What the fuck was he doing? Why did it feel good? [Y/N] felt a shiver tingle down her spine as he kissed her. Aggressively, she kissed back in an attempt at delivering that ruthlessness Coriolanus said he prized. He squashed that quickly and leaned her back, almost knocking her off her feet. She pulled back breathlessly.

[Y/N]’s eyes were darting around the room, watching everyone watching her. She was the show tonight. For the first time in her life, someone had made her the real center of attention that she always craved to me. Coriolanus granted her opportunity. It fucking worked. Her gaze shot back to Coriolanus, looking down at her possessively. He was mouthing something to her, but her intoxicated brain couldn’t signal her eyes to focus enough to piece together his words.

“What?” She whispered, leaning away from him.

More clearly this time, Coriolanus mouthed. “Hit. Me,” He leaned in close to her ear and whispered. “I told you. I’m leading; I have an idea.”

[Y/N] started to shake her head ‘no’ at her insane exhibitionist fiancé, but she remembered she was the one that had asked for a show. Without asking why, [Y/N] feigned disgust and stepped away from Coriolanus. She raised her hand and sharply slapped him across the face. This elicited gasps of shock from their guests. She could see a red mark beginning to develop on Coriolanus’ fair cheek.

Violence like this is what people in the Districts did. This was not what well-bred, promising youth from the Capitol did. The chatter in the room grew in the form of prying hushed whispers. The band stopped playing. This was not how beautiful young girls behaved at their engagement parties. [Y/N]’s stomach dropped. She looked angrily between her vile hand and the mark on Coriolanus’ face. Both of their expressions showed that she had hit him harder than they expected.

“How many men, [Y/N]?” Coriolanus asked, forcefully.

“What?” [Y/N] asked, shocked. She had no idea what he was talking about.

“How many men have had you behind my back?”

It was a fucking act. No truth to it at all. He wanted a rise out of her and so did the cameras. This was exactly what she had asked him, she didn’t realize how seriously he would take her.

[Y/N] sighed. She understood her role and she was going to play it perfectly. “One. Only one, I swear. None since you caught us in bed.” Lie. “Stop. We’re…” she glanced around, playing ashamed of the cameras. “We’re in public, Coriolanus. Please. Don’t cause a scene.” She said, parroting what he had said to her that morning.

That line did the trick. She saw the vein in his forehead pop out. “Don’t cause a scene? You struck me!” Coriolanus roared. “That’s unfair, and you know it.” The ghost of a smirk played on his lips while he clutched his face.

“You wouldn’t hear reason! The accusations you made of me, Coriolanus. You—You—“

Coriolanus surged forward and grabbed her by her forearms. “Accusations that are warranted. I don’t know how you expect me to trust you after something like that! Do you think I’m made of stone?”

“Yes!” [Y/N] yelled truthfully.

Coriolanus paused. “[Y/N], I hurt just as much as you do. You’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight,” He placated. “I just can’t stand to see how these men look at you like that, knowing you would trade me for them in a heartbeat.” He brought the tempo of their fight down with his false melancholy.

“Coriolanus…” [Y/N] said tentatively. “I wouldn’t… Not now. We’ve put that behind us. I-I’m yours and—“

“I made this whole night about you. I…” Coriolanus swallowed dramatically. “I love you.” Lie? “I love you, I spend all night trying to show you that I don’t want anyone but you. I try to make you feel special so you won’t stray again. And you, you hit me… I can’t do anything right enough for you.” He turned his face away, feigning hiding tears and released her arms.

Without the stabilizing touch of Coriolanus, [Y/N] was starting to feel uncertain on her feet from the alcohol. Far from gracefully, [Y/N] sank to the floor, her skirt fanning out around her as it had when she was searching for her shoe earlier that evening. From the drink, the tension and the state of her shambling life, [Y/N] let out an unexpected sob. Coriolanus turned his head in genuine surprise at the sound. “I’m sorry, my love,” she started through sniffles. “I’m sorry. Forgive me,” She looked up at him as her mascara began to drip down her cheeks. “Please forgive me. You have every right to leave, but please, Coriolanus, you’re all I have left.” That part was true. It was all gone. Her childhood home, the security of her parents, university and the Academy were behind her, taxing relationships with friends she had outgrown. Coriolanus was all that remained. [Y/N] cried harder. “I made a mistake.” She howled.

Coriolanus was impressed, to say the least. Cautiously, he knelt down in front of [Y/N]. He would remember this image of her for his whole life. With her mascara running, her stockings ripped, her shoes long missing, the top of her extravagant dress sliding too low for public consumption, she was divine, truthfully. That was her. That was how he would always want to remember her. “Darling?” He said quietly.

Now, the bastard was left open to play the dutiful savior, just as she had teased earlier.

[Y/N] started to twist the engagement ring off of her finger, theatrically. Coriolanus took her obvious bait and took her hand to stop her. He slid the ruby ring back down her finger calmly. “Darling, I’m not going anywhere. You’re drunk. You just need a little help, right? You mustn’t drink so much. It breaks my heart to see you like this,” Coriolanus squeezed her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it softly. “You need me. I’m not going anywhere. What kind of husband would that make me if I did?”

She nodded. “Thank you,” she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’re a good man, Coriolanus,” LIE. “You’re too good to me.”

“Come on,” Coriolanus rose from the floor and extended a hand to her. “Let’s get you home, huh?” He said condescendingly.

[Y/N] took his hand carefully. He pulled her up and she stumbled to her feet. Coriolanus wrapped an arm tightly around her waist and pulled her closer. He glanced around in surprise to address the crowd that had gathered in front of them. “I’m sorry for everything you just had to see. Please be kind to my fiancée; she’s had a lot to drink. Posca, right?” Coriolanus darkly attempted a somber joke. “I should’ve kept a closer eye on her. We’ll be getting home. Thank you all for coming out to celebrate us tonight.” Sorry to call it a night with so much night left.” He said softly.

Coriolanus led her to the edge of the dance floor where he had spotted her shoes. He grabbed the red shoes from the floor and carried them dangling from his free hand as he walked her to the door and down the stairs to the sidewalk. [Y/N] had a vague memory of Coriolanus summoning their driver via the valet at the door. She was too busy noticing how her stockings caught on the sidewalk with every step.

“Darling?” Coriolanus whispered, leaning down to whisper to her. “You were brilliant.”

“Really?” She sniffled hesitantly. “Because I’m fairly certain that everyone in that room hates me.”

“Any press is good press.” Coriolanus reminded her with a gentle kiss to the forehead.

“For you, maybe. I made a mistake asking for that…” she kicked at a stray stone on the sidewalk. “I am probably the biggest villain in Panem right now.” [Y/N] said, shaking her head a little with a sad laugh.

“Not a villain,” Coriolanus scoffed. “A star.”

PART II HERE

TAGLIST:

@badwicht @stelleduarte @cinnamongirl127 @prettyppetty @soulessien @bejeweledreverie @jjstyles @ndycrls @arminsarlerts @catlover420sstuff @chmpgneprblem @co1dmountains @watermelonharry @ohantonia @miscellaneousmoonchild @lille999 @pumkinnxsmut @nananarwhal @taykorsyogurt

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#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #the hunger games #hunger games #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow x you #coryo snow

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netherfeildren · 7 months

Text

Pink : Part I : Humanist Seeking Person in Love

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Humanism: an outlook or system of thought attaching prime importance to human rather than divine or supernatural matters. Humanist beliefs stress the potential value and goodness of human beings, emphasize common human needs, and seek solely rational ways of solving human problems.

The story of a son who won’t love you, and his father, who will.

-OR-

the father-in-law AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Fix-it-fic but the thing that needs fixing is a person; Daddy issues; Daddy kink; Divorce; Welcome to the father-in-law suck and fuck extravaganza; Possessive behavior; Jealousy; Slow burn but like not really; DD/lg dynamics; Older man/Younger woman; Self esteem issues; Discussions of emotional and mental abuse; Unhealthy coping mechanisms

A/N: Check the tags on the masterlist, as well!

Word Count: 7.4K

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

1. Humanist Seeking Person in Love

The video you’d watched had said that the differences between a jamb nut and a coupling nut should have been obvious. A jamb nut, which was what you were currently looking for, was typically half as tall as a standard nut, or a coupling nut, and would be of a small, stouter shape compared to the other options. As you stare at the wall of overwhelming stock, the incomprehensible mess of steel, PVC, aluminum and plastic hardware you feel, a little bit, like you’d like to start screaming as loud as you possibly can, for as long as you possibly can. Just a rip roaring and rageful, top of your lungs, screech. Maybe it’d scare the leering men around you. Maybe they’d desist from the ogling of your ass in the tight confines of your ratty leggings, or the mildly pitying glances as your frustration and confusion becomes more and more obvious.

You try and take a deep breath, glancing down at your phone again and the screenshots you’d taken of the parts you need to fix your leaky kitchen sink. Zooming in, you hold the picture up next to the pipeware currently gripped in your sweaty hand and wonder again if what you’ve chosen is the right piece. You don’t understand why the hardware store, a local business, isn’t as neatly and efficiently organized as the larger chains, and why they make it so damn hard for someone without experience to come in and shop. You don’t want to buy the wrong thing and waste the money you already don’t have, you don’t want to have to make the trek back to this God awful fucking place. You hate the hardware store, you hate the way it smells, dusty and wooden, the cavernous hollow echo of it, the leering gazes of the men shopping, looking at you as if you’re some helpless child, something soft and easy to snap up and eat. You hate the memory of following your father around on many a Sunday morning after he’d forced you to come with him in some false attempt at bonding, at spending time together when really all it was, was another instance of you cowering behind him, trying to make yourself as silent and small as possible so as to avoid his anger and irritation.

You look back down at the piece of PVC in your clutch, at the picture of what you’re supposed to be buying again, back at the other option, a copper bolt you think might look right but can’t really tell the difference, and you feel the backs of your eyes pinch and go hot and achy. A sharp, throbbing pain starting up behind your left eye and spiraling out like a stain to cover your forehead. You want to go home. You want your kitchen sink to stop leaking. You want the past year to never have happened. For your marriage to not have so irrevocably unraveled that the husband you’d so desperately fought to keep had left you out in the cold, divorced, very nearly penniless in a new apartment that you couldn’t make feel like home no matter how many fall scented candles and throw pillows you stuffed into every nook and cranny. You want to not have to make decisions like these and take care of things like this. You want very, very badly for someone else to come and take care of you, help you, make the choices that seem very hard in the moment but that, in the grand scheme of things, aren’t really so difficult, but that still sometimes call for a second opinion, wiser, more experienced hands.

And in that next blink, in a soft, deep voice that should not be as easily recognizable in your mind as it is given the handful of times you’ve actually heard it, your name, being murmured from behind you. The lilt of a question, the gruff of shock coating the syllables as it pushes against your bare nape. Soft as a sledgehammer, like ice water down your naked back, your shoulders hitch up to your ears, going tense and frightened, a hot flush of shame spilling through you, the keenest desire to run away from that soft voice as fast as your stupidly October flip flopped feet’ll take you. You hiccup the half sound of his name, not turning around, lashes fluttering quickly to prevent the dry heat of your eyes from spilling over, nerveless fingers going listless around the plastic nut. You don’t want to turn around. This is a cursed place, this hardware store, and you should never have come, and you really do hate it here. Deep breath, deep breath. Be polite, be succinct. You don’t need to talk to him. You don’t need to think about the past. Fuck the sink, fuck the pipes. You’ll just move apartments. You let a long stream of air out of your mouth, and then turn on the ball of your foot to face him.

“Mr. Miller,” you breathe with a limp smile you know isn’t going to fool anyone.

He frowns, the line of his mouth wavering as he tries to contain his displeasure. “We really back to that?” You shake your head, looking away from him as the last shopper in the aisle you’re inhabiting walks away, leaving the two of you alone. The store suddenly seems to exist in a vacuum echo, all other patrons seeming to disappear, all sound going out. You even feel the imitation of a hollow pop in your ear drums. When you look back at him, he’s really scowling now. His strong brow pulled down over those too pretty, thickly lashed hazel eyes that you know so well on another man, a younger version of him.

It was the first thing you’d noticed about him, the first time Sam had introduced you to his father, they have the same eyes. The same but different. There was a coldness to Sam’s gaze that you hadn’t recognized until it was too late for you, but you recognized it now, with a painful sort of awareness, recognized the lack thereof in his father’s eyes, how different they were even in their similarity.

He raises his brows at you, a pressing gesture, “Joel.” His name feels like salt on an open sore in your mouth. “What are you doing here?” And he looks at you, just a little bit, like you’re an idiot, or maybe that’s only you, for his voice is gentle when he says, “Pickin’ up supplies with some of the boys on my crew. What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart? Sam with you?” Your heart beats like that of a small and hunted creature, pounding painfully against the confines of your ribs while a hot, humiliated flush washes through your entire body, heat suffusing your face so intensely there’s probably steam rising off the surface of your skin. You shake your head quickly, a barely there jerk. You’re suddenly trembling so hard your throat aches as if it’s been pierced by a lancet straight through. Another sharp jerk, and he steps forward a concerned look marring his face.

“You haven’t spoken to him.” It isn’t a question.

“He’s been feildin’ my calls for months. Assumed I’d done something– something else, last time to piss him off again. What’s wrong? Everything okay?” He pauses, head tilting, and you can’t look him in the face as you say it, gaze falling to your fingers twisted around the nut.

“We’re not together anymore. He– he left me. We got divorced six months ago.”

Shocked into silence he takes another step towards you, the toe of his heavy boot coming into your eye line. The ends are thick and rounded, and you wonder if there’s a casing of steel within, how much a kick in the ribs would hurt delivered by a boot like that, and the violent thought startles you, your eyes going wide, shooting up to his face as if worried he could read your thoughts. Ashamed that something like that in reference to him would even cross your mind, for looking at him, the gentleness in his gaze, the utter concern, a man like this would never hurt a creature softer than him, you know that.

It’s funny, or strange, or a phenomena not easily understandable or explainable unless you’d had a certain type of experience with a certain type of man, but there was a sort of sixth sense instilled in a person who’d dealt with cruel men that made it easy to recognize when one had the capacity to hurt you and when he didn’t. There were, of course, those who were good at masking it, but there was always something, a way they held themselves or moved around others, the cadence of their voices, clues that spoke of the sort of man he was. And from the first moment you’d met him, you’d thought Joel had something that spoke only of gentleness. Despite his size and seemingly rough aspect, there was something about his voice, and the way he carried himself, the way he moved around those who were smaller or weaker or less, less alive, less potent than him, that was always careful and always aware.

“What?” He moves as if he’s going to reach for you, and you flinch back, the curve of your spine bumping into the framing of the shelves behind you, face turning away quickly. He goes tense, forcing himself into stillness, the white of his teeth flashing in a grimace, but he puts his palms up in a staying gesture, it’s alright, easy, he murmurs, I won’t touch you, hands lowering to fist in the pockets of his jeans into tight balls of false restraint. As if he’s afraid of what they might do of their own volition otherwise. “What do you mean he left you? What happened? He–”

“I don’t want to discuss this with you. Call him again or– or I don’t know. It’s not my business anymore. He was never happy with me,” you stupidly add, finally braving a look back at his eyes again, a bitter laugh scratching up your throat, “You know this. Call your son, Joel.”

You move to leave, to get away from him, but he shifts, blocking your escape, sending your heart up into your throat. “Honey, wait–” but you’re spinning on your heel the other way, stumbling in your flip flops, and you think he says something about the wrong way, but you’re rushing, blindly trying to get away from him down the aisle as fast as you can. You’re going to cry, you can feel it, any second now. You weren’t expecting to see him, the reminder of everything that had happened, your marriage and its failure and the part Joel had played in it. A painful and jarring shock to your nervous system that you’d not been prepared to receive. You blindly scramble through the aisles of the hardware store, losing yourself to the gloom of the dimly lit back rows where plywood and carpeting are stocked, that detested dusty hollow smell intensifying. You take another blind turn, another, until the sounds of the store have gone faint and then a frightening pressurized silence. Bracing your palms against one of the eye level shelves you let your head fall between your shoulders, your bag sliding down your arm to hang and sway at the bend of your elbow. You watch the slow back and forth pendulous movement, eyes wide and blurred. If you don’t blink, you won’t cry, and you’re so fucking tired of crying over this.

“If you were tryn’a get away from me, exit was in the opposite direction,” comes his voice again. Your eyes flutter shut, a single tear drips from the line of your lashes onto the dusty concrete floor.

“Please, go away,” you croak.

“Tell me what happened.”

“What do you think happened? Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“He– he’s a fuckin’ idiot, sweetheart–”

Your stomach lurches, “Don’t call me that.”

But he doesn’t listen, continues on unheeded. “There’s gotta be something we can do. I’ll– I’ll talk to him. I’ll make him see that–” You let your head fall back the opposite way now, looking up at the high, cavernous ceiling of the store, another bitter laugh. It’s the only kind left to you now.

“I don’t want him back, Joel. Be serious.”

“He needs you–” And oh, that makes you angry.

“Fuck you.” You spin around to spit the words at him, rushing forward to shove at his rock solid chest. He doesn’t budge even half an inch. You shove again, again, a humiliating sob making its way up your chest. You blink then, you can’t help it, the tears fall unrestrained. It’s a specific type of humiliating, facing the estranged father of the man who you’d been married to, who’d been unable to love you, who’d abandoned you.

Sam and Joel had been unaware of each other’s existence for almost twenty eight years, but two years ago, Sam’s mother had finally told him about his father, his name, where he lived, how they’d gotten together when they were too young, and how she’d split, scared and vulnerable, without telling him a thing. The two of you’d gone looking for the man, and you’d both been varying degrees of shocked at what you’d found. Sam, faced with a man so unlike himself he’d immediately resented him more than he already had for the fact of his absence his entire life. You, as well, faced with a man so unlike your husband that it had made you resent your marriage even more. Immediately welcoming, loving, patient, gracious and generous and forgiving of the fact that a son had been kept from him for almost three decades. Despite the severity of his character, his serious reservedness, he’d done everything in his power to open himself to this long lost son. Not once had the news been met with cruel anger or outrage. Joel had accepted his son immediately and without question, listening to his mother’s reasoning, accepting the fact that a mistake had been made, forgiving, willing to move on and embrace Sam in all the ways he’d been denied for so long. Sam hadn’t been able to fathom it. He’d been mistrustful, hostile, angry, all the things he always was but compounded and heightened to a terrible degree he eventually started taking out on you.

And it was funny because the fraught, or lack thereof, relationships with your fathers had been the thing that had initially bonded the two of you. Too young and alone and without direction, you’d met him in your last year of college. The relationship had immediately developed without boundaries or reason, you’d been obsessed, a little desperate, unquestioning, and then married a few short months later. Two too young, too lost people, burdened with daddy issues. A terribly sad cliche. You’d never had a chance. You never should have been. And there’s a part of you now, looking up at this man, your ex-husband’s father, that wants to feel angry at him, that wants to spit in his face and say this is all your fault, everything that happened to me, everything that was done to me was in your name, and I blame you for all of it, but you know it’s without reason or countenance. And worst of all, anger, blame, resentment, it’s not anything near to the things you feel when you look at him. The memory of a small, dark restroom flashes in your mind’s eye, his eyes gleaming above your face, the thick slope of his shoulder, the patterned wallpaper behind him, sickening comfort.

You go still and frozen, fingers twisting in the front of his shirt, jerking with a painful shiver from the top of your head, down the length of your vertebrae, to the tips of your toes that cramp and spasm. Looking up at his face, you can feel a pulse throbbing in the muscle beneath your right eye, and the way he looks down at you, as if he’s never felt as sorry for any other creature in his entire life as he does for you in this moment, so embarrassing. You let your head fall forward again, landing with a soft thump against his chest, an uncontrollable tremble moving like fire through your frame. “Fuck you,” you say again, whispered, soft and weak and without any sort of force behind it. “How dare you say that to me,” another tear. “He’s always needed you. It was never me he wanted, never me he needed. It was always you.” You watch as one hand withdraws from its pocket cage, lifting to push a soft tendril of hair back behind your ear. And there’s fire left in the wake of the brush of his skin at the hollow there. Another shiver of a worse kind, one of desire, one of lust, moves through you.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it – I’m sorry, honey.” Stupid southern charm and their stupid pet names. You clutch at his shirtfront more tightly, press your forehead harder into his sternum, and he brings his hand to your shoulder, tucking you into himself more securely. He’s huge and warm and smells faintly of salt and sweat and laundry detergent. Something clean and fresh and masculine. He smells alive. His other hand comes up to the back of your head, moving through your hair. Fucking, Sam, he murmurs above you, and you’re sure he’s shaking his head in that disappointed fatherly way. “Tell me what you were looking for. What had you lookin’ so confused and irritated in the plumbing aisle?” You’d laugh if you could, a non bitter sort, but you don’t have the ability anymore, and that makes you so angry. Angry and irrational.

“My sink’s leaking, and I can’t afford a plumber because your son divorced me and left me with no money and no house and nothing for myself, and I hate this stupid place. I hate the way it smells, and I hate that nothing’s labeled clearly, and I hate the way you men,” you shove at his chest a little bit again, “look at me like I’m some dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right.” Even if that’s what you kind of feel like, a dumb little girl who doesn’t know left from right anymore. Slightly out of breath, you go limp and exhausted against him. His palm flattens at the center of your spine, supporting you, and it’s so fucking inappropriate. You should move away. You don’t know him well enough for this, he’s your ex-father-in-law, you shouldn't let him touch you, but should and should not and right and wrong and inappropriate or not has never really mattered to you where Joel Miller is concerned. “This is the worst place in the whole world,” you mumble, voice muffled from where your face is squished against the annoyingly hard and delicious muscles of his chest. You feel, keenly, like you’re being a little bit ridiculous, a little bit embarrassing, but his big hand is slowly moving up and down the length of your spine, soothing and comforting, and you can’t bring yourself to care. He’d been kind from the first second you’d met him, and then, at the worst moment, he’d been understanding, and you’d never really stood a chance against him either.

You’d never had a chance with the son, you’d never stood a chance against the father, there had never really been much choice or possibility for you as a whole where either of them were concerned.

I was such a little person. Tiny in my insignificance, naivety, hope. Desperate to be as good as I could be, and pathetic in my failure to make myself into what I thought the world wanted of me.

“You can’t afford–” He breathes out roughly through his nose, stopping himself from continuing. “Do y’know what it is you’re looking for? What part?” And you nod your head, still buried against him, unable or unwilling to pull away. “Let me help you,” and he says it so, so gently that it makes you want to stomp your foot and cry and throw a fit at the unfairness of it all.

“Don’t want your help,” you can’t help the muffled whine it comes out as. All you want is for someone to help you.

“Of course you don’t, sweetheart,” he soothes. “But let me anyway. S’the least I can do for talkin’ out of my ass.” You finally pull back, looking up at him, and he brings his thumb up to catch the wetness at the fine skin beneath your eye. “Please, don’t cry,” he whispers like it hurts him.

And even though he’s currently catching the salt of your eyes with his fingers, you lie obstinately, “I’m not,” whispered back just as quiet.

After he helps you find the correct piece for your sink, finally, which ends up being neither of the options you’d been previously weighing, a fact that almost sends you over the deep end again, and paying for it at his aggravating and overbearing insistence, he walks you to your car.

“Is he still in Austin?” He asks as he holds your door open for you, your shopping bag still clutched in his hand. One of the guys on his crew had come to find him while you were checking out, but he’d sent him away with a shake of his head, said he had something to take care of.

“I don’t know, but he sold our house.”

“Fuck– Where’re you living?” The sound of his spit curse has a wet flutter moving through you, shame following bitterly in its wake.

“I got an apartment in the East Side.”

“And he just left you to fend for yourself? Took your fucking house?” He’s getting angry, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him get angry. Something foreign like excitement jumps within you.

“Well, that’s the point of divorce, Joel. You separate and are left to your own devices.” You reach for the little plastic bag, but he jerks it out of your reach.

“He has a responsibility to you. He–”

“Again… the point of divorce.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that boy,” he mutters, shaking his head. And that’s the thing of it, you think, that’s always been the crux of the issue. Sam was always a boy, has always been just a boy… there had never been any chance. “Let me come help you with the sink. Let me fix it for you.” Something to take care of, that’s what he’d said, that’s what he’d called you, what he sees you as.

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish getting the words out, full of regret, and a wish that it could have all been different from the very start. “You know that isn’t a good idea,” and he goes silent because he does, he does know, he’d known since the first time probably. It had been obvious in the way that a secret thing can only be between the two people involved in the unsaid. “I can do it myself. Don’t worry. I’ll find a way.”

“You still got the same number?” He asks.

“Please, don’t call me. Call Sam. He’s the one that needs you. He’s the one that–”

“And who’s taking care of you? Who’s gonna take care of you, sweetheart? You need someone too, we all do.”

A flash of that earlier anger again, and you reach forward to rip the bag out of his clutch now, angry because he’s right. Because he’d always seemed to have a grossly misplaced ability to read you exactly as you are. He’d read you for what you were from the first second he’d laid eyes on you, naive and hopeful and falsely in love with a son who’d never loved either of you in return. “Maybe,” you tell him, “But that can’t be you.” He looks away from you, gruff sound of irritation passing through his clenched teeth, and he drags a heavy palm down his bearded mouth. Fuck, again that provoking spit curse. The wallpaper in that dark restroom had been covered in little blue motifs, butter yellow details sparsed throughout. It had surprised you, the pretty and delicate design in the home of a, for all intents and purposes, bachelor. It spoke of intention and attention to detail, to his space, to care of his home. That dim moment was, strangely, sickly, the brightest memory of the entire two years of your marriage.

“You still got my number?” He presses anyways. Unheeded or uncaring of you trying to push him away, and there’s something about that, that’s pleasurable, his inability to let a thing go where you’re concerned, his unwillingness to allow you to hold him at arms length. Like he doesnt care to be kept away from you, and so he won’t. You nod your head once, face burning, molars grinding to keep yourself still and in place. You’d felt, for two years, trapped, running in place, and now left limp and exhausted and colorless, and you hope that he can’t read that exhaustion in you. For some reason, that would be more embarrassing than everything else, for him to see just how defeated you’d been left. He gives you one of those looks, those direct, piercing, aggravating looks that you’ve seen from him before, aggravating in a way that is inciting, like a relentless tongue against a slick swollen cunt, God. Your hands are shaking, and he bends his head down to your level to look at your directly, “You promise me that if you need anything, anything at all, doesn’t matter what it is – that you’ll call me. No matter the hour, no matter what it is. Promise me.” Another sharp jerk of your chin, if you talk you’ll scream or make a sound not wholly belonging to the body of a girl, woman, whatever you are. Another nod, the mute shape of an okay passing through your lips. And his face is so concerned, his hand almost lifted in the imitation of what you have to tell yourself, as a form of self preservation, is an ill intentioned caress or hug, but that you know he’d mean as nothing more than genuine comfort. You deflate in relief when he doesn’t touch you, right here, out in the open for the whole world to bear witness to. Things like that, after all, are only meant for dark, wallpapered bathrooms. He’d already taught you this.

The relationship had not been what either of them had expected, Sam and Joel, from the get go. There was a smallness to his son, a pettiness and a cruelty and a spoiled rotten vein through the core of him that was incongruous with who Joel was as a man, something that was glaringly obvious to all involved. And try as he might, in those early days, they could not overcome the disparity in their personalities. The attempts from Joel at closeness had been fraught with tension and unsaid resentments, and eventually Sam had given up, stopped answering his father’s calls, evading his attempts to connect. Your marriage had spiraled into dissolution shortly after that. As if the failure to find whatever it was he’d for so long hoped for in a relationship with his father had highlighted all of the things you yourself lacked, all the ways in which you were so specifically dissatisfying to him and always would be.

The marriage had not ended up being what either of you had hoped for, the honeymoon phase quashed and dead early on, no brightly lit halcyon. Reality had set in quickly when confronted with the disjointedness of your pairing, a bone out of place, your specific inability to please him in the ways he’d thought you would when he’d first met you. There was something about you that had always been a little bit lacking, something ascetic and cold natured about your personality at times. Since you were a child, trying to appease an unappeasable father, to emulate a singular mother. Always impossible, always falling just short of utter failure. Not so terrible that you were outwardly obvious in your mediocrity, but never everything you could be. Painfully, succinctly average. Sam had come to realize this quickly. Perhaps, unaware prior to tying himself to you because the only thing you’d ever been not average at, was being a little bit of a liar, of being placatingly complacent when the moment necessitated, manipulative in a way that you found protecting. But you see, that’s what happened when you had a cruel father who always needed appeasing, something Sam, in his abject fatherlessness, couldn't understand. Funny, you’d said that to him once, near the end, called him abjectly fatherless, his weakness a consequence of his lack of a paternal role model, and oh, how he’d hated that. Endings could bring out such cruelty in people, you’d found.

But the manipulation of a moment had become, in some ways, your only talent. The art of superficial gratification at a moment's notice as a way to keep the people around you falsely happy and calm. Like all small and frightened creatures, you’d learned your strengths well, but as all truths do, yours had eventually surfaced. The fact that you weren’t really so appeasing in the ways he desired, not so nice, not so perfect, not so subservient. That the persona was all just a way to keep him happy as a means of getting someone to love you, to stay because you didn’t know how else to be.

Your mother always said you could’ve been nicer to him. She was a kind, soft, patient thing. Quiet and easy and always, always, above everything else, understanding. It was the worst thing about her. A detriment, a weakness, and she resented you for your resentment, for seeing her as such, but you could never help it. Always asking you why you couldn’t just be a nice girl, a good girl.

You didn’t think you had not been nice, not been good. You had only been yourself.

Your father had always hated that about you, you being yourself. The man you’d chosen to marry didn’t seem to like it very much either. And she’d tried to instill her better qualities in you, your mother, so you weren’t all bad all the time. There could be a brightness and a lightness and a sweetness to you sometimes, it’s true. You weren’t always all bad. But there was – is still – also a bitterness and a resentment and an anger, a screaming that you could not quell no matter how hard you tried. And so you’d attepted to give him everything you could, your husband, everything you had at your disposal in all ways, to do and be all he could have ever asked of you during those two small years of marriage. Because truly, they had felt so very small, made you even smaller.

Everything except for sex. You’d never been able to give him that the way he’d wanted.

At first, it had been normal, sweet, soft missionary in the darkness, tepid insinuations of orgasms, always hushed, always exactly how he wanted it. But eventually, when the other parts of you began to fail, he got mean and callous and casually cruel. And as you pulled away physically, he called you frigid, a prude, boring, cold, bad in bed, didn't know how to make a man hard. And it had made you so agonizingly insecure, already a sensitive and anxious thing when it came to your physical form, he’d beaten you down, embarrassed you, belittled you.

With time, you’d realized the truth of it which had been nothing more than that you’d never really wanted him. He had never made you desperate, he had never made you wet. It was his character, his attitude, yes, but it was also him. He just wasn’t it for you, and it wasnt that you were a prude or frigid at all, only that you needed patience and understanding and care, gentleness. Things he possessed none of.

You just needed a little time to warm up and someone who wanted to give you that time.

The reality that your life had not been full of varied and foolish adventures, and that time had seemed to simply slip away like an echo in the brain from one moment to the next was duly painful. A handful of months of wan and false lust, two years of cold, bitter marriage, and now, six months of barren aloneness. Too many mistakes had been made, too many regrets, three big ones that could be held like stones scorched to burn by the sun in the palm of your hand so that even if you let them go eventually, their imprint would still be scarred into your flesh afterwards forever.

So, perhaps the divorce had been painful in the moment. Or not perhaps, there was nothing uncertain about it, you’d fought tooth and nail to make it work, to keep him with you. Prostrated and humiliated and debased yourself. But with time, it became obvious that it was a fantasy you decided you should finally cast aside, as all children do childish things at a certain age. And then, it had been the easiest thing in the world. After all, and let’s be honest now for a moment, the reckoning had come in the shape of his father. That is, at the end of it, the reason you’re really here.

Sat now, before the open cabinet below your kitchen sink, leaky pipe drip, drip, dripping monotonously in front of your glazed over eyes, you think of him. He’s a large man, intimidating and dark and stoic. Taller and broader than his son. Lush, mahogany curls streaked with silver that speak of age and experience like the smile lines around his eyes. Deeply grooved when he laughs that beautiful laugh of his. He looks exactly like the opposite of whatever his son is, like he’d have the ability to make the opposite of you, to pull out of you whatever the antithesis is of what his son was able to. It had been immediate, the nature of your thoughts towards him. The desire, the desire, the desire, you had wanted like you’d never wanted before — like an illness, like dying.

Your marriage had been circling the drain, and then you’d met him, and it should have been innocuous. He’d been kind and polite and welcoming, but also, aloof. Holding himself at a distance, something afraid that he carried within himself, like he didn't want to hope, like he was just a little bit scared of what it meant now to have a son, something to lose. You knew a little bit about that, the worst part of it all is never the cruelty, it’s the hopelessness. Everything had become so much worse after meeting him. An unbearable sort of awareness of something that your listless, frigid self recognized as man, man, man, something like hunger. Something slanted about the desire, wrong, sure, for he was your husband's father, and yet, you wanted him. You wanted to know what he smelled and tasted like, and what the weight of his cock on your tongue would feel like. If it was bigger than his sons, you were almost positive of that, if it would stretch the corners of your mouth to near splitting, the hinges of your jaw to aching.

You’d met your husband's father, and had realized, painfully, with uncompromising clarity, all that your husband could be, all that he was not, all that he would never be. There was no comparison between the boy and the man, and it made you hurt.

Your eyes flit back to the screen of your open laptop and the instructional video there, popping another fuzzy peach gummy onto the flat of your tongue, mouth full of sucking sugar. You’re going to fix this sink if it’s the last thing you do, and you’re not going to think about him again. But tomorrow, you’ll start not thinking about him tomorrow. The talent of a liar never really wanes.

The apartment is quiet, nothing but the cheerful crackling of your sweet pumpkin candle and the mocking splish splash of the drain pipe. You had, in recent weeks, come to think of your abandonment as something of an accomplishment. Perhaps, your loneliness is a good thing, you’ll tell yourself as a comfort, a sort of friend; you can’t be used against yourself again in this solitude, and oh, how you’d been used. That anemia in your character, the ascetic thread of your personality had been weaponized and wielded against you until you couldn’t tell up from down and left from right. You were certain there’d been cheating, even if you’d never had any proof to confirm it, merely grateful you’d never gotten sick as way of evidence. But you knew. And it could've been so much worse for you, of course, of course it could have. But he’d left your mind so off kilter, broken and confused and not yourself. Utterly damaged in a way that was humiliating and devastating when you thought of the way you’d been, such a little person. So often, not a woman, just a little girl.

And then his father. Joel. Seeing him today – you had never felt the way you should have felt towards him. Like your eyes were open, awake for the first time in your entire life. A man like that – he was changing. And you wanted, needed very much to be changed. Seeing him today, being presented with that reminder of what he was, how he made you feel, how he’d always made you feel. There’s something ghoulish about you concerning him – about this desire. That ascetic or anemic or under-grown, illformed thing about you, exterminated in the thrum of how alive he is. How unlike his son. You’d never known what it specifically was, never been able to categorize it, and then there had been that moment, brought so low, six feet beneath the ground sort of debased, and he’d been there and you had been – unburdened from the weight of his own son, by him, and you’re not even sure he knew the extent of it. The power he’d wielded over you in that moment in the dark. And you can’t say it out loud, what it is you’d want from him, you can’t even say out loud what it is about him that changes you as it does – not a woman, just a little girl – but you think that if you could just see him, then you’d know, or maybe you could be brave. You don’t know what it is, but you’d know it then, with him in front of you, you’d have the answer to this question that’s plagued you for so long – how to be yourself in a way that is good.

You’re pushing yourself to your feet, fueled by the thought, fingers gripped over the ledge of the counter to pull yourself up, sink forgotten, stumbling to your front door, shoving your feet into your shoes and fumbling for your keys. How to be yourself in a way that is good.

When you were seventeen, your father had been at his angriest. Angry in that way that all angry father’s are. Loud and brutish – an anger that is cowing, a sign of true weakness. Brute force in the shape of the man who gave you life. When you think of it now, even as a grown woman, you still feel that phantom limb of fear, and you know that it isn’t normal for a grown woman to be afraid of her father, and yet you are. And then to think that you’d gone from your parents home directly to the bed of the same sort of man, one even crueler, if possible. You’re forced to laugh your singular terrible, self deprecating laugh at the irony of it – even worse, if possible. For what’s worse than a person who constantly needs to be soothed into kindness and patience and calm?

Once, in that terrible seventeenth year, funny and strange and unknowingly perfect, you’d been gifted the Farmer’s Almanac by your elderly neighbor. She’d said that she’d read it since she was a girl, liked the peace in knowing that the year had been predicted by experts and put down on paper. It made life seem more secure, more in control in a small way. You’d needed that during that turbulent time, locked in your teenage bedroom, lulled to sleep by the sound of your father’s anger and the year’s long-range weather predictions before your blurry eyes. It was so comforting to be able to read the future in text, catastrophe or sunshine, at least it was there. You still read it to this day. And there’s no congruity to the thought now, as you crawl into your car, a ghoul in the night, banging your knee on the hastily opened car door, sprouting gooseflesh in the cold; this desire, desire, desire that is the worst thing you’ve ever felt in your whole life, and yet, you can’t bring yourself to stop because there is something about control in this moment also. Control like knowing what the future will be like on paper, control like a man who is entirely grown into himself, who knows who he is and who he is not and is not uncertain, who will not yell, who will not hurt you. He has this – your husband’s father – you know he does. There is something about control, there is something about knowing how a thing will be, there is something about being yourself in a way that is good.

You’d picked up the wrong wine on your way here. Rushing, trying to fix your makeup in the car, you’d gotten confused, chosen the one he didn’t want instead of the one he did. And it was nothing, or an accident, surely nothing to incite his ire, but he’s so fucking angry hovering in front of you. He looks at you, now sometimes, like he hates you, like you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He said you’d humiliated him in front of his father. That he was going to think he didn’t have good taste, couldn’t afford a decent bottle of wine. And you don’t know Joel very well, but he doesn’t seem like the type of man to care about such things. Calling you an idiot in that poisoned shrill tone he takes on when he’s delivering a set down, and you’re trying to tell him to please, please keep your voice down, Sam, your father is going to hear you. You’d heard someone say once that a truly powerful man never feels the need to raise his voice, it simply isn’t necessary for him, and you’re reminded, terribly, of your father, with the sight of your shrill and seething husband in front of you. And then a low toned that’s enough, son from the mouth of the kitchen, and it’s so much worse, entirely catastrophic in a way, and you’re rushing away so humiliated, face on fire, tear caught over the trough of your lower lid, trying the doors in the hallway for the nearest restroom. You hear the murmur of voices, one struggling to maintain composure, the other, cool and steady, then the slam of the front door, and finally, the silent din of his house settling around the two of you as you find a restroom to hide in. Your heart beats so fast it makes you nauseous, knees strangely aching, listening to the heavy steps of Joel’s boots, as if he’s trying to warn you with those measured, weighted thuds that he’s coming, coming, coming for you. Turning to face the far corner of the restroom, you press your palm over your mouth, face slippery and burning and so stupid, the soft swoosh of the opening door, a paused breath as he takes in your form huddled into the wallpaper, and then the muted snick of the door closing behind him, shutting the two of you away together.

Part II

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#pink fic #Joel Miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #Joel Miller smut #joel miller imagine #the last of us au

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targaryen-dynasty · 10 months

Text

IN THE SPACE BETWEEN.

Modern!Aemond x female!Reader

You we’re happy your friend Floris got to marry her longtime boyfriend Aegon… if it wasn't for the sake of you being the plus one of her groom’s brother and also your ex boyfriend, Aemond.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT–MINORS DNI; exes to lovers, p in v, balcony sex, kinda voyeurism, fluff, angst, smoking

WORDS: 4.6 K

NOTES: with the famous one bed trope.

The more or less dreaded day of your friend Floris’ wedding came as quickly as never.

You were happy she finally got to marry her longtime boyfriend Aegon, more so because they were celebrating on Koj, one of the Summer Islands you always dreamt of visiting… if it wasn't for the sake of you being the plus one of her groom’s brother and also your ex boyfriend, Aemond.

You had been together for roughly three years and only had broken up shortly after you had booked everything for the wedding for reasons you couldn’t quite recall anymore.

For the longest of time, or rather for the time you drowned in sorrow and self pity, you had forgotten about the upcoming wedding and the fact you had to share a room with Aemond, if the two of you wouldn’t cancel the reservation.

The flight wasn’t the problem, because you could easily switch seats with someone else, but the hotel was. Apparently, they were so far booked out that there was not a single room available–of course it wasn’t–besides the one you had already booked, and on top of that, you and Aemond would lose your deposits if you would cancel the booking.

Being the good friend you were, you couldn’t just skip the wedding, so that was how you ended up exactly where you were right now: standing in front of the reception desk in the pristine hotel lobby, the handle of your suitcase tightly clutched in one hand with a tensed Aemond standing right on the other side.

Up until then, everything went according to plan. You were able to switch seats on the plane with an older man that wanted an aisle seat instead of sitting at the window, and you were quick to give him just that. The ride to the hotel was quiet, too, because Floris was attentive enough to send two separate cars to pick you both up.

So, you and Aemond hadn’t spoken a word beside a polite “hello” when you first met at your aisle in the plane, and even then it didn’t last long, because that man was already waiting for you to clear his new seat.

It wasn’t that you did not want to talk to him–you just didn’t know how well you were able to handle any contact with him, considering you didn’t break up due to bad blood.

“You don’t happen to have a second room available? Could be a Single, a Suite… whatever,” Aemond asked without so much sparing you a glance, just as desperate as you to get some space between the pair of you.

The receptionist, a tall man with black hair and almost equally dark eyes, shook his head. “Only one room,” he replied, the Common Tongue slipping past his lips with an amber, liquid accent and broken syllables. “Room 351 for you and… wife.” Both your eyes widened in surprise at the man’s statement, but neither of you made any effort to correct him, either not really caring because it didn’t help with the overall situation or just too tired from the damn long trip.

The key cards–at least you didn’t have to approach him whenever you wanted to get back to the room–were slid over the marble of the counter without another word, a small card that held the WI-FI password and general information next to it.

Aemond’s sigh was barely audible, and maybe it was the sheer annoyance you held or your silent despair to have him speak to you about whatever topic he wanted, but you heard it, and couldn’t stop rolling your eyes.

“Does it at least have two separate beds?”

It was very brief, but the man’s eyes flickered over to you, before darting back to meet Aemond’s mismatched ones, the sapphire blue of the prosthetic one not really matching the lilac of his other. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the receptionist flashed him an apologetic gaze with the way his lips pressed into a thin line, followed by another shaking of his head. “Only one bed.”

Aemond set his jaw, and you really thought if he hadn’t at least once thought about the possibility of you two having to sleep in one and the same bed. You had booked the room as a couple, so, of course it only had a single bed.

You must have side eyed him a bit too obvious, because when he turned to hand you your key card, he just shrugged his shoulders and brushed past you.

Aemond had reached the room first, the door left slightly ajar to make it easier for you to get in, and sat at the edge of the King size bed.

With the realization slowly settling in that you indeed had to share a bed with him, you came to the conclusion that it somehow seemed too small nevertheless, especially beneath his tall frame.

Anxiety spread throughout your body and you already cursed your sleepy self should she decide to snuggle up against him at night, no matter if it was on purpose or not.

Being in the same room as him felt suffocating enough already, hence you were quick to grab your fanny pack and head towards the door again once you stored your suitcase next to your side of the bed. “I’ll… I’ll take a walk, looking for the black beaches and the venue,” you announced.

If it wasn’t for you all but darting out of the room, you would’ve caught the somewhat hurt expression that flickered over Aemond’s features with his mouth silently opening and closing without any words leaving it at your sudden departure.

Much to your surprise, you had found the wedding venue and the black beaches rather quickly with both being at the same spot right in front of your hotel. You stood on an elevation with a wooden railing in front of you embraced by several branches of the local trees. The wedding took place in the North of Koj, and if you squint your eyes just tight enough, you were able to make out the island Walano, or more so Lotus Point, one of its cities.

With the sun slowly setting, the volume of the tropical birds’ chirping, making the whole surroundings all the more beautiful… and romantic.

You barely heard the zipper of your fanny pack as you opened it, retrieving a pack of cigarettes and the lighter Aemond had gifted you back when you started dating. It was black and red, their family sigil engraved into it. The pad of your thumb absentmindedly brushed over it, feeling the small ridges, before you brought it up to light the cig.

Even before you could exhale the first puff of smoke, the quietness and peace of your solitude was broken.

“I thought you quit,” your stomach dropped as you heard the voice. His voice.

The beautiful scenery of Koj was left behind you as you turned to look at him, shrugging your shoulders. “Started again when I had trouble falling asleep after… you know,” was all you said in return, pressing your lips into a thin line as you inhaled yet another cloud of smoke. You half-expected him to lecture you about it, saying how he was disappointed you had returned to smoking after successfully quitting for two years, but it did not happen.

Instead, Aemond stepped closer to you, still keeping a fair distance though, and merely held out his hand. “May I?” He asked, which caused you to cock an eyebrow at him in suspicion. Your body acted on its own when you handed him the cigarette, and the familiar heat that felt like home filled your body as your fingers brushed, your heart fluttering.

Being quite taller than you, he had no trouble looking over your head to admire the beauty of Koj’s nature, all while taking a deep drag of your cigarette. It was almost melancholic. Aemond was looking at the nature, and you were looking at him, dwelling in the past and many unsaid things.

“I feel like we have some catching up to do before we can celebrate the wedding without any problems,” he finally admitted, and only when he met your eyes, you figured you had shamelessly stared at him for a tad too long.

Your body tensed at his words, and you shifted your weight from one leg to the other. “What is there to catch up on?” You asked, eyes darting to the ground as you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

Aemond pinched the back of his nose, exhaling a deep breath that was accompanied by some faint smoke from his last inhale. “Listen…,” he started, seemingly fighting for the right words to say. “The fight we had was so stupid and irrational, fuck, I… I don’t even know why we were arguing.”

It was visible in the way his jaw clenched and unclenched, and his fingers quivered, that Aemond was far from being comfortable having this conversation, and you were so close to just reaching out and taking his hand into yours to soothe the nervousness. It was an anchored instinct you had even after being separated for seven months.

One of his hands ran through his silver-blonde hair, a lot shorter than the last time you’d seen him, pushing the strands out of his face. It had taken you a long time to get over him, at least you thought you were, but now, seeing him in the dim light of the lanterns with the reddish light of the sun illuminating his features as he looked at you with the soft gaze you had grown so fond of, everything was flooding back.

Aemond had always had trouble speaking about his emotions. It was one of the things that came with his fucked-up childhood, growing up with a father that didn’t love him and such, so you really appreciated him at least trying to reconcile.

“It was the right thing at the time,” you said in a reassuring manner, flashing him a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “We… I wasn’t ready for it.” He exhaled sharply through his nose at your words, not quite a snort and not really a laugh. “We is quite right,” he replied.

While you had been talking, you hadn’t noticed how close you both had gravitated towards each other. Your heart started to beat at a rapid pace, almost bursting through your ribcage you were sure.

But before you–or him–could do anything stupid, your voice of reason pushed itself into the front of your mind, reminding you that you were still sharing a room with him if he wouldn't accept your advances.

Aemond seemed to sense your restraint and held your cigarette out for you. He rubbed the back of his neck, eye flickering between yours, the ground and the distance. “So…,” the awkwardness of the moment was unmatchable. Aemond felt it, too, because his face was covered in crimson that also ran down his neck already. “We arrived quite late today and I still want to grab something from the late night buffet… see you later, I guess?”

You nodded your head with a forced smile on your lips, muttering a “see you later” and finished the cig. While he left, you pressed the butt against the reiling to extinguish it and looked around for the next closest ashtray.

Your evening wasn’t ruined, but there was no way you could focus on the beauty of Koj’s nature with Aemond lingering in the back of your mind.

———

You stared at the ceiling in your hotel room for hours before you finally gave up. There was no point in continuing to lay there, tossing and turning, getting absolutely no rest.

Maybe it was the obsessive worrying of you scooting a tad too close towards Aemond in your sleep or the unresolved words that hung between you after your more or less reconciling at the beach.

Exiting the bed as quietly as possible to not wake up Aemond, you slipped into a thin caftan and tied the belt around your waist, keeping you warm on your way to the small balcony since you only wore a silk top with matching shorts.

You slowly pushed the sliding door open, looking at his sleeping frame from over your shoulder to make sure he was still asleep, and stepped outside. It was unusual for him to not stirr awake with you leaving the bed, considering he always was a light sleeper, but you figured you weren’t the only one whose habits had changed after the break-up.

From the balcony, you could spot a few people still setting up some things for the wedding venue at the beach, and you were certain you could also hear the baritone of Aegon’s deep voice, followed by the voice of Floris.

But even then, it brought you more peace than lying in bed with Aemond could ever bring you, despite the air being somewhat chilly with a light breeze blowing through the knotted fabric of your caftan.

It was completely dark, safe for the few lanterns that lit up the distant beach for the people to continue their work. The hotel had dimmed most of the lights surrounding their resort, granting everyone the sleep they needed.

“Do you think we are now?” The raspy voice of Aemond drawled, thick with sleep and startling you. Your confusion must have been evident on your face as you turned around, because he repeated his question slower and a bit louder while he sleepily rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you… Do you think we would be ready now?”

You had thought about it ever since you came back to your room, pondering over how you had changed the past seven months, and if things between you could finally work out. And a part of you was certain you could, while the other part was anxious, afraid it would end the same way it had ended before.

The pregnant pause between you two was not at all comfortable, practically urging you to say something… anything. Yet Aemond beat you to it–not by speaking, but by acting, and when you noticed what exactly he did, you figured you were a goner. Everything suddenly flooded back, and you needed him. You still loved him. You were still in love with him.

Something in your body language or facial expression had to give away how you felt, even if it only was for just the slightest of seconds, but it still had to be enough for Aemond to grasp how you felt.

He silently held out his hand, but this time for you to take it, and you took it without hesitation, interlocking your cold fingers with his warm ones, allowing him to pull you into his embrace. It was when your face was buried in his chest with his all too familiar scent flooding your nostrils, that a sudden wash of exhaustion overcame your body, his proximity bringing your body the peace and comfort it had always longed for the past seven months.

“Y–Yes… absolutely,” though your voice was somewhat muffled by his firm chest, you knew he had heard you well enough by the way his arms tightened around you, hugging you as if he was afraid to let go, fearing you’d leave him again.

Your face was buried in his chest, but you could feel his nose nuzzling along the crown of your head, taking in your scent before it were his lips pressing a tender kiss to it. The hug was full of emotions and soothed all your worries, erasing the memories of loneliness you went through after your break-up. It was just like in the past, when he would comfort you on sleepless nights.

As you tilted your head back, you were met with his face dangerously close to yours, despite the high difference you shared. The natural attraction of his lips made it difficult for you to look at his eyes, yours always straying back to his lips. And it was obvious it was the same to him, not knowing if he should look at your lips or eyes.

No one of you said anything as your heads bowed towards each other like magnets, irresistibly drawn together, until eventually your lips met and your bodies melted together. Even though you hadn’t seen each other in seven months, the kiss was shy of restraint and gentleness. It was fierce, passionate even, begging to make up for all the months you hadn’t spent alongside each other.

The heat of your kiss ran down your spine to your legs, hells, it even reached the soles of your feet, leaving a fire everywhere it touched. Aemond was a Dragon, liquid heat, molten fire, seeping into your bones and consuming your very being. You melted in the hold of slender fingers sliding down your body, caressing every inch they could grasp, and the warmth of his embrace.

You ached with need–your body crying out for more. It was soft under Aemond’s hands, so fragile, even if your kiss was so desperate, and yet he greedily took whatever was offered, devouring you like you were the sweetest Arbor wine.

His hand lazily drifted over the curve of your hips, fingers curling into your flesh. The soft gasp you released was drowned by his lips, drinking it down as though it was meant to spur him on even more.

You were distracted enough to not notice his other hand slipping beneath the elastic waistband of your silk shorts to cup your ass, squeezing the flesh with the same ferocity he had used to grope your hip. You gasped yet again, but not without breaking the kiss to hiss a warning “Aemond”, slightly shoving at his chest though it was not hard enough to seriously push him away.

“‘M sorry,” he replied with a scoff, but the smirk on his lips told you he wasn't–he was enjoying it. The roll of your eyes at his poor apology didn’t receive a teasing comment, too eager to capture your lips again and continuing where you had stopped.

The hand on your ass gave it just one more squeeze, before his deft fingers pulled the lace of your thong aside to drag through your swollen folds from the front to the back, collecting some of your arousal.

Your reactions couldn’t be more opposite.

You whined against his lips, while Aemond just growled like an animal, the last threats of his patience snapping as one digit eased into your hole. You clenched around him, but he didn’t move his finger–it just stayed inside of you with barely more than the tip buried.

“Fuck – You’re soaked for me, Y/N,” he pulled back to catch his breath, voice raspy, strained. “All for me, or were you this wet for the other guys you had after me, too?”

His words were lewd, and if you weren’t already embarrassed by your body’s reaction to him, you sure as hell were now. It was bad enough that you weren’t even able to form any coherent sentence as a reply, stuttering out the words with a whiny voice. “N-No other guys… only for you.” Upon realizing, you just pressed your eyes shut and silently cursed yourself for falling victim to him… again.

You anticipated him scoffing, and he did, but you didn’t anticipate him grabbing your hand to guide it towards his crotch to where his hard cock was bulging against the fabric of his boxers. You were looking at him with wide eyes, almost as if you couldn’t believe it, but when another wave of arousal gushed out of your core, you certainly knew it was real.

“Good,” Aemond purred. “Because I haven’t been with anyone else, too. And you have no fucking clue what that does to a man.”

You were just able to whimper in return, kiss-swollen lips slightly agape, and squeezed his hard cock lightly before he proceeded to turn you around, seizing your body between his and the railing.

“Aem, what–”

The words inevitably caught in your throat at the feeling of his lips on your neck, nibbling and sucking your skin. “‘M gonna have you right here, Y/N,” he rasped, making you shudder in his embrace. “Can’t waste anymore time getting you back in bed.”

As he drew your earlobe between his teeth, you melted into him right then and there, not even once worrying about anyone hearing or even seeing you two doing inappropriate things in an even more inappropriate place.

“Oh,” you only whimpered in return, bowing your head back against his shoulder as his hand tugged on your shorts to pull them down to your knees. His body was pressed so tightly against yours, you felt the outline of his length snugly wedged between your ass cheeks, twitching every time you whined and whimpered.

While your hands clasped around the railing in front of you, his were busy with your body. The fingers of one hand hooked underneath the string of your thong, playfully pulling it back to allow it to whip back against your skin, causing you to take in a sharp breath, whilst the other snaked around your body to push the fabric aside, exposing your soaked pussy to the chill air.

“I have dreamt of fucking you ever since I’ve seen you in that damn plane,” Aemond confessed, but you were so lightheaded, barely mumbling a “yes” and “please fuck me” in return. And when his knee nudged your legs apart, you knew your prayer finally came true.

Knowing you were wet enough and eager to take him, Aemond waited not one second longer to free his cock out of its painfully tight confines, sighing in relief as he proceeded to fist himself.

He cursed himself for only having two hands with one of them being occupied by himself, because otherwise he would have bent you forwards and grabbed your thighs at the same time. But now it was a firm hand applying pressure between your shoulder blades to level your body, before it then lowered enough to splay across the outside of your thigh.

A shuddered breath escaped your throat when you felt his tip prodding at your aching entrance, and the memories of the delicious stretch his length used to bring you clouded your mind–only to be revived a split second later with him slowly but surely pushing in.

Every ridge and vein of his cock was palpable with how slow he eased into you, claiming you inch for inch and causing you both to moan out in unison.

Now it was him breathing shakily, almost as if he could not believe his luck. “Fuck,” he grunted under his breath. “I’ve forgotten how tight you are.”

He was buried inside of you to the hilt and didn’t move, though you weren't the one that needed time to adjust. “I’m not gonna last long… fuck,” it was audible in his voice how much restraint it took for him to not cum right then and there, more so because it meant he had to restrain himself from pounding into you if it meant he could fuck you just a few minutes more.

“It’s… It’s okay,” you panted, reaching behind you to cup his face with one hand, pressing it tighter against yours. “I’m not going to last any longer than you.”

One of his arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you steady, while the other moved to cup your chin, keeping your head bowed back against his shoulder. Your earlobe was back between his teeth when he started to thrust his hips into you, each snap slow but deep enough to hiccup your breathing.

At one particularly harsh thrust, the moan you made was a tad too loud for his liking and you quickly figured why he kept his hand on your head–because it made it easier for him to press it over your mouth to silence you.

“We don’t want to wake someone up, do we?” Aemond teased, his amusement perfectly audible. Another harsh thrust was served, resulting in you biting back a loud moan that got lost into the palm of his hand, and it was clear he had done that on purpose to test your obedience. “Be quiet,” he warned, his lips against your ear.

You mewled in return and each time you had to moan, you would sink your teeth into your bottom lip to stifle it–Aemond did the same, though his teeth were sinking into your earlobe, making the grunts and groans he released only audible for you, which drove you insane.

Maybe it was the possibility of being caught, or reconciling with Aemond, but your orgasm approached you at a laser-speed, especially as he adjusted his hips to make his cock reach an angle that had you gasping, whining and clenching around him ever so tightly.

It was easy for him to lose himself in you, almost too easy. Despite the chill of the air around you, he couldn’t stop entering you over and over again as you bit back on every strangled sound of bliss his thrusts issued forth from your lips. The hand from around your waist was braced on the railing to allow him to thrust harder into you, each thrust forcing you against it, though you didn’t seem to mind.

To you, it felt as if you weren’t even unclenching around him, body so tensed and overwhelmed that every fiber felt as if it was on fire, and he seemed to sense just that.

“Cum for me, Y/N,” Aemond commanded softly, tilting his head forwards slightly to lick from the curve where your neck met your shoulder up to the sensitive spot behind your ear, before sinking his teeth back into your flesh.

And you did just that as the pace of his thrusts increased, your orgasm washing over you with soaring pleasure. Your toes curled and you were glad his hand was still over your mouth, because otherwise everyone would’ve heard your moans, the volume not lowering once.

“Mh, that’s it,” he cooed, coaxing you through your orgasm. “Making a mess all over my cock–just how I like it.”

With how tightly you were clenching around him, it was only a matter of time until Aemond followed behind, keeping his ministrations despite the aftershocks already trembling your whole body, knowing it would make you sore.

One final thrust sent Aemond over the edge into oblivion, his orgasm shaking deep within his bones. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t move any further, hips stilling as his twitching length spilled his load deep inside of your quivering walls.

Collapsing against your frame, he released your mouth to support his body with both hands on the railing, gripping it as if his life depended on it. Both your pants were loud, but not nearly as loud as your grunts and groans before.

Now you were the one cupping his chin, gently turning his head to force him to look at you, while he was just blinking hazily at you in the dark. “I’ve missed you,” you confessed, a slight tint covering your cheeks.

He rested his forehead against yours, meekly nodding, “I’ve missed you, too.”

A content smile spread over your lips at that, but as he pulled out of you to turn your around, it dropped into a pout he all too happily kissed away.

“Let’s get you back in bed now… I have seven months to make up for.”

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magnoliasandarson · 3 months

Text

أبناء الخفافيش

Jason was still a walking corpse when Talia handed him the child. Instinctively, he cradled the toddler to his chest, threading bloody fingers through inky black curls. Talia left them there, sat on the floor while she dealt with a problem.

After the Pit, Talia brought the child back. Jason was feral in his rage, cutting his trainers into piles of limbs and tearing at his own skin. Talia placed the toddler on the bloody dirt, and Jason spun to face the new target. Matching green eyes met, and Jason lifted the child into his arms, blades and fury forgotten.

The duo became a common sight in Nanda Parbat, أبناء الخفافيش was whispered in reverence when the boys practiced their Katas. They wore matching red robes, the younger’s lined in the same poisonous green as their eyes.

When Talia deemed them ready, Jason made his way to Gotham with a young boy clutching his hand. They were أبناء الخفافيش, but they were أخوان first.

Damian and Jason, Brothers, Sons of the Bat.

#jason todd #dc comics #dc universe #damian wayne #damian al ghul #batman #batfam #son of the bat #talia al ghul #nanda parbat #bad arabic sorry #lazarus pit #gotham #robin

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espinosaurusrexex · 1 year

Text

Serious Questions

BuckyBarnes x Female!Reader

summary: Bucky agrees to go on a date to make his colleagues shut up. Now, he just feels sorry for the poor woman that has to spend an entire evening with him. He really tries to make it work, though, because he actually enjoys her company.

a/n: This was a request by the lovely @alana-32. Hopefully, it meets your expectations 💙 I haven’t written pure fluff in a hot minute but this was fun!

word count: 2.9k

warnings: nervous and wholesome Bucky, super fluffy, just a really beautiful bond unfolding

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ

You should get out more, Bucky. Meet people and make friends, Bucky. You need to get laid, Bucky.

Sam’s words echoed through Bucky’s head as he pushed open the door of the restaurant. The warm air welcomed him and the little bell at the entrance rattled when he entered. He didn’t know how it exactly happened, but all of a sudden Clint had pitched into the conversation and urged him to meet his cousin. And Bucky had agreed. Well, the desperate attempt to make them shut up backfired. Big time.

He didn’t want to date. Apart from the fact that he didn’t wish himself on anybody, he didn’t think he could handle a relationship like that. Hell, Bucky barely realized how he made friends in the past year, so how the hell was he supposed to date? He hadn't done it in ages. It was probably different now than it was 80 years ago.

The waiter looked at him with wide eyes - fear visible on his face - when he entered and chose a quiet place in the corner, though the whole restaurant was fairly empty. What would he even talk about? His hand started to sweat. This had been a bad idea. A really stupid bad idea. His eyes swerved to the door and then back to the waiter standing behind a small bar. Was it too late to back out?

But then the bell above the entrance chimed again and he knew that he had missed his chance.

“Hello.” You smiled at him, clutching your bag with nervous fingers. “Are you James Barnes?”

Bucky scrambled to stand up and held out his hand to you with a tight smile. He nodded and gestured for you to take a seat after you told him your name.

He could do this, he thought. Especially because you seemed just as nervous. The first thing you two had in common, right?

“I’m really sorry, this is kind of awkward.” You looked down at your hands beneath the table with hesitance. “I... uhm... I haven’t done this in a while,” you confessed with genuine eyes. And Bucky could see a hint of comfort washing through your face.

“I doubt your last date is as long ago as mine, doll. You’ll probably do a lot better than me.”

A small laugh pressed past your lips and Bucky’s heart warmed at the sound. It felt good to make you laugh. He wanted to do it again.

“Let’s rush through the basics then so we can get to the interesting bits. I think that first half hour is what makes these things so awkward.” Your mouth spread into a grin as you straightened up.

“Sounds like a plan.” Bucky nodded.

“Well, you already know my name... I work in a small bookshop in Brooklyn, I am an only child but never wanted to be. I love dogs, cats, ducks - all the animals, really, but I don’t have any pets because my landlord doesn’t allow them. Well... I have fish - I had to settle for fish because they're quiet. But that’s their problem, you know? They’re quiet and you can’t play with them or pet them.” You shrugged. “Uhm... I like to read - I do that a lot, and I think that’s it.” Your speech ended with a bright smile and Bucky couldn’t help his own from spreading.

“My turn?”

“Yes.”

“Okay...” He straightened ups as well, a little giddy about the situation now. Normally, Bucky wouldn’t react this way to something he didn't like, but he wanted to try it this time. You were just so sweet and he didn't want to ruin the date... for you. “My friends call me Bucky, I grew up in Brooklyn, I have a sister... had a sister. And I think I’m more of a cat person - if I had to choose. I don’t have any pets. I work a lot, I guess it keeps me distracted. And... I feel like my back story doesn’t need to be explained, you probably know all about it.” He didn’t give you much, Bucky knew that. But those were the things he could say easily and really, he wasn’t sure how you’d react to most of it.

“Bucky... I like it. What’s it short for?”

“Buchanan. ’s my middle name.”

“Like the President?”

“Yup.”

“Hm... I guess that’s kinda cool.”

“I guess.”

"Can I call you Bucky?"

He felt weirdly content with you saying his name. "If you want." There was no regret in his decision as he watched your face scrunch in excitement.

The shallow topics went on for a while, and Bucky was surprised to see that talking to you was easy. He didn’t worry about what you thought, because you reacted to his replies with intrigue and adoration. He felt heard. And he had to admit that he actually enjoyed the little meeting his teammate had set up so far. He learned a bunch of stuff about you. And he picked up on little quirks you had and he celebrated every new one he noticed. Like the way your nose slightly crunched when you didn't believe him, or how your finger grazed over the table when you talked about something you really liked - back and forth. It was comforting to be in your presence.

Bucky leaned back in his booth as he emptied his beer, watching as you ordered another drink for yourself. He found himself smiling into the bottle when the waiter agreed to add an extra peppermint leave, making you bite back a bright smile. The waiter smiled as well, a lot less tense than he had been before you had arrived and it fascinated Bucky how contagious your good mood was. Then you turned your attention back to Bucky and he had to regain his composure. His arm slipped from the back of the booth and fell to his side as he waited for you to talk again.

“Okay, real talk, now - and I need you to answer this question honestly.” Your fingers pressed on the table like he’d seen important politicians do and Bucky had to hide a smile.

“Hit me with it.”

“If you could be a mix of any two animals, which combination would you choose?”

Bucky was baffled for a second. He had expected everything but this. And then - out of the blue - he laughed. A real can’t-hold-back-the-snort-if-I-tried-laugh and it felt so unbelievably good, it scared him a bit.

You gasped appalled, but the small smirk behind your hand couldn’t be hidden. “This is serious, Bucky. It says a lot about you.”

“Really, how?”

“Well, for example, I would choose an elephumblebee because it would look freaking adorable. A tiny elephant with wings and a furry butt, are you kidding me? Why the government hasn’t made that happen yet is truly beyond me.”

Bucky got it, then. It really did say a lot about you. You were fun and cute and he could imagine a little clumsy at times - just like he would imagine an elephumblebee. And even though it still felt foreign to him to engage in a silly activity like this, with you, it was fun - and he wanted to. So he thought really hard, his eyes focusing on the wall behind you and you waited patiently and ordered another beer for him.

Who would have thought that James Bucky Barnes would ever sit in a restaurant and think about how ridiculous a dog with a giraffe’s head would look? Certainly not Bucky. But it was almost comforting to do so.

“Alright, I think I got it.” You just nodded in anticipation. “I think I would be a spider-wolf... a spi- a spolf.” Bucky was satisfied with his answer: A lone wolf and someone people didn’t really like - pretty accurate if you’d asked him.

You just watched him with a tilted head for a while and Bucky felt a little uncomfortable with his answer now. Had he said the wrong thing?

“What?” Your lips just pursed in response.

“Nothing, nothing..,” you trailed off and Bucky couldn’t stop staring at your lips. “I was just thinking, you know - I think I’ve never seen a real wolf before. It’s not on my bucket list or anything and I heard they are so much bigger than you think, but like... have you?”

“I actually have. In the wild - amazing animals and yeah, bigger than a dog, that’s for sure.”

“Really?” Your eyes lit up. “Wow, that must have been such a unique experience.”

Bucky smiled sadly, nodding. “To be honest, I didn’t really realize it when it happened. I couldn’t appreciate it the way you would.”

“Oh well, still. It’s awesome. The most extraordinary animal I have ever seen in ‘the wild’ was a raccoon. There’s not a lot of wildlife potential when you never leave the city.” You shrugged as you pressed your lips in a straight line, but Bucky chuckled.

“Not much of the vacation kind?”

“It’s not that...” You paused and sighed. “I just love the bookstore too much. There is this one lady. She comes in every Thursday at exactly the same time and she just sits and reads and she has the most amazing stories to tell. And then there is the little stray cat that comes by every day and we have a little cuddle session. Oh, and I can’t forget about the quiet tatted college kid that secretly reads romance novels in the back isles for hours on end. I would miss them too much...”

Bucky just sat and listened to you ramble on and on about all the individuals you were so attached to, even if they didn’t know. And he was reminded yet again how much he enjoyed this initially dreaded evening. It didn't feel forced and you were so authentic and kind. Bucky was relaxing with every second he spend in the cozy little restaurant with you. He was sure that he could spend a whole day here with you, without getting bored.

He leaned forward as he watched the corners of your mouth tug up and your eyes sparkle with joy while you talked about the bookstore. And he couldn’t help but ask himself how he ended up here. How had he gotten a date with the most caring person in the world - no, really, what were the odds of that happening to him? But the most present thought swarming his mind was: How is a woman like you still single?

You suddenly stopped taking and Bucky was catapulted back to reality. You looked at him with wide eyes for the fraction of a second and then they softened and your gaze averted to the table. Had he just said that out loud?! Bucky didn’t know what to do. He was frozen to the booth, his hands tightening around the bottle and he held his breath - didn’t dare breathe until you gave him a new reaction.

After a beat, you sighed and looked him in the eyes apologetically. “I... I don’t know.” Your hand moved over the table and nervously began picking on the toothpicks in the glass jar. “I guess, I don’t seem to be the taste of most men around here. I don’t like wild parties and spending my weekends wasting away with a hangover.”

Bucky felt himself cringing at how uncomfortable he had made you. You clearly were embarrassed talking about this, but he would let you talk - or chose not to anymore. Either way, he would respect your decision.

“I... uh... I just haven’t had any luck so far. When I talk about my interests, everyone’s eyes just glaze over and then I never see them again. They think I’m boring, but that’s... I like concerts and dancing... I just don’t need the whole-” Your hands flailed in front of your face before you sunk back into your seat.

“You’re not boring, doll. I completely understand what you’re saying. I don’t need all that-” now his hand flailed in the air, “either.” Which made you break a smile that got brighter when he returned it. And Bucky felt a little pride swell in his chest when he watched your mood lift again.

“Can I ask you something?” You suddenly said and Bucky felt a little nervous at the piercing stare you gave him.

“Uh... sure.”

You bit your lip before finally speaking again. “You don’t really strike me as the social type, either.”

Bucky waited for you to continue, but you seemed in thought all of a sudden. “That’s not a question.”

You laughed nervously. “Right. I guess my question is... well, why did you agree to this evening? Clint didn’t really make it seem as if there was a lot of convincing involved.”

Bucky already facepalmed himself mentally for what he was about to say next. But he didn’t want to lie to you - it didn’t feel right. No, you deserved the truth - especially after you had answered his stupid question earlier so honestly.

“To be completely honest, I didn’t know how else to make my friends- uh...shut up. But I don’t regret coming here if that’s what you’re getting at.” He rushed that last part when he saw your face sadden. “I don’t get out too often, that’s true. Which doesn’t mean that I don’t want to... I just don’t know how to do this very well - talking to people. Usually, I get weird stares or fearful glances.”

Your eyes gleamed with something unintelligible before you leaned forward, your elbows resting on the table. “I don’t know how anyone could be scared of you, Bucky.”

“That’s very sweet of you to say, doll. But I don’t blame them, I would probably react the same if I weren’t... me.” His eyebrows furrowed with the last word and he could see a shiver of sadness wash over you.

“I think you’re pretty great,” you offered with an encouraging tap on his hand and Bucky felt his stomach churn.

A short silence overtook you and Bucky tried to keep his composure. The mood had shifted slightly, not uncomfortably, no - but just enough to leave his mind free from any topics he could talk about. Which usually wasn’t a problem, but he wanted to talk to you - tell you more and get told more. Which was why he was extra grateful for your breaking the silence after a couple seconds.

“So... I guess we can check off the heavy stuff as well?”

“Seems so,” he chuckled, holding on to the little feeling of relief you had sparked in his chest.

For the next hour, you actually got Bucky to open up a little more. He hadn’t even realized you were the one talking most of the time because he enjoyed listening to you so much. He came to realize, however, that it wasn’t so bad to talk about himself. He liked the way your eyes lit up at his stories about Clint, or the occasional ‘what, really?’ you threw into his anecdotes, making him feel important.

After another 30 minutes, you had made it outside. And as Bucky stood outside the restaurant door, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, helooked at you with an honest smile, while you adjusted your mittens.

“Thank you for giving this a chance, Bucky. I had a lot of fun tonight.” Your words built puffy white clouds in the air, but other than those, the butterflies in his stomach didn’t dissipate.

“I did, too,” he confessed, realizing for the fourth time today, that this was really true. “We should do this again.”

You bit your lips as your shoulders jerked with reluctance, but before you turned fully, you stepped towards Bucky and hugged him tightly. “Definitely.”

The cold weather seemed a lot more bearable all of a sudden. Bucky caged you to his chest with his arms and pressed his smile into the crook of your neck while an excited shiver ran through him. He felt incredible, safe, content, and he realized how much he had missed hugs - real, affectionate hugs.

“And you’re not a spolf,” you mumbled into his ear, squeezing him a little tighter. “You’re a curtle - a cat-turtle. Because you have a hard shell and you don’t trust very easily, which might make people feel like you don’t care. But you do - you’re just a little misunderstood.” You pulled back with a sad smile and Bucky felt his hands tighten around you as he stiffened. Though despite the surprise, his lips split into a bright smile.

He gazed into your eyes for a little longer before he leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on your cheek, making a giddy smile appear on your lips. “Thank you, doll.”

And then, with a final wave ‘good night’ you turned and walked down the street. Bucky watched until you rounded the corner, unable to wipe the stupid grin off his face.

**Bonus:

“So... how was the date?” Sam teased as Bucky entered the main area of the compound. But his friend just wanted to go to his room and revel in the serenity, you had brought him, a little longer.

“That’s none of your business, punk,” Bucky grumbled, passing the sofa.

“Why, did you more-than-kiss her goodbye?”

Bucky stopped in his tracks and turned with an annoyed expression, but not even he could hide the blush on his cheeks from deepening at the thought of actually kissing you. His heart was pounding in his chest.

“Oh! Wait? Did you really?!”

“Shut up, Sam.” Bucky wanted to deny it for your sake, but he liked the thought of it too much. So he swiftly decided to simply not spill in front of his friends and your cousin.

“Holy shit.” He heard Clint chuckle while he made a beeline to his room, missing how the two avengers exchanged a $10 bill behind him.

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 6 months

Text

Rev. 22:20 - Chapter Five: Eat You Alive

Warnings: Mentions of death, male masturbation, canon typical violence, smut. Word count: ~3.9k

Summary: Aemond runs away from his problems, only to find they're right where he left them when he returns.

Main series masterlist.

Author's note: I do not have a tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications to be updated when I post a fic. Community labels are for cops.

Aemond strides through the winding streets of King’s Landing, hood pulled firmly over his head, back towards the Red Keep. Despite the chill that lingers in the night air, his blood runs hotly through his veins, making his skin feel flushed.

He can still feel the press of her lips against his, his skin tingles with the memory of it. He is certain he can see the rumpling of the material of his cloak where she’d clutched desperately at the front of it, but it is likely no more than his imagination, clinging to the feeling in the same way he convinces himself the softness of her face is still beneath his fingers. He rubs his fingertips together, his pulse racing at the fact he’d caressed her jaw with those same digits just moments ago.

Shaking his head in an attempt to erase the thought, he shuts himself in his chambers. It is no use fantasising any more. She is no better than a common harlot, given over to the Faith because she is no longer worth anything to her family. Worse still, she wishes to use her vantage point as Septa of his sister’s children to torment him for his lustful indiscretions.

Silently, he curses his treacherous heart and mind. Despite all of this, he still yearns for her. He has been painfully hard from the moment he saw her undressing for bed. He hopes relieving the tension will bring him peace.

The maidservant he summons to his bedchamber is a slight, pretty little thing. He has made use of her before. She is always discrete, and diligent in ensuring she drinks moon tea afterwards. However, this time as he thrusts inside of her, her tight wetness provides little comfort. Where he seeks the novice’s scent of camphor and cloves, he is met with the faint scent of ash - likely from her having swept his fireplace earlier. Her breathy moans do not match the cadence of the way the novice had sighed softly into his mouth as her tongue had moved against his own.

It’s unsatisfying. Even when he reaches his peak, spilling himself across the maidservant’s thighs, the relief he feels is miniscule, as though he has half heartedly scratched an itch. Nothing will compare now.

He groans in frustration, climbing off of the bed and throwing her dress back towards her.

“Get out,” he hisses, not bothering to turn and look as she hurriedly dresses and rushes from the room.

He ought to have strangled that pretty little novice when he had the chance. Instead, she will reside beneath the same roof as him, making a mockery of him, forcing him to remember the humiliating swiftness with which he had allowed himself to be enamoured by her - to still be enamoured by her.

Aemond cannot bear it. He decides he won’t ask his grandfather for permission to go to Oldtown to be with his younger brother, he will simply tell him. If putting distance between himself and the object of his obsession is what he needs to do in order to snuff out the flames she ignites within him then nothing will stand in his way.

He sends a raven to Daeron, informing him of his imminent arrival, before turning in for the night.

His sleep is restless, plagued by dreams of his lips against hers, but when he pulls away he is greeted by a mirror and it is only himself he sees, the marred flesh of his scarred left eye socket reflected back at him, ruined and empty.

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

Awakening early, Aemond dresses swiftly, instructing his chambermaids to pack his belongings and have them sent on to Oldtown. He packs lightly himself for what he will need in the meantime and what he can manage to carry on Vhagar’s back, before donning his riding coat. He has no intention of coming back once he has sought out his grandfather.

Also an early riser, he finds Otto already in his study, quill in hand as he scribbles across a length of parchment.

The older man looks up as Aemond enters, raising his eyebrows slightly in question at his grandson’s appearance.

Before he has a chance to query it, Aemond speaks. “I am going to Oldtown to be with Daeron. I do not know when I will return.”

Otto draws in a breath, placing his quill down upon the parchment before leaning back in his chair. “Do you think that is wise?”

“I am not needed here,” Aemond says cooly. “I wish to see my younger brother.”

“Your father’s health worsens by the day. Your mother needs you.”

Aemond quirks his lips, huffing through his nose. “I am well aware of who you and Mother intend to crown once Viserys is dead,” he snaps, “I do not need to be here for that.”

He notices his grandfather bristle. Without giving him time to say anything further, he walks quickly towards the door, but a sudden pang of guilt squeezes tightly at his heart, causing him to look back once more. “Look after them both, please,” he says softly, referring to Alicent and Helaena.

Otto simply nods, lifting his quill and dipping it into the ink pot, beginning to write again.

On dragonback is the only place where Aemond’s mind ever feels truly clear. It is a full day’s flight on Vhagar from King’s Landing to Oldtown, and the meditative peace is blissful for Aemond, focusing only on the whip of the wind around him, and directing his dragon’s movements with slight tugs of her reins.

It is nightfall by the time Aemond finds somewhere suitable to leave Vhagar and makes his way to where Daeron currently resides.

He receives a warm welcome, despite the short notice of his arrival and the brothers settle down to share roasted venison and fine red wine from Arbor.

The conversation is kept light, the two exchanging pleasantries, as Daeron enquires about the wellbeing of their mother and siblings, and Aemond tells him about how quickly Jaehaerys and Jaehaera are growing up, as well as the rapidity with which their father is deteriorating.

“So, how are your studies going?” Aemond asks, fingers plucking absentmindedly at the stem of his wine goblet.

“I think we have exhausted the farcical pleasantries, brother,” Daeron says with a wry smile, placing his fork upon his plate. “Tell me why you are really here.”

Aemond scoffs derisively. “To see you, of course. Why would I have an ulterior motive?”

“Because you are running away from something,” he replies with a raise of his eyebrow, “tell me I am wrong.”

“I do not run away from anything,” Aemond mutters darkly, his grip tightening around his goblet as he feels himself growing hot with anger. “I claimed the largest dragon in the world when I was a child. I am not a coward.”

“And yet here you are,” Daeron quips with a light shrug.

“You came here to study, did you not?” Aemond asks defensively. “Why can I not do the same? I have exhausted the Red Keep’s library.”

“I could send you books,” his younger brother muses, narrowing his eyes. “You are not here because you have run out of things to read. So tell me. Is it a woman?”

“Stop it,” Aemond glowers.

Daeron simply sits back, sipping his wine, lips turned upwards in a smug smile.

His brother is right and he hates him for it. He is running away from her, but he sees no other option.

They retire for the evening, and Aemond is grateful that Daeron does not pry further into the matter.

Life in Oldtown is peaceful. Daeron makes for a more interesting conversationalist than either Aegon or Helaena, and he feels spoiled for choice with the selection of reading material that the Citadel boasts.

The days he does not spend poring over books and scrolls, he flies on dragonback. The great, elderly bulk of Vhagar moves at a glacial pace through the skies, while Daeron speeds ahead, propelled by the sprightly wings of Tessarion.

It would be idyllic were it not for the fact that he cannot seem to stop thinking of his novice. A month slips by and he can still remember the slope of her delicate neck, the way the sunlight shone upon her hair, the curve of her hips and legs as she’d undressed, how warm her breath had been against his skin, the softness of her lips against his own.

He is frustrated that even hundreds of miles away he cannot seem to escape her. Hard as he resists it, he still finds himself fucking his fist to the thought of her each night, thinking about what could have happened if he had not have fled from her.

Would she moan wantonly as his flesh slaps hotly against hers, or whimper quietly into the crook of his as she tightens around him, his fingertips pressing bruises into the soft flesh of her thighs?

Repeatedly he has to remind himself that she is just toying with him, bored with her own forced servitude she is preying upon his lust for her, using it for her own advantage. To return home would be his ruin. He is certain she must reside within the Keep now, caring for Aegon and Helaena’s twins. If he goes back she will only seek to make his life miserable, and when he eventually crumbles and gives into her, she will humiliate him. He will not allow it.

Each week two ravens arrive, carrying letters for Daeron and Aemond from their mother, sending news of Helaena and the twins, and asking after their own wellbeing. Each week they diligently reply. As much as Aemond loathes to admit it, he misses King’s Landing, he misses his mother and sister. It is a sentiment that is apparently unshared by his younger brother. He is suited to life in Oldtown, he seems settled and happy here, far more relaxed than he ever was in the capital.

It is three days before they are due to receive their weekly letters when a singular raven arrives, carrying a small roll of parchment addressed to Aemond.

He sits at the dining hall table, breaking his fast with Daeron when the maester deposits the message on the table next to him, before bowing his head and taking his leave.

Aemond picks it up and unfurls it between his thumbs, his breath catching in his throat and his eye widening slightly as a cold wave of dread washes over him.

Where his mother’s handwriting is usually careful, neat, precise, it appears rushed, the two words scrawled in a state of anxiety.

Come home.

“What is it?” Daeron asks, pushing his plate away and eyeing Aemond with concern.

“Our father is dead,” Aemond says in a hushed tone, sliding the parchment across the table for his brother to look at it.

Daeron swallows thickly, nodding as he reads the message before hastily screwing it up and hiding it within his sleeve. “You need to leave today.”

“Will you come with me?” Aemond asks, anxiously rubbing his index fingers against his thumbs.

He shakes his head. “It would look too suspicious if I were to disappear suddenly. You know why mother wrote only to you. You know what she means to do.”

“Yes,” Aemond sighs, “and it is not me she means to crown.”

“I know, Aemond,” Daeron says sympathetically, leaning forward across the table. “Believe me, there is no one that understands your frustration better than I. But mother needs you. You know he will not make it easy for her.”

He has the right of it. He always has the right of it. It would anger Aemond if he did not admire Daeron’s wisdom so much.

“Then I suppose this is farewell.”

“Until we meet again, brother.”

It is nightfall when Aemond returns reluctantly to the Red Keep. The entirety of the castle has been locked down, with no one allowed in or out, and the corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast are eerily quiet as he passes through them, his boots echoing loudly upon the flagstones with every step.

He can see light shining through the crack in the doors to Helaena’s apartments, and hushed voices inside. He pushes the doors open, met by the sight of Alicent and Helaena sat upon a settee, both of them turn to look at him with wide, grief stricken eyes.

Yet it is not them that hold his attention, it is her.

Every bit as beautiful as he’d remembered, only now she wears the seven colour corded belt around her waist, and a crystal pendant. She has become a septa, no longer his little novice, but still every bit the temptress he’d left behind months ago. Looking at her makes his pulse race. In the rush to get back in the wake of the news of Viserys’ passing, he had quite forgotten she would be here.

She kneels upon the floor, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera sit either side of her, babbling and playing with toys. They had gotten so big; they look like real, tiny, little people now.

His throat runs dry when he sees the familiar look in her eye as she gazes at him, it holds the same heat and intensity he recognises from the night they had kissed. He has to force himself to look away.

He is met by the soft, sad eyes of his mother, surging forward to tenderly cradle his forearms. “I am so glad to see you,” she says gently.

“And I you,” he responds tenderly, eye narrowing affectionately as his own fingers return the gesture, squeezing softly. “But I am tired from the journey, can plans wait until the morning?”

“Of course,” Alicent nods, stepping away. “Rest. We have locked Aegon in his chambers to prevent him from drowning any further in his cups, so there is nothing that can be done until tomorrow.”

Aemond bows his head solemnly in understanding, before backing away. “Goodnight, mother.”

He gives a nod towards Helaena, purposely avoiding looking in the direction of the twins, not wanting to see her, before walking back towards his own quarters.

From the moment he saw her he has been painfully hard, and he loathes himself for it. Tossing and turning in the sheets, he will not allow her the satisfaction of him pleasuring himself to the thought of her. Not that she would know, but he refuses to do it with her beneath the same roof as him.

He wishes he had ignored his mother’s letter and stayed in Oldtown with Daeron. Not only does he have to navigate the coronation of his wastrel of an older brother, he now has to cope with living alongside the septa he has spent the last half a year lusting after.

Realising sleep will not find him, he throws the covers back, getting out of bed and putting his eyepatch, undershirt and trousers back on before leaving his chambers, intending to go to the library. It has always been a source of comfort to him when his mind is troubled.

Immediately he spots her, padding barefoot along the corridor, dressed in only a cotton shift, her hair loose. Even in darkness she takes his breath away and he hesitates a moment, gathering himself, before allowing his anger to guide his actions.

He lurches after her, gripping her arm and pulling her to him. “What are you doing skulking about the Keep at this hour?” He whispers furiously.

She regards him impassively, surprising him when she does not try to wrench free of his grasp. “I was attending to my duties, checking on the children.”

Her voice causes his stones to tighten. It has been so long since he has heard her speak. Aemond releases her, as though her skin has scalded him and turns to walk away. He cannot be this close to her.

“Why do you shun me?” She asks, causing him to pause. “We both have had things taken from us.”

“We share nothing in common,” Aemond says irritably. “I lost my eye because I dared to claim the largest dragon in the world. You lost your freedom because of your own depravity.”

“I dared to pursue what made me happy, just as you did,” she replies defiantly.

“You are a whore,” he spits, rounding on her.

“And you are a craven,” she juts out her chin with a smirk. “Running away because you–”

She gasps, her words cut off, as Aemond lunges towards her, gripping her throat forcefully, using the leverage to back her into his chambers, before kicking the door closed. Fury guides his movements, he wants to hurt her, make her realise she must never disrespect a Targaryen Prince so brazenly.

“How dare you speak to me like that, you insolent little bitch,” he snarls, shaking her slightly, “I have half a mind to strangle the life from you.”

Her gaze is unflinching as she stares up at him, there is no fear in her eyes. He sees desire dancing within their depths.

His eye softens, his grip on her throat loosening as he feels his resolve crumble, and then his mouth is upon hers, lips moving with greedy haste.

He groans appreciatively as he feels her hands tighten on the front of his shirt, much like they had on his cloak all those months ago. The hand not around her neck moves into her hair, gripping it tightly, directing her movements as their tongues writhe together.

Her hair is every bit as soft as he had imagined it would be, though she smells different. Long gone is the scent of the incense burned in the Sept. Now her aroma is laced faintly with lavender oil, though it clings to her flesh in a way that is unmistakably her. Aemond feels as though he is finally slaking his thirst after months without water.

Pushing her backwards, she falls softly onto the mattress, and he climbs over her, caging her in with his body. Her heavy breaths against his neck cause him to shudder, and he wastes no time in pushing her shift above her hips and freeing his cock.

This isn’t how he imagined their first time would be. He wanted to take his time with her, to drink in the sight of her naked flesh, savour each feeling. Yet when he imagined his first time with her, his father was not dead, it was not the eve of his brother’s coronation and he had not just throttled her.

In this moment he is driven purely by animalistic need, and to his delight she does not seem to mind.

Aemond spits into his palm, smearing the moisture through her folds, his cock aching as it twitches when he feels how wet with arousal she already is. He strokes the combined fluids over the length of himself, before driving forwards forcefully into her.

He is met with resistance, and the squeeze of her around him causes him to screw his eye shut, his jaw going slack at the feel of her tight, wet heat. She moans with unrestrained lewdness as he bottoms out inside of her, and he takes a moment to look at her, spread out beneath him, hair in disarray around her head, lips glossy and slightly parted, eyes darkened by lust.

Snarling, losing all semblance of control, he snaps his hips against hers, setting an unforgiving pace.

“Is this what you wanted? Is this what you fucking wanted?” He grits out, one hand grabbing her hip, the other gripping her chin to keep her focus on him. “Answer me!”

“Y-yes!” She cries out, legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him in deeper, making him feel light headed.

In all of his wildest fantasies she has never felt this good. It is not possible to imagine a sensation that is such exquisite torture. He would have willingly crawled back from Oldtown if only to experience this.

His skin is damp with perspiration, his brow furrowed with exertion as the bed creaks with the intensity of his movements. A lick of white hot heat tickles at his lower spine as he feels her hips bucking in time with his, chasing her own pleasure.

“Whore,” he murmurs hatefully, his hand from her chin back to her throat, squeezing the sides.

Her inner walls flutter around him, her moans and whimpers increasing in both pitch and frequency until he feels her tense up suddenly before tightening around him with a cry, her back arching with the force of it.

His own thrusts become sloppy, the ache inside him intensifying until the world goes black and he pushes hard inside of her one final time, spilling himself with a strangled grunt.

Collapsing beside her, he lays there for a moment in silence, the only sounds in the room are their combined heavy breathing.

A heaviness settles in Aemond’s chest, sullen regret weighing upon him. “So, who will you tell about this?”

“What do you mean?” She asks, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at him.

“You have had this planned all along, to settle yourself as my sister’s children’s septa and make a mockery of me for your own amusement, and I have given in to you,” he says quietly, fingers rubbing together anxiously.

“Aemond, I did not know I was to be placed here,” she tells him with sincerity.

His expression softens, eye widening slightly as he turns to look at her. “You did not?”

“No. Novices are not told of their placement until their training is finished. It is to prevent us from being distracted away from our studies by thoughts of where we will end up. By the time I found out you had already left King’s Landing.”

Aemond furrows his brow in confusion. “Then why? Why did you do this?”

She huffs a soft laugh. “Because I wanted to. Do you not think it is exciting? Perhaps one day I will be the septa for your own children when you are married for political gain, and you can seek me out away from prying eyes and continue to have your way with me.”

His heart begins to race again, despite the fact it had only just begun to slow from having rutted mercilessly into her. The thought does excite him, depraved as it is. He has spent months lusting after her, to finally be able to have her whenever he wants her is enormously gratifying.

“You will be my ruin,” he says, voice filled with a playful, affectionate warmth.

“And your salvation,” she purrs with a mischievous smile. “I mean it, Aemond, you and I are alike. The only difference is I do not have the opportunity for revenge, but you do.”

“What do you mean?” He asks, rolling to face her.

Her fingers trace lightly over the scar on his left cheek and the leather of his eyepatch. “You are a Targaryen Prince,” she tells him, “you have the means to seek atonement for what you have lost, and I shall ensure that you do.”

It is then that he sees her fully for the first time. A reflection of his own darkest thoughts and desires. It both excites and terrifies him. His salvation and his damnation.

Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.

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maybeitsalivescribbles · 4 months

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TTD - Dastardly Hug

Being a hero had its inconveniences. You could be called for help at any hour, you could be harassed by any angry civilian because you didn’t do a good enough job, or of course you could be hit and killed by some villain on the loose.

However, what worried Hero at the moment was the paperwork. It was the dreaded time of the month when they had to log in the agency website and describe every one of their good deeds to be paid. It had taken a bunch of tries to finally access their account, and now they were wondering if bringing a dog back to its family counted as “security” (the dog was certainly safer inside the house) or as “improving the well-being of citizens” (a category that could embrace all kinds of actions, to helping an old lady to cross the street from stopping the apocalypse – who designed these things ?).

Behind their back, the door creaked in an ominous way (they really needed to lubricate the hinges). For a brief instant they fervently hoped that it was only a gust of wind, but the light of the room suddenly went off. They sighed and saved their progress while their roommate solemnly declared:

“I am darkness. I am the creeping blackness that cannot be killed by any light.”

“Sure, but I’m certain you still will be in fifteen minutes. Can you come back then ? I’m doing paperwork.”

“You wish to surrender to the horrors of bureaucracy rather than mine?”

“I don’t wish it, but we kinda need the money, you know. What did you want ?”

“Why, tis but a common reminder to surrender in my presence that should strike fear and reverence in your heart. Every activity of yours should pale into insignificance.”

“Can you be more precise ?”

“I’ve come for intimidation and invasion of your personal space.”

Hero looked at the screen of their computer. It had been already two hours since they began. Oh, fuck it.

“Yeah, okay.”

They patted their knee and extended one arm. For a moment, they couldn’t see anything, then they felt the weight of a person on their lap and a head on their shoulder. It was impossible to see the shape of the silhouette huddled up them, only a vague black cloud, but it wasn’t a problem. They were getting used to it by now. They closed their arms gently until their fingers met a back, that they rubbed.

“You have so many knots.”

“It’s because I’m very twisted.”

“Maybe you should straighten your back more.”

Former Villain shrugged and didn’t answer. They both stayed like that for a while, silent and quiet.

“Hero ?”

“Yes ?”

“You wouldn’t hurt me, would you ?”

Hero’s hand froze on their roommate’s back.

“Why would I do that ?”

“Just checking.”

“Of course I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Still no answer. Fingers clutched at their shirt, almost desperately. Hero knew by now that asking if their roommate was okay was a lost cause. They never answered in a straight manner. So, after clearing their throat, they awkwardly said:

“Uh, if you let me suffer into the hands of the bureaucracy for a little while, you could beat me to video games if you want to. Or we can watch a movie together. But, uh, in a really evil way ?”

“In a really evil way ?”

“I don’t know, I try to make it sound appealing to you.”

“You’re terrible at it. Nevertheless, I will graciously accept your request.”

“How kind.”

After a moment, Former Villain slid from their lap and went out. Hero didn’t turn back to their paperwork immediately. The truth was that despite Villain being their roommate, they didn’t know much about them. Who needed to pretend that wanting a hug was very evil, and what kind of past did they have ?

Check the These Two Dorks Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with this Hero and Villain. This is how they met and now they’re roommates.

Or back to Hero x Villain Masterlist.

#villain and hero #hero villain community #writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #my writing #writing snippet #writing drabble #fluff #writing dialogue #creative writing #these two dorks #heroes and villains #hero and villain #hero x villain #platonic relationships #aroace oc #In which Villain asks and receives a dastardly hug #Hero already had cats before so they don’t mind

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slutforslytherinx · 15 days

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stress smokes

°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。

pairing: mattheo riddle x fem!reader

summary: the rule-following perfect student snaps and resorts to a late night smoke session with the infamous mattheo riddle.

warnings: marijuana, stress, slight angst, and that’s it?? super fluffy ౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡⋆

a/n: this is my first time writing on this…. apologies if it’s bootyhole😞

the library was nearly empty, most students chatting in their common room with their friends. exams were still a moderate distance away, not near enough for the tables to be full of stressing teenagers.

you were one of the few there, tucked in the corner everyone knew was yours, hidden behind two bookshelves full of dust. the words had started blurring on the pages nearly an hour ago and your frustration nearing the point of a mental breakdown.

you re-read every sentence multiple times, yet your brain seemed as though it just couldn’t retain the information. angry tears swelled in your eyes and you slammed the book shut before any could drip onto the parchment pages.

this was bound to happen at some point. one person could only take so many books about lacewing flies and ashwinder eggs before they snapped. for the first time since you arrived at hogwarts 6 years ago, you were giving up.

your favorite professors always warned you to take care of yourself before you burnt out, yet you never listened. now you were screwed. aggressively shoving your belongings into your bag, you decided that you were going to be have fun tonight.

you were going to get your mind off of textbooks and study sessions, and do something you’d never done before. despite your irritation, you still gave madam pince a small smile and wave before exiting.

the moon was already high in the sky, stars appearing by its side, but you knew where he would be. you’d ran into him at this time on many occasions. with your bag clutched over your shoulder and a determined mind, you made your way up to the astronomy tower.

just as you expected, he was there. mattheo had a small joint dangling from his fingers, the end lit with small sparks of fire. you sat down next to him silently, and he lazily turned his head to look at you.

“hey princess, care to join?” you rolled your eyes at the pet name, snatching the roll out of his hands and inhaling swiftly. his eyes widened as he tried to steal it back from you. “what the hell?” he asked, finally pulling it from your grasp.

you exhaled the smoke into the air, coughing up a lung as you did. he watched you with an annoyed expression, waiting impatiently until you were done wheezing. once the coughs subsided, he flicked you. “ow! what’s your problem?”

he shrugged carelessly, “just making sure you’re real and not some weird hallucination.” you scoffed and turned your head to look back at the sky. he flicked you again, “okay, seriously? what the hell? what happened to ‘smoking is bad for you. your gonna get lung cancer and die.’” he mocked, raising his pitch to imitate a girly voice.

“stop flicking me!” you exclaimed, rubbing the skin of your arm tenderly. you tried to grab the joint again, but he pulled it back and raised his eyebrows in a way that communicated ‘you’re not getting anything until you explain whats going on.’

you sighed, rubbing your temples tiredly. he watched you the whole time, his confusion morphing to slight worry. “i just want to have fun. i want to stop thinking about stupid studying for one minute and be relaxed. i want to have a night where i think im worth more than academic success, so can you just help me out here?”

he stared at you with an unreadable expression, making you fidget the longer his gaze was on you. finally, he puffed out a breath of air, hesitatingly passing it to you. “thank you.” you muttered quietly, raising it to your lips. he stopped you before it met your mouth.

“don’t inhale a lot. you’ll start coughing again.” you glanced at him, nodding before following his instructions. true to his word, it worked, and you passed it back to him. you two sat in silence for a while, taking turns before it was gone.

the effects soon started to hit, making you let out a tiny laugh at the weird sensation. he looked at you with raised eyebrows, amused, as your tiny laugh developed into a full blown giggle attack. “if i didn’t know you’d never smoked before, i would now.” he murmured to himself. you chose to ignore that.

you soon stopped laughing, opting to stare at the moon instead. it was quiet once more, until you spoke up, almost too low for mattheo to catch. “thank you.” he nodded, and you turned to look at him.

“no, i mean thank you.” he tilted his head a little, bemused. “sometimes i feel like your the only person who doesn’t look at me like a walking cheat sheet. i like that. you’re real, you don’t just talk to me when you want something.” you grinned, not realizing the true depth of your own words.

he was quiet for a couple a long moment, his heart pounding faster in his chest for the oblivious girl next to him. “your a lot more amazing than people give you credit for.” your cheeks heated, and you looked to your knees timidly.

you and mattheo both had a feeling that you’d be seeing a lot more of eachother.

#mattheo riddle #mattheo x you #harry potter #slytherin boys #oneshot #blurb #mattheo riddle blurb #fanfic #fluff #light angst

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ramservices1 · 5 months

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Why Did My AC Compressor Stop Working?

When the sweltering heat of summer arrives, there’s nothing more frustrating than discovering that your AC compressor has called it quits. It’s a common issue that leaves many homeowners sweating from the heat and potential repair costs.

In this blog, we’ll explore the reasons behind AC compressor failures, common signs that indicate trouble, and some troubleshooting tips to help you get your cool air back.

Top AC Compressor Failure Causes!

Here are some: –

1. Refrigerant Leak AC Compressor

One of the leading causes of AC compressor failures is a refrigerant leak. The compressor relies on refrigerant to cool the air; a leak can disrupt this process. Watch for decreased cooling performance, which can indicate this issue.

2. Electrical Problems AC Compressor

Electrical problems can also lead to a non-functional AC compressor. Faulty wiring, damaged capacitors, or other electrical issues can prevent the compressor from starting. If your unit remains unresponsive, electrical problems might be to blame.

3. Compressor Clutch Failure AC

The compressor clutch is a vital component for engaging and disengaging the compressor. If it fails, the compressor won’t work as it should. Unusual noises or a lack of cool air can be signs of a failing clutch.

4. Overheating AC Compressor

Overheating is a most common issue that can lead to compressor damage. If the system lacks proper airflow due to a clogged condenser or dirty coils, the compressor can overheat and eventually fail. Regular maintenance is essential to prevent this.

5. Low Refrigerant AC Compressor

Insufficient refrigerant levels can strain the compressor, making it work harder. This can indeed lead to premature wear and tear, ultimately causing failure. Low refrigerant may be the culprit if your AC is struggling to cool your space.

6. AC Compressor Belt Problems

The compressor’s belt plays a crucial role in its operation. If the belt is worn or damaged, it can prevent the compressor from functioning correctly. Squealing or grinding noises are common indicators of belt issues.

7. AC Compressor Tripping Breaker

When your AC compressor continually trips the breaker, it can indicate various problems, such as electrical issues or a failing compressor. This not only disrupts your cooling but can also pose a safety hazard.

8. Failed AC Compressor Motor

The heart of the AC compressor is its motor. If the motor fails, the entire compressor becomes non-operational. Listen for unusual noises or vibrations, which may be signs of motor trouble.

Read More: https://ramservicesandsales.com/2023/10/24/why-did-my-ac-compressor-stop-working/

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lovelyladyabsinthewrites · 5 months

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Just What You Wanted

Pairing(s): onesided!Pietro Maximoff x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: pietro really misses his chance here, oocpietro? (first time writing him), reader being a big adult and moving on, pietro acting like a child, mentions of sexy time (readerxbucky), toxic!pietro, protective!bucky

Words: 4430

Summary: You decided to take your chance and ask Pietro out. There had to be more to his flirting right? Unfortunately he turns you down but you won't waste your time mourning what could have been. You move on and find a perfect partner in the Winter Soldier.

"Maybe I got the signals mixed up?" You lightheartedly muse to Wanda. Carefully, you push down on the button stopper of the wine box that was situated between the two of you.

Wanda shakes her head. "Don't even give it a second thought. He's my brother and I love him, but you can do WAY better than him." She couldn't fathom why Pietro would reject your proposition of a date. Wanda knew her twin brother liked you. Painfully obvious in the obnoxious manner both of you flirt.

Making a mental note to chew him out later, Wanda tilts the remainder of her own wine glass into her mouth. "He's been acting like a complete ass since we arrived in America. I think now that he has freedom, he's overdosing on it. What was the term Tony used?"

You choke on your wine, a snort burning your nose and throat. "Man-whore."

She nods. "Yes! That is it. He's become quite a man-whore!"

Near dying next to her, you're forced to put down your wine glass or you would ruin your bedspread. Once your hands were free, you use them to clutch your stomach as it aches from your laughter.

Really you weren't that upset about it. You thought you would give it a shot, maybe something was there. No big duh to you.

"Did he really say he didn't want to date you because you're coworkers?" Confusion still plagued Wanda as she slowly blinks her eyes. Trying to understand what her brother was thinking. They didn't have that type twin telepathy. That was mainly based on feelings. "That's complete bull."

"Honestly it's okay. Really." You tell Wanda trying to calm her down. "He's probably right. No harm done."

Wanda placates her own feelings with a smile at how unperturbed you were by the rejection. Pietro was a fool. His loss will be someone else's gain.

Not long after someone else did stumble upon you.

Never before had you worked with the Winter Soldier. You'd seen him around Avenger's HQ and spotted him in the common areas, but you wouldn't say you were close to Bucky Barnes. Only a handful of friendly words had ever been shared between you.

The assignment that paired you together with him would ultimately turn out to be a blessing in disguise. A simple mission that you confidently thought you could finish in no time. The run of the mill shadow organization that possessed weapons of mass destruction and infiltrating said organization. You and Bucky were picked for this based on your success record and skill set. You found it a compliment as you heard nothing but great things about Bucky. He was a fine soldier and outstanding friend to Steve Rogers.

Fury told you the timeline looked to be a month before this organization known as 'Specter' planned to launch its weapon. A major problem was that their base was hidden so both you and Bucky would have to go deep undercover.

You shared an close space with Bucky and found him pleasurable to be around. He was easy on the eyes too. His smile makes every inch of you flutter delightfully. Similar to how flirting with Pietro made you feel.

Patience was required when gathering intel. An operation like this couldn't be rushed. That meant learning more about Bucky. He even manages to pry some stories from your childhood out of you. Things you hadn't remembered in a long time.

When passing binoculars, fingers linger against one another. Excuses of offering warmth just so that you could press yourself against him. His jacket might as well have belonged to you now due to how often you were wearing it now.

"It looks better on you anyway." Bucky would tell you. A heaviness in his gaze puts all of your functions at a halt.

You started noticing how kissable his lips looked. Or the fine veins that run along his hands. Beautiful as they held a gun. Between your legs start to ache for him when you watch Bucky strangling a man for information. You never found violence. . . attractive until you worked with Bucky. It was just a means to get by. A requirement for the world you lived in.

Throughout the mission, you manage to keep things professional. Even though the burning gazes exchanged were still frequent. You had to focus your efforts on completing your assignment. Bucky respects that type of work ethic.

Identifying the main figures within Specter was easy once missing pieces were filled with the information you received along the way. One would be spared for questioning, the other two were quickly disposed of.

When your prisoner was handed over to the government which held dominion, you and Bucky head back to the room you'd been using to hide out in.

You were excited to go home and tell Wanda all about it. You're giddy, imagining her scandalized reaction that you loved. Her eyes would get so big, hands clutching onto your arm begging for more details.

A knock at the door puts a pause in your packing as you go to check the peephole. You open it once you verify it's just Bucky. "You all done packing? Sorry, I'll just be five more minutes."

He closes the door behind him. "It's not that."

The depth of his voice has you shivering, turning back to him with your full attention. He's cleaned off the dirt from his face and changed his clothes. Appeared Bucky even brushed his dark hair. Disheveled Bucky was sexy but cleaned up Bucky was a god damn smoke show. Your bones become trembling jelly as he stalks up to you.

"I believe, we have some personal business to take care of." The corner of his lips twitch up in a predatory manner to show off his sharp cuspids.

"By all means," You breathe out and internally cheer when it doesn't come out as a squeak "lets commence the business Mr. Barnes."

The delay of your return to headquarters did raise brows.

Especially Pietro's.

You took Wanda by the arm and she knew you had a story to tell. Using her magic-like ability, she conjures a bottle of wine accompanied by two glasses.

Two schoolgirls giggling and kicking their legs as they talk about one's crush.

"And he told me-" your cheeks hurt from your smile "that he wants to take me out on a proper date."

Wanda swoons backwards as she falls against your bed. She says something in her native Sokovian before switching to English "I told you that you could do much better than Pietro."

From then on it was a common occurrence to find you and Bucky together. You visit one another's room frequently day and night. Time spent not on assignment, Bucky would take you out on both fun and romantic dates. He wooed you like no other man had before. A goddamn gentleman who ate and slurped your pussy in a way that sucked the soul right out of you.

There were men before Bucky but sweet mercy they couldn't compare to the beast that was Bucky once he got your legs perched atop his shoulders. You would never had taken him for a sloppy eater, not by the way he used his fork and knife when he took you out to fancy restaurants. When he slides in his cold metal fingers, your back spikes up in a arch off the bed.

However, not everyone in the Avenger's Headquarters was happy for you and Bucky.

When Pietro first walked into the communal kitchen to find Bucky's hand up your shirt, he nearly suffered from an aneurysm on the spot. Thankfully his feet reacted faster than his brain and took off in the opposite direction before either of you noticed his presence. He'd heard the office gossip that you and Bucky were an item now. Pietro arrogantly thought that your relationship with the winter soldier was a fling or some fucked up way for get back at him for turning you down.

Hitting the two month mark had Pietro sweating. Your relationship with Bucky was thriving. The sting of betrayal sears his insides. When he voices his woes to his twin, Wanda held no comforting words for him.

"Oh well. They love each other now. So you have to move on." Uncaringly, her attention goes back to her phone. "You had your chance, Pietro."

He shoots his sister a glare. "Have some empathy."

That makes her laugh but at least Wanda puts her phone down and turns back to Pietro. "Empathy? Refresh my memory, what was the real reason why you didn't date her?" He'd told you it was because you were coworkers. Claimed he didn't want things to be weird around HQ. Conveniently forgetting that Wanda and Vision were in a happy relationship. But she knew the disgusting truth.

His eyes turn pleading, round and lined with those pretty lashes he flaunted. "Wanda-"

"No, I want to hear you say it again and really help me try to understand." Her arms cross in front of her.

Pietro takes his bottom lip between his teeth to give it a worrying chew. "I. . . I wasn't ready to be in a monogamous relationship- Hey, I'm being serious." He adds the last part after he hears Wanda snort. "We spent all of our adolescence and young adult lives under HYDRA control. It's only been two years since we were liberated. I want to live a little bit more before settling down."

"And look what that has cost you."

"I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't." Wanda's exasperated. "That's not a good excuse. Bucky is in the same boat as us and just because he missed out on having a life he didn't let that stop him from making things official with her."

In short, Pietro simply had no choice but to deal with it. And his way of dealing with it was bringing home his current ladies in the hopes of catching your attention. If you see him with another woman, maybe your jealous would remind you of your feelings for him. That tactic didn't work and only gained him disapproving looks from his twin. He stopped when it was clear your heart eyes weren't straying from Bucky.

Evident that he wasn't going to win you back, Pietro's disbelief curdled to jealousy.

Words weren't enough to bring him to his senses; none in English or Sokovian reached his ears. Exhausted from trying to speak reason to him, Wanda stops all together. Perhaps her brother needed to fall on his ass to wake up.

You weren't blind to Pietro's spike in hostile conduct. Lately there were a few close calls between Bucky and Pietro. Bucky refused to stand for Quicksilver's attitude. Fists weren't raised- not yet. But if looks could kill, both would be incinerated.

Unable to ignore Pietro at Headquarters, you and Bucky take the plunge and buy an apartment together and move out of the superhero facility all together. The apartment complex was still relatively close to headquarters; mainly housing other staff that worked out of there.

Just because you removed yourselves, you were still Avengers and required to attend functions for different movie fundraisers or anything else that had you in hair and make-up for two hours. It paid off to watch Bucky's mouth near drop at the sight of you. This once-assassin who has blood on his hands truly did something to you when he wore a sharp suit. Seams that are streamline and highlight his broad shoulders. Even his waist was deliciously framed. You wanted to hop on him and wrap your legs around that sinfully sexy waist.

Alas, neither you or Bucky could just continue to stand there drooling over the other.

"Wipe your chin, Barnes." Natasha teases as she passes by. To you she shoots a lively smile. "Come on you two. Free booze and food await us."

Pietro had already found the said free booze; ignoring the free food part. He was obligated to attend the gala, agreed to it months ago. If he backed out now, everyone else would have his ass over the fire.

Though he felt like maybe it would have been better had he just said fuck it and stayed home. Especially when you and Bucky walk in looking like the perfect couple. Cameras went off yet people kept a respectful distance from the two of you. You basically had your own guard dog in the form of the Winter Soldier. He towers over you in a way that told others to back off; a protective hand holding onto your's. Both of you are quite the sight standing next to Wanda and Vision. Wanda happily hugs you, her words lost to the loud background music.

He can't take his eyes off of you.

Alcohol warming his system, Pietro downed glass after glass. There was a momentary warmth he felt inside of him before he caught sight of you again.

Hating seeing the two of you together, Pietro spirals in his own head. Plenty of pretty girls around him, all he could focus on was you and the fact that you were hanging off the arm of a murderer. Everyone seemed to have so quickly forgotten that this man killed Howard and Maria Stark.

The moment you unlatched yourself from Bucky's side to go to the bar, Pietro descent upon you.

Your heightened senses barely register the high velocity sound that you associated with Quicksilver. Half a step back was all you were able to make before you heard his husky voice "You find killers sexy?"

His question rakes claw marks against your mind. "What?"

A mocking laugh puffs out of him and he rolls his eyes over in Bucky's direction. "The Winter Soldier. You like the fact that he's murdered innocent people?"

On edge, you notice in your periphery how people were starting to turn to look your way. The volume of Pietro's voice was gradually starting to rise and draw onlookers.

Flushing and attempting to retain your composure, you keep your shoulders back confidently. “Looks like you’ve had too much to drink.” Your eyes search the crowd for Wanda so that she could take him home before he said or did anything he’d regret later. You couldn’t see her or her floating man among the many bobbing heads. Even unable to find Bucky despite his stature.

“Deflecting the question, I see.” Pietro smugly smirks at you; a sway in the step that he took forward. “Shall I raise my voice so you can hear better?”

You narrow your eyes into deadly slits as you squint at him. He was clearly not in his right mind. “What do you want, Pietro?” What was this sudden change in him about? The moment your relationship became public knowledge, Pietro had been pissy ever since. He was the one who rejected you. The one who told you that you shouldn't date because you're coworkers. He had no right to be jealous.

Bucky suggested a few weeks ago that Pietro may still be interested in you. Proposed that his peaked interest must have been from seeing you and Bucky together. At the time you laughed it off. A corner of your mind was screaming at you to listen to him.

Not appreciating how closely he leaned into you, Pietro snarls "That guy has taken numerous, innocent lives. How could you fuck someone with that kind of blood on their hands?" Now you were sure more and more people were pulling out their phones and recording to send to whatever social media platform.

Heat rises off of your cheeks as they blare like alarms. You felt your body tremble not because you were afraid, no, you tremble under the weight of your own fury. Your powers rattled the bars of the cage you kept it in. Clenching down hard against your back teeth with the effort to keep them at bay.

"You know why he did those terrible things. It wasn't him." Growling softly you try desperately to keep a semblance of a calm tone. You were never the type to show your anger. The public might turn against you if they see you break from Pietro's cruel words. Even the bits you were letting slip was enough for your audience to know you were beyond furious. "He was under HYDRA mind control. You of all people should understand the ways HYDRA implements their tools of pain." It wasn't working.

You needed Bucky before you really snapped your last strand of patience.

At least Pietro had enough sense to take a step away from you. In his drunken stupor, he hadn't noticed the crowd. Dozens of people holding up their smartphones, a few reporters who were allowed in were snapping bright pictures. That's when he saw Bucky and Wanda toward him.

Wanda uses her power to wrap him up in scarlet bindings and drag him to where she stood at the cusp of the crowd. She spits something out in Sokovian toward him, motioning for Bucky to go to your side and get you out of there. He looked more ready to rip Pietro apart but valued your wellbeing over all else and easily strode to you.

He slings a protective arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his side in an attempt to keep you out of the sight of cameras.

Those involved were taken back to Avengers HQ so the situation could be straightened out. That is, after Fury was done yelling at everyone for how they acted at what was supposed to be an extravagant gala. Admonished how you and Pietro were acting like dramatic high schoolers with your stunt and how this would definitely tarnish the reputation of earth's mightiest heroes. Pietro was still as drunk as a skunk, hissing at everyone who tried to get near him. Only being held back by Wanda who was still yelling at him in Sokovian. As everyone argued back and forth, only you and Bucky remained quiet.

A small upside could be found. Though it was quite the public altercation, popularity for you and Bucky as a couple sky rocketed. Within the hours of it happening, many social media websites exploded with praise at how you defended your man.

That news wasn't enough to make anyone happy at the moment.

Seeing that nothing would be resolved with such bickering, Bucky clears his throat to draw everyone's attention to him. "May I get a word with Pietro alone?"

Fury doesn't look like he wants to allow it. He was assured though that if anything were to happen, Bucky would be able to stand on his own and fend off an angry Pietro. His single dark eye roves around the room before conceding to Bucky's request.

Motive unclear, you arch a brow in his direction. He just offers you a smile and leans toward you to say "It'll be alright. Jus' wanna talk to him."

"I've seen you 'just talk' to people before." You remind him trying to keep your voice stern. "Don't make things worse. Okay?"

"Yes ma'am." That smirk of his will be the death of you, you just know it. There's a silent exchange between you and Wanda who finally relinquishes her scarlet restraints on her twin brother. Pietro staggers without the additional support that held him up.

"Fifteen minutes. Cameras are rolling." Fury warns as he escorts the others out.

Comfortably strolling forward, Bucky pulls out one of the conference chairs that had been entirely ignored. "Take a seat, Maximoff." Immediately there's a snarl curling Pietro's lips until Bucky rolls his eyes. "Or stand. Doesn't matter I guess. Just, listen to me for a moment."

Inebriated individuals don't understand reason, too caught up in their own tilted perception. He wants to do anything else but listen to Bucky prattle on about how he needs to back off of you. That you belonged to him now and how he wouldn't tolerate Pietro's pursuit of you.

Luck appeared to be on Bucky's side for the alcohol was wearing off of Pietro as he started to lose his steam and reluctantly slink down into the chair opposite Bucky's. His dark eyes hold steady onto the metal armed man. Remembering all too clear the stories that HYDRA would tell him and Wanda about the best operative they've ever had: the Winter Soldier. Would this legend of a man be able to hold off Pietro's speed attacks if he were to try?

Honestly he was tired of being angry. Emotions both positive and negative were siphoned out of him until there was nothing left.

Bucky could see that.

"Whatever we say here, stays here." Bucky speaks again, each word cruelly clipped. They strike Pietro like small arrows. Nothing could prepare him for the dead eyed glare that now pinned him to his chair. "Your behavior stops here. I've been more than patient. Held my tongue and my fist when I wanted to knock some sense into you. I didn't, for her sake since she didn't want to cause any trouble among the team. But you're spoiled brat act can't be tolerated anymore. You embarrassed all of us at the gala and made the Avengers look like fools."

His metal hand curls its fingers inwards toward his palm before releasing; an attempt to calm himself before his tone became too heated.

Pietro waits for any sign of movement for Bucky as the larger man deeply inhales. Finally, Bucky's eyes flick back up to him. "I get it."

With a heavy tongue, Pietro croaks out "Get what?"

"I know why and what has fueled your actions. Underneath it all you may have possibly loved her. You're upset that you lost your chance with her. It sucks, it has to to lose someone as amazing as her. I couldn't imagine. . ."

There's a flicker of anger at how the Winter Soldier spoke to him. Reminded Pietro of when his father would scold him as a child.

Bucky's voice soften when he detects the subtle twitch of Pietro's nose. He promised you that he wouldn't escalate things. "I'm sorry. I feel for you. But. . . I'm not going to be stupid enough to let her go. As long as she'll have me, she's mine."

He wanted to ignore the sincerity that warmed Bucky's words. Wanted to keep what little resentment remained inside.

Abruptly, Bucky stands from his chair; bottom of the legs scraping against the floor and startling Pietro in the process. In half a second, Pietro is up on his feet, taking a defensive position. Though his movements were sloppy as his perception was still muddled from his quickly consumed drinks.

Whatever camaraderie had been built between them in those short minutes of Bucky talking was gone. Back were those assassin sharp eyes. "If you upset her one more time, it won't be me you'll have to deal with. It will be the Winter Soldier coming after you. And I can guarantee not even your speed will be able to stop that monster."

"I told you."

He didn't want to hear it from Wanda right now. Damn her for always being right. Right now he just wanted to forget how he made such an ass of himself in front of so many people. When he wasn't trying to fend off his massive hangover migraine he was scrolling through social media, coming upon videos of how he spat in your face saying all sorts of cruel and vindictive things to you. So many mean comments slandering Quicksilver and adoring the hero couple.

In an attempt to drown out Wanda, Pietro grabs his pillow and lays it over his head.

That wouldn't stop her as she was on the war path. He'd hurt her best friend.

Red tendrils of her power rip his pillow off of his head. Pietro hisses in response and whips his head to narrow his eyes in her direction. "You're going to apologize to her. Because if you don't and pull this kind of shit again, Bucky is going to kill you and I won't be able to stop him. You're an idiot for not realizing how protective he is of her." She mumbles something about how lucky he was that Bucky hadn't smashed his face in the conference room during their private chat.

Quiet for a moment, Pietro sits up and leans his back against the bed's headboard. "I know. . . I know I've fucked everything up. I just. . ."

Wanda still has her arms crossed in front of her chest, posture vibrating with the need to throttle her twin. The frostiness in her expression slackens though at Pietro finally admitting that he was in the wrong. Not like she got satisfaction out of it. It pained her watching her brother act like a total dick head toward her best friend. It wasn't long ago that she thought you and Pietro would make a nice couple.

He sighs and runs a hand through his ash blonde hair, repeating "I've fucked everything up."

"At least you're owning up to it." quietly points out Wanda.

Time was necessary for all wounds to heal. That applied toward the ones Pietro had caused. He gave you space for two days before he came up to you to ask for a private word; promising he'd behave and that he just wanted to apologize for everything. Even told you about what Bucky had said to him.

You knew he told the truth because his face was the definition of genuine remorse and repentance.

For most of his speech he looked at his hands, but when he dared to glance up at you Pietro would hold your gaze. His earnestness brimming in his blue eyes. For so long they had been darkened by his discontent. Now they remind you of the pretty bright hue they used to be.

After a moment of silence, Pietro hesitantly asks "Are you happy with him? Truly?"

"I am. I've never been this happy in my entire life. He makes me happy." A bright smile flourishes on your face. "I love him."

Pietro nods.

"Hey, even if things didn't work out romantically with us doesn't mean I don't want to be friends with you. I do. We had fun as friends." You bump him with your elbow.

A wisp of a smile beckons at his lips but couldn't quite get all the way there. "I'd like that. Eventually. . ."

"Eventually." You repeat in agreement.

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dreamcubed · 2 years

Text

king of my heart | mattheo riddle x reader

song; king of my heart [taylor swift] pairing; duke!mattheo riddle x baron's daughter!fem!bookworm!reader genre; arranged marriage, fluff, angst, hurt comfort, s2l word count; 11,2k timeline; bridgerton au warnings; minor character death, talk of death, minor character terminal illness, minor character severe injury (involving blood), abusive parents (verbal, neglect, vaguely implied physical), patriarchal gender roles, misogyny, implied ptsd, trauma-related nightmares (nothing graphic), verbal conflict summary; your refusal of marriage led your father to relinquish permission for you to choose your own husband, allowing him to make the decision himself and ensure the most status and wealth possible. the problem? the man he chose for you was closed off and arrogant

this is my longest oneshot yet so buckle yourself up!

masterlist

"i made up my mind, i'm better off being alone."

————————————————

Your father hadn't been pleased with you the last couple of years, as you had refused to attend the many balls of the engagement season. Marriage was not within your interests, no, your interests were with the shelves upon shelves of books in your family estate's library.

Of course, that did not matter to Baron D/N, as in his mind a daughter should only be at home until she is of marrying age, at which point she moves to her husband's estate. You despised the patriarchal traditions of your society, but because of those very same traditions, you could do little to change the matter.

"Y/N," he spoke to you at dinner one night, sat far away from you on the industrial-sized table, "Due to your refusal to find a husband, I have had no choice but to find one for you."

Your eyes snapped up to him in shock, and you felt the anger in your fingers as they clutched your cutlery tightly.

"Do not develop an attitude with me," he said, "I have been more than generous the last few years in allowing you to find your own match. You have no one but yourself to blame for refusing attendance at the balls of betrothal season."

"Why should I have to marry?"

"You are twenty years old. It is time you moved on from the L/N estate and last name."

"But why?"

"Because it is expected of you as a baron's daughter," he breathed a deep and angry sigh, "You will not bring shame on to this family."

"What about what I want?"

That is when your mother, the baroness, spoke up, "This is not a negotiation. A husband has been found for you, and- thanking the Lord above us- he is of a higher status than our family."

While your family held title as barons, it was still the second lowest aristocratic title - only two pegs above commoner. It allowed you luxuries such as a large home, servants, and respect, but the chances of you marrying into a higher status were often low. Your mother had come from a titleless family, but one that held a lot of wealth. It had been a blessing to her family to be invited to the prestigious engagement balls, where she met your father.

"He will be dining here tomorrow with his mother. A gown has been prepared for you for the occasion."

You knew there was no hope for protest, so instead asked, through gritted teeth, "What is his name?"

"Mattheo Riddle," your father replied, "The only son of Duke Thomas of Slytherin."

Surprise rippled within you: how had your parents persuaded someone of such high status to marry you? You wouldn't even inherit the title of baroness, as although you had no brothers, you were not the eldest child. Your oldest sister was the only daughter who would continue to live at home, with her husband who would become the baron.

"It was both fortunate and unfortunate timing," your father answered your question without you even speaking it out loud, "Much like yourself, Mattheo Riddle refuses to attend the betrothal balls, but he has finally been persuaded into marriage under his father's wishes."

"Duke Thomas is to pass soon," your mother continued for him, "His final wish before he parts is to see his only son married. It just so happened that your father wrote to him just after Mattheo had agreed to wed, and Duke Thomas jumped at the opportunity, despite our lower status."

"I did not expect anything to come of writing to him, of course," Baron D/N said, "I was merely trying my luck. Since he agreed so quickly, one can only assume that he does not have long left - not long enough to see his son through a betrothal season, at the very least."

You nodded, staring down at your plate.

Your worst fear had come to fruition.

***

"Stand straight, Y/N," your mother spoke harshly to you, as you stood in the entrance lobby of your house in a navy blue gown and a much-too-tight corset. Beside her stood your father, matching the sage green colour scheme your mother was adorning.

The grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs informed you that Mattheo and Duchess Isabella's arrival was imminent. On cue, the knocker of the front door echoed twice throughout the walls and ceilings of the estate, and a servant of yours rushed forward to let the guests in.

You immediately fell into a curtsy alongside your mother, while your father took a bow. A handful of what appeared to be bodyguards of some kind stood either side of the mother and her son, of whom were dressed grandly in dark green. You took the moment to take in Mattheo's appearance as, after all, he was to be your husband. He was taller than you (and looked somewhat older as well), with brown hair and a strong jaw, paired with dazzling yet cold eyes.

"Your graces," your father spoke, "It is an honour to host you in our humble home."

Duchess Isabella gave the slightest of curtsies, before she said, "The honour is all ours, Lord Bombast."

"May I introduce you to my wife, Baroness M/N, and my daughter, Y/N."

You curtsied again as the woman smiled gently at you.

"Then may I introduce you to my son, Mattheo, soon to be Duke of Slytherin."

The man stepped towards you first, and bowed as he took your hand in his and kissed the back of it, rising as he said his first words to you, "It is an honour to make your acquaintance, my Lady."

"Likewise, your grace."

Your party soon progressed into the dining hall, where you sat opposite Mattheo. You remained silent as your parents engaged in conversation.

"Yes, it is simply awful," Isabella said, "He was so worried that he would not live to see Mattheo wed, which is why he was simply ecstatic to receive your offer. He sends his utmost apologies for not being able to attend, of course."

"We completely understand," your mother replied, "Trust me, we place no blame on him for his absence."

"In an ideal world, he would have liked to see Mattheo through betrothal season - he has always believed in the course of natural love - but that is a tedious process and one he likely would not live til the end of. So few people follow the route of arranged marriages these days, so he really was rather glum. Your letter lifted his spirits immensely."

"I am glad for that," your father said, "I hope that his worries can rest now."

"They surely can," Isabella sighed, "Although I am saddened that it took Thomas being on his deathbed for Mattheo to finally agree to marriage."

You observed as Mattheo remained unreactive to the situation, and couldn't help but ponder what married life would be like with him. Would he allow you to indulge in your book obsession? Or would he expect you to fill the traditional role expected of a woman? It was terrifying to you, that this man held the power to take away your one true passion.

"Our daughter has been reluctant to marry also," your father said, "In the end, I had to make an overriding decision."

"How come?" Isabella looked in your direction, expecting you to answer.

Your mother quickly cut in before you could speak, "She has been pre-occupied with her love of literature, which we can hopefully leave to rest now."

"So you are an educated woman, Miss Y/N?"

You nodded, "I never wish to leave it to rest," you side-eyed your mother, much to her frustration.

Isabella hummed, "I do enjoy a good piece of literature from time to time, I think it is vital to have a passion for something in life."

"Where do your passions lie?" you couldn't help but ask.

"I adore art," she beamed at you, "You shall see how grand my collection is once you move to the estate- you needn't worry, of course, I shan't be there often. I plan to spend most of my time in the country house once Thomas passes."

"A painless passing I hope it is."

She smiled sincerely at you.

***

Once the meal concluded, your mother elected to give the Riddles a tour of the house, which caused you to fall to the back of the group alongside Mattheo.

"I don't know what you expect out of this union," he said to you suddenly, his tone harsh, "But I am not here for a relationship with you. I am here to allow my father to rest in peace, nothing more, nothing less."

"If you shall leave me to my literature, then I shall be more than content," you said in response, assuming a cold tone as well.

Evidently, you took him a bit by surprise, but he nodded nonetheless. "Very well then."

Perhaps the marriage would not be such a bad one, if Mattheo was to leave you to your own devices and allow you to continue your life of a bookworm. In fact, it may be an upgrade, as you would no longer have to deal with your parents' nagging about it being an unwomanly hobby.

It was then that your parents turned around to engage in conversation with Mattheo, leaving Isabella to take your side as she gave you a warm smile.

"My son may seem cold, but I promise you that he has a kind heart," she said quietly, so as not to be overheard, "I am somewhat worried about how he would treat his wife, though you seem very capable of standing your ground."

"I would like to think I am, your grace."

"You are to be my daughter-in-law, don't worry yourself with such formalities. Refer to me as Isabella."

"If- if you're sure."

"I certainly am," she sighed, "I think my son needs a wife who isn't afraid to argue with him, as controversial as that may be."

You looked forward to the back of Mattheo's head. "Is that so?"

She hummed, "He's too arrogant for his own good, though I love him so."

"I will do my best to be the wife he needs, Isabella."

"I have no doubt you will, Y/N."

***

The wedding was the following week: it also served as another betrothal event for the masses, as it was currently betrothal season. That element was under Duke Thomas' request, as he wished to see the magic of young love flourish once more before he died - his words.

Despite never wanting to get married, you had thought far enough along the idea to know that you would have preferred a smaller ceremony. You hadn't attended a ball since you were very young, and to be the centre of attention at such a glamorous event was very overwhelming. All eyes were on you as your father led you down the aisle, past the rows upon rows of people you hardly recognised. Your dress was suffocating, but gorgeous, being a mellow cream colour with baby blue embroideries decorating the extravagant skirt.

You felt shy with all the attention, and flicked between staring at the lilies in your hands and Mattheo who was stood at the altar. You hadn't seen him since you first met, but his expression was as cold as ever.

When you reached the step, your father guided your hand to Mattheo's extended one, and said something to him about trust and protection: you weren't really paying attention, as you were alarmingly aware of the nerves within you. Your body's auto-pilot was the only thing getting you to move to face Mattheo after handing the bouquet to your maid of honour - one of your sisters.

As the priest began the introductions, you reluctantly looked up at Mattheo to see that while his eyes were on your complexion, his mind was not. That all too familiar glaze of being zoned out was settled on him, and you couldn't help realise you must have looked the same. His hands felt cold in yours, but perhaps that was only because you were so hot from the anxiety. Even with all the sensations swirling inside of you, you couldn't help but appreciate how gorgeous your husband was; perhaps under different circumstances, you wouldn't have minded being courted by him.

No, those were silly thoughts. You held no desire for marriage.

"Miss Y/N L/N, do you take his grace Mattheo Riddle to be your lawfully wedded husband, and promise to care for him, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

"I do," you said as unwaveringly as you could, watching as Mattheo took the smaller gold ring from the velvet cushion presented by the ring bearer, and pushed it on to your left ring finger.

"And your grace Mattheo Riddle, do you take Miss Y/N L/N to be your lawfully wedded wife, and promise to care for her, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

"I do," he said monotonously, and with a shaking hand you then picked up the larger gold ring, and put it on his finger - praying to God that he didn't notice your nerves.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!"

You chewed on your lip, looking up at Mattheo who appeared to be unmoving. For a moment, you thought he wouldn't bother with the final touch of a wedding ceremony, but then his lips were on yours. It was chaste, and only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough for you to get butterflies, and then hate yourself for that.

Cheers then erupted from the audience, and you both turned to face them hand-in-hand, providing a curtsy on your end and a bow on his for them all to see. In the corner of your eye, you saw your mother and father smiling- for once- proudly at you from their seats. Next to them sat the Duke, looking as ghastly pale as ever, with the Duchess sat by his side. In spite of his illness, Duke Thomas looked incredibly happy, and that was the one upside to all of this, you supposed: you had fulfilled someone's dying wish, and surely that was a good deed.

As the progression from the church to the Slytherin estate began, you were faced with many rushing to you to offer their congratulations. You thanked them politely, finding yourself fiddling with your new gold wedding ring as a nervous habit. It appeared appropriate to attach yourself to Mattheo's arm as you walked, and so you did just that. Even if he wanted to, he made no objections, and remained appallingly aloof to everyone that spoke to him.

You at least had the decency to be kind to people, despite the fact you did not want to be there just as much as him.

When you reached the Riddle estate, you were shocked to see how large it was. You had never taken for granted the considerable size of your own home, but in comparison to the Duke's it was nothing but a shed in the back garden.

In the dining hall, the meal began after Duke Thomas provided a toast, one that Duchess Isabella had to help him out with due to his poor health. They were both still in good spirits, even after your father provided a somewhat backhanded toast about you a few moments later. Still, his words reminded you that you would no longer have to live with him and his distaste for your interests.

The library in this estate must be enormous.

After the food was finished, guests began to be ushered to the ballroom where a live band was playing elegant music on their violins and flutes. As per tradition, you engaged in a dance with your new husband, unsure of where to rest your eyes. You landed on his own eyes, as that would be where the audience would expect you to be looking. He returned your gaze with a ferocity that you didn't expect, and it was only then you realised how firmly his hand gripped the small of your back.

Soon other couples joined the dance floor, allowing the two of you to segue off. The peace didn't last long, of course, as everyone was interested in speaking with you both. By this point, your social battery was drained, so you let Mattheo do the talking even though his demeanour was cold and unwelcoming. It was evident how highly he thought of himself just in the way he spoke.

You remained attached to his side, feeling exhaustion all over your body, as he worked his way through the number of eager guests. You had forgotten how shy you got when you were socially tired, and subconsciously found yourself leaning into Mattheo for comfort.

Eventually, you were able to disappear from Mattheo's side and from the ball to sit outside in the gardens, where the night breeze gently tickled your cheeks. The corset was as tight as ever, but you finally felt as if you could breathe somewhat as you admired the starry night sky.

"May I join you?" a feminine voice spoke from your side.

You were a little startled, but looked in the voice's direction to see a woman who appeared to be almost a female version of Mattheo.

"I am Countess Delphini of Oslashire," she curtsied at you, "Mattheo's sister."

You stood up to curtsy back, and went to introduce yourself despite her evidently knowing who you were, but then realised you didn't know what to say for yourself anymore.

Sensing your confusion, she smiled, "It'll only be a short time before you're Duchess Y/N of Slytherin, but for now I suppose you should just say future duchess."

You nodded at her, sitting back down on the bench and gesturing for her to do the same. "Has he always been cold to everyone?" you asked.

She chuckled, "Yes, I suppose he has. He never much liked what was expected of him and grew resentful because of that."

"I can't say I'm all that different in that sense."

"No? Well, then, one can hope that makes you a good match."

You hummed.

"I heard from Mother that you have a love for literature. Is that so?"

"It is. I surely hope Mattheo shan't make me give it up."

"I doubt it. He never was one to care for tradition."

You had obviously already discussed this with Mattheo himself, but you didn't know what else to talk about with Delphini.

"You have your consummation shortly, though," she said, "And while I doubt Mattheo cares for it, everybody else does."

You nodded, "I am aware. The bedding ceremony is just for tonight, though."

"I wish you all the best in your marriage, of course," she gave you a genuine smile yet again, "Write to me if he causes you any trouble - as his big sister I'm sure I can talk some sense into him."

"Thank you, Lady Courtesy."

"Delphini," she corrected, "You're my sister now."

You smiled, "Thank you, Delphini."

***

Delphini had been correct about Mattheo's stance on the bedding ceremony, but he still made the effort to keep up appearances...

...by providing a vial of animal blood to make it look as if you successfully consummated.

You did indeed share the bed that night, but it was in complete silence and as far away from each other as you could manage. When you arose the next day, the servants rushed in and were satisfied to see the blood stain left directly on the centre of the bed, and hurried off to share the news.

Shortly after you were dressed, Isabella knocked on the door with a face wrinkled with worry, and you and Mattheo could instantly recognise the problem. Mattheo rushed out of the door, while you stayed idly behind with the duchess.

"Come," she said, "He will want to see you, you're his daughter-in-law."

You nodded, and followed her to the master bed chamber. When you reached the grand double-door, Mattheo was just exiting, and looked up at his mother solemnly, yet ignored you. Delphini sat on a red velvet bench along the hallway, her eyes cast down.

"He requested Y/N's presence," he said, his voice sounding hollow.

Dumbstruck, you approached the door and tapped twice on the wood. The faintest of "you may enter"s came in response, allowing you to enter the room.

Duke Thomas was sat in bed, in his nightwear, visibly much paler and more exhausted than he was the day prior. Cushions behind him propped up his weak form and a table for in-bed eating was set to the side with half-eaten soup in a fine china bowl. Despite his grave illness, he gave you a small smile.

"I am relieved to hear that your consummation was a blessed one," he said in a gravelly voice, followed by an awful coughing fit, to which you hurried to his side to hand him the glass of water from his bedside table.

"Please, drink, your grace."

He accepted the water, and struggled to swallow some of it. "You are a kind soul," he eventually spoke again, "It is comforting to know my son is in capable hands."

"I will do my best to care for him... and our future children, your grace."

"I have no doubt," he sighed, "I wish that I did not have to leave my dear Isabella and children so soon, but it is the Lord's decision. He knows what he is doing."

"May your journey to heaven be a peaceful one."

He hummed ever so faintly, just as another coughing fit began. This time, he refused the water. "My death is almost upon me. Please, I am entrusting you with Mattheo. As the next duchess, you must keep him in line as Isabella has done so for me."

"Of course, your grace."

"That is all I had to say... I would like to spend my last moments with my wife, so if you could please fetch her for me, I would be eternally grateful."

"Right away, your grace, it has been a pleasure to speak with you."

"You as well."

You quickly exited the chamber, and looked towards Isabella who was sat next to Mattheo and Delphini on the bench. They were all holding hands with one another, and while the duchess and her daughter showed signs of tears, Mattheo did not.

"He requested his wife in his final moments," you bowed your head, as Isabella sniffed and stood up hurriedly.

"Thank you, my darling," she touched your cheek softly, which made you freeze. Her touch was gone as quickly as it came, but you remained glued to your spot, relishing in the brief feeling of being genuinely cared for.

Delphini graced you with a precious smile when you finally looked in the siblings' direction, and shifted away from Mattheo to gesture for you to sit in between them.

Out of politeness, you obliged, unsure of how to act. You couldn't help but be consumed with sadness also, as that was the closest you had ever gotten to witnessing death, and it pained you. However, you did not want to make the situation about you, and so simply allowed Delphini to take your hand when she sought comfort.

As for Mattheo, you did not know what to do, or what to say. He was not looking at you: his gaze was trained ahead of him as if he were boring holes into a particular spot on the wallpaper opposite.

You don't know how long it was before Isabella rejoined the three of you, composed, yet evidently heartbroken - but it simultaneously felt as if it had been a while, and mere seconds. Delphini rushed to bring her mother into her arms, while Mattheo stood up with a deep breath. You stood beside him, not touching him in anyway, but still close.

"My condolences, my Lord," you said softly.

He did not reply. His eyes remained trained on to the same spot as before.

You knew better than to say anything more to him, and as you turned your gaze back to the sobbing mother and daughter, a thought settled in you: you were now the Duchess of Slytherin.

***

After the funeral, Delphini returned to Oslashire with her husband, and - true to her word - Isabella retreated to the countryside. Mattheo then moved into the master bed chamber, leaving you behind in his old room as neither of you held the desire to share with the other. The several nights that you had been forced to share a bed were awkward, silent, and socially distanced.

You soon found solace in the depths of the substantial Slytherin estate library, where you were only ever bothered by maids dusting the shelves. The large room - much bigger than the one back home - was kitted with plush sofas and armchairs, along with darkened oak desks. You felt at home in the space, and often didn't bother to wear more than a simple plain frock there, with no corset. It was certainly unbecoming of a duchess, but who was there to see you?

Mattheo had a very busy schedule after his father's passing, likely due to having to re-establish allyships and connections. You didn't know for sure, however, as the two of you seldom talked. To keep appearances up for the servants who liked to gossip, you would eat your supper together in the evenings and engage in emotionless small talk, but that was it. The subject matter never ventured further than a brief synopsis of your day's activities, and comments on the quality of the food.

It was obvious he wasn't paying attention when you told him of the new books that you had begun reading, but it wasn't like you were listening either when he spoke about the titleholders he had met with. You would be a hypocrite to be offended by it.

Though, you soon found yourself standing outside of Mattheo's work study, as you had a request itching at the back of your mind. You wanted to begin writing your own novel: to do that you would prefer a typewriter over a quill. Perhaps he would grant you what you wished, after all, it was the first thing you were asking of him.

You nervously tapped on the door three times, praying that your maid had been correct about his whereabouts and you weren't standing outside of an empty office like a fool.

"Who is it?"

"Your wife, my Lord."

You could hear the surprise in his tone when he said, "You may enter."

You complied, and upon entering felt embarrassed about the warmth his appearance left in you. He had removed his blazer, and was simply in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. You would be a fool to say he was unattractive.

"What is it you want?" he looked up from the layers of parchment on his desk, his eyes locking with yours. You noticed the black typewriter sat on the edge of the desk and allowed your gaze to linger on it, which he noticed.

"I have a request."

"And what would that be?" his eyes were back on his work.

"I would like a typewriter."

He stilled the movement of his quill, looking at you again with curiosity in his eyes. It was the most emotion you had ever witnessed on him. "What for?"

"I wish to write my own novel, my Lord."

The next few seconds of silence felt suffocating to you as you couldn't at all read Mattheo's expression.

"I understand it is not very womanly of me, however nothing in our marriage is traditional so I concluded that it wouldn't be an outrageous request."

"Very well," he said eventually, "I will arrange a typewriter for you."

"Thank you," you curtsied out of gratitude, "I will not make waste of it."

He watched curiously as you then excused yourself from the office, as he found you a rather peculiar woman. Truth is, you were not what he had expected out of an arranged marriage: he had expected your family to only care for status and wealth, which may be true of your parents, but not you. No, you didn't care for the fact you were the duchess of a large area, or for the hundreds of expensive clothing you could afford: you only cared for literature, which didn't cost him a penny thanks to the size of his library. The typewriter would be the first charge put to your name since you wed.

Yes, you were peculiar, and you fascinated him.

***

There was a typewriter sat on one of the desks in the library the following afternoon, which you saw upon returning from lunch. You hadn't expected your request to be filled so efficiently, but you were far from disappointed: only excitement consumed you as you hurried to take a seat in front of it.

An envelope was laid across the keyboard, with the official Riddle family wax seal keeping it shut. With a frown, you opened it, to see it was a short note from what appeared to be your husband.

I wish to be the first to read your novel once it is completed. - M.R.

You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips as you felt that familiar warmth inside you yet again. Your parents would have laughed at you if you had even hinted at the idea of wanting to be an author, but Mattheo - of whom lovelessly married you to please his father - seemed genuinely supportive of your goals.

Perhaps it was arrogance that made him think he had the right to read it first, but that was a thought you quickly pushed aside. You didn't care if it was.

It took you awhile to get used to the feel of typing on a typewriter, and many times did you have to remove the paper and white-out your mistakes, but you couldn't be more thrilled. The ideas swirling in your head were taking life on the pages before you, and you found yourself almost halfway through the outline of the plot you had created by the time a week had passed.

Friday afternoon was when Mattheo entered the library with somebody by his side, someone of whom you didn't recognise. You looked up from your work curiously, as your husband never ventured to this part of the estate.

"This is my library," he said to the man, who had platinum blond hair and a lean figure, "My copy of Dawns Before Dusks should be in here somewhere."

"What purpose is that maid serving?" the man jabbed his thumb in your direction.

You were mildly offended, but then again, you were dressed in relatively casual clothing, and (like usual) you lacked a corset.

Mattheo looked at you, and then looked back at the man, "That is my wife, Duchess Y/N of Slytherin."

One would have thought that the man would be taken aback and started muttering apologies, but all he said was, "She is not dressed like a duchess."

"My Lady," Mattheo said to you, ignoring the man. Your attention was caught in further surprise: he rarely addressed you in such a manner. "This is Earl Draco of Ranibury, an old friend of mine. He spends a lot of time abroad, so he was unable to attend the wedding."

"Pleasure," Draco looked you up and down, which made you feel small.

Mattheo took his inner cheek between his tongue. He didn't know why he felt so defensive of you, but how dare someone of a lesser rank not bow to you, his wife?

In order to ease the tension, you stood up and asked, "What was it you were looking for? I know the library quite well, I am sure I can be of service."

"Dawns Before Dusks by Andrew Philips," your husband replied.

You nodded, vaguely remembering running your fingers over it as you searched the shelves not too long ago.

"What is a woman doing behind a typewriter?" you heard Draco ask as you moved to the part of the library you remembered seeing the book in.

"She is writing a novel," Mattheo replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, which in your society, it was not.

"She should be birthing children, not writing silly little romances."

Your fist tightened. You weren't writing a romance.

"What my wife does is none of your concern, Lord Courtesy."

You watched as Draco's eyes narrowed through the bookshelves.

"My apologies, your grace."

Your fingers skimmed over the requested book, and you pulled it off the shelf before finding your way to where they stood.

"Here it is, my Lord," you handed it to your husband, purposefully ignoring Draco.

"Thank you, my Lady," he gave you the sincerest smile you had ever received from him, and the way you looked as a result must have been obviously flustered. "Please return this when you have finished reading it," he then said to Draco, "I hope you enjoy it."

"I hope so too."

You were glad to see Earl Draco of Ranibury depart.

***

At dinner that evening, you were more than shocked to hear words of apologies exit your cold-hearted husband's mouth.

"I must apologise for Draco's behaviour earlier. He had no right to disrespect you in such a manner."

"It's- it's alright."

"It most certainly is not, no wife of mine should be-" he stopped himself as his tone became angrier and harsh, which caught you off guard.

Was he defensive over you? How come?

"Nonetheless," he cleared his throat, his voice calmer, "I will not be having him visit anytime soon."

You nodded, "Thank you, my Lord." Admittedly, Earl Draco had put you on edge.

"But on the subject of visits, we are visiting your parents' estate for dinner tomorrow evening. They invited us."

You felt your breath hitch. You had been so utterly relaxed without your parents breathing down the back of your neck whenever you dared to open a book, to the point you had somewhat forgotten of their existence.

Mattheo observed your reaction carefully, but he didn't say anything, instead choosing to continue with the meal in silence.

***

"Welcome back to our humble estate, Mattheo," your mother said to your husband in the entrance hall, completely disregarding your presence. You hadn't missed the cold and unloving walls that once again surrounded you.

"Your grace," your husband passive aggressively corrected, "That is your grace to you, Lady Bombast."

Your mother's face contorted into an expression of mild horror, but she quickly composed herself and said, "I was assuming that as your mother-in-law such formalities would be wavered."

"Well, you assumed wrong," Mattheo held his arm out for you to take, to which you obliged.

"I trust my daughter isn't giving you too much trouble," she continued, sparing a harsh glance in your direction.

Subconsciously, your grip tightened on Mattheo's bicep, and the action did not go unnoticed by him.

"Not in the slightest, Lady Bombast," he said, taking you by surprise with the hint of softness in his tone, "She is a pleasure to have in the house."

"Really?" had you not known your mother like you did, you wouldn't have noticed that the joking tone was feigned. However, the slither of sharpness to her voice as she said the simple word stood out to you like a glaring red warning sign: she was both shocked and horrified that your husband spoke nicely of you.

"Please, come through to the dining hall," your father interceded, having the slightest of word fumbles before adding, "Your grace."

Once all four of you were sat down for the meal, you could only chew on your goose as you listened to your parents talk about themselves for Lord knows how long. Eventually, however, the conversation was somehow steered over to you, despite how little relevance you actually had in their lives.

"One can hope that the literature habit has been put to rest," your father said, looking at Mattheo in a way that suggested it was a question.

"Why would it have been put to rest?" your husband asked in response.

"It's unbecoming of a lady, of course," your mother interjected, "This has been discussed already."

"It's hardly unbecoming to be intelligent and educated, Lady Bombast."

"For a woman it is," your father said, the touch of anger to his tone evident.

You remained silent as Mattheo straightened his back and looked towards you.

"In my family, it is seen as a virtue to have a wife or daughter of whom is intellectually capable. In fact, it is vital. What if something were to happen to me while our children were still young? My Lady Y/N would have to be in charge until the eldest is an adult. It would not do for her to be incapable of such a task."

Your parents, for once, were completely silent. Meanwhile, you couldn't stop a smile from itching to form on your face.

"Y/N has recently started writing her own novel, in fact. That is something the average man even struggles with, so perhaps it would do for you to stop speaking down to my wife, especially when she is your superior?"

"Of course, your grace, my apologies," your father eventually spoke.

Mattheo scoffed, and your eyes widened further.

"Classically stupid of a man such as yourself to apologise not to the woman you have offended, but to her husband."

You observed as your father gulped discreetly and made eye contact with you. "My apologies, Y/N."

For the first time, you decided to speak up, still feeling spiteful towards them. "Your grace," you corrected, pleased to see your father's shocked reaction, "It's your grace to you, Lord Bombast."

"Surely you don't mean that," your mother said, "We are your parents, Y/N-"

"Once you have earned the right to address me by my first name, I will allow you to do so."

You flicked your eyes to Mattheo, of whom had the vague ghost of a smirk gracing his lips as he looked at you.

***

Due to the journey between the Riddle estate and your childhood home being a long one, you and Mattheo were to stay the night at your parents'. This, of course, meant that you would be sharing a bed chamber as well as a bed, as your parents were not aware of your unusual sleeping arrangement at home.

Once you exited the large wardrobe in your night robes, you couldn't help but smile at Mattheo sat at the foot of the bed in await for his turn to change. This moment wasn't like the short period after you had just wed when the two of you shared, no, back then you wouldn't dare to look in his direction at all. In fact, you would be long asleep by the time he retired from his office, and he would be long gone by the time you awoke. You would've believed he didn't sleep in the same bed at all if it weren't for the couple of occasions you woke up in the middle of the night needing to use the toilet, to see him asleep on his side of the bed.

Now that you thought about it, you hadn't gone to bed at both the same time and place as him since the day of your wedding.

"Thank you, my Lord," you said gently, giving him a pathetically subtle curtsy, "I appreciate you defending my honour."

"You may call me Mattheo, darling."

Your stomach flipped at the nickname, and you nodded your head a little too excitedly, "Thank you, Mattheo."

"Of course," he stood up, facing you proudly, "No wife of mine should be disrespected in such a manner."

You smiled, and for a second he looked like he was going to return it, but then he disappeared into the wardrobe to get changed himself. Despite that, you didn't feel defeated in the slightest - no, you felt hopeful that this marriage might not be a loveless one, even if it took a while.

It was that night that you had a nightmare.

It was strange, really, that you had never once had a nightmare when growing up within those walls, despite your parents disregarding you every step of the way, leaving you to be raised by the servants. You had never even been a child who frequented nightmares unrelated to home life: consisting of ghouls and monsters, as was normal at a young age. No, you weren't someone to have night terrors.

Perhaps it was the fact you had lived in peace for a short while, away from the suffocation of your parents, which allowed your body to relax and leave its default defensive mode. Yes, that was it - you were off your guard when you arrived for the dinner, and no longer had an effective tolerance for everything bothersome in this estate. Suddenly, your mother's words were no longer something you were used to, and the eery cold draught that followed you around the hallways was no longer something you could ignore.

You were weakened by having experienced a peaceful life, and thus everything in your alleged home was affecting you negatively, like it had tried to do so for years.

You didn't know whether you were frustrated or relieved that you had subconsciously put down your shield.

But, right now, as you watched walls around you close in, with torn book pages flying around, you just felt scared.

"Y/N, Y/N," you heard a panicked voice say, and just like that you were pulled back into a reality where you no longer were being suffocated.

You took in a large gulp of air - ever grateful to feel the oxygen fill your lungs - and forced your eyes open. There, in your line of vision, was Mattheo's head hanging over yours, his hands gripping each of your arms.

His worried expression relaxed once he realised that you were awake, but it formed again when he saw the hot tears flooding your cheeks.

"Are you okay?" he hurriedly asked, moving his hands from your arms to the mattress either side so he could support himself better without hurting you.

That was when a sob escaped your mouth, and as your vision blurred, you lifted your arms up and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him down so he fell on top of you. You began crying into his shoulder, only mildly aware that he wasn't trying to pull away at all, instead letting you hold him. He slowly returned the embrace by dropping one hand into your hair and the other on your waist.

When your sobs eventually died down, he moved from on top of you to a seated position against the headboard, and wordlessly pulled you up with him and into his side.

"Darling, it was just a nightmare," he finally spoke.

You shook your head, "It was too real."

"No matter how real it felt, you are safe now. Safe with me."

Subconsciously, you nuzzled your head into his shoulder and felt the warmth radiating off him.

You remained in silence for a while, but eventually, you parted your lips again to make a statement that caused a switch to flip inside of Mattheo.

"I want to go home."

***

When you returned back to the Slytherin estate, it quickly became apparent that something had changed between you and Mattheo. You started spending breakfast with him as well as dinner, and occasionally he would visit you in the library.

Deep down, you wanted to share a bed with him again and feel the comfort of his presence while you slept, but never would you ask such a question. Instead, you opted to build the courage up to visit him in his work study during the day, with a book clutched in your hand.

"Your grace, his grace is very busy and does not want interruptions at this moment," one of the servants dedicated to your husband said to you, just as you reached the corridor where the work study was.

You don't know what it was inside of you that made you feel so highly of yourself, but you then said, "I am his wife, my husband's rules do not apply to me."

"Of course, your grace," the servant bowed his head, "My apologies."

You nodded at him, and proceeded to where the door you were after was.

You knocked twice.

"What is it?" a harsh tone replied - similar to that of the one he used when you first met.

Instead of replying, you slowly pushed open the door and peeked into his work space.

"Reuben, I told you not to bother-" he stopped speaking when he saw you, and his irritated expression dropped, "-oh."

You bowed your head as you fully entered the room, "My apologies for the interruption, my Lo- Mattheo."

"That's quite alright," he said, "Did you need something?"

You opened your mouth so speak, but then realised that you had no answer to his question.

Mattheo saw the book in your hand, and asked, "Is that a book recommendation for me?"

"No- yes- I-" you steadied yourself, so as to stop the slur of words, "It is a marvellous book that you should read, though I have not finished it myself yet."

He raised an eyebrow at you, wordlessly questioning your presence in his office further.

Your eyes flitted to the armchair tucked in the corner of the room and facing the desk that your husband sat at. "I was- I was..." you took a deep breath, "I was hoping I could join you in here and read while you worked."

"Oh-"

"It was a stupid idea of me, though, my utmost apologies for bothering you, my Lord," you said hurriedly, "Please don't blame Reuben - he did say no interruptions but I used my higher status to force him to let me proceed."

"Darling, if you would allow me to speak, I would like to say that you are welcome to join me in here," he gave you a smile.

And you froze. Mattheo had never truly smiled at you before. Not like that: full and genuine. Not even back in the library when Draco had been present had his smile been so warm.

"I see you had your eyes on the armchair. Feel free to take it."

You forced yourself to nod, despite your composure remaining rigid. He gave you an encouraging look, which allowed your body to slowly unfreeze and move over to the green velvet armchair. Your usual lack of a corset meant that getting comfortable on the chair was easy, and you were soon curled up with the book as if you were a cat.

Mattheo continued with his work, but allowed himself the luxury of glancing at you every now and then, admiring you caught up in your own world.

***

Of course, things were going too perfectly for too long, and you should have realised that a loving marriage with Mattheo wouldn't be an easy feat to achieve. But, to be fair, the obstacle you were faced with was neither of yours fault.

"Your grace," Reuben had said worriedly to your husband, on another day that you had elected to join him in his work study. It was getting rather late, and the sky was already darkening. "Unfortunate news from the former duchess."

Mattheo's face had immediately paled, "What is it?"

"Your mother has taken a rather substantial fall while exploring the woods surrounding your countryside estate," the servant said as quickly as he could, "She is alive - but the injury was severe and she has lost a lot of blood."

"Reuben, prepare the carriage," your husband instructed.

"Yes, your grace," Reuben bowed, and scurried out of the room.

"Mattheo-" you said gently.

"I need to be alone at this moment," he cut you off, much more harshly than he had spoken to you in a long while.

You were hurt, but stood up nonetheless, "Of course, I understand." And then you left the room.

One thing was for sure, however: you weren't letting him go to the countryside estate alone.

It became apparent that he had expected it to be a solitary journey when he was surprised to see you waiting in the entrance hall dressed in appropriate travel wear.

"My Lady, this is a journey I must make alone," he said, his tone cold.

You disguised your furthered hurt well, and shook your head. "It would be disrespectful of me not to visit my mother-in-law when she is so severely injured."

"I do not want you with me." That statement cut deep, but along with the pain came another emotion: anger.

"I will not be treated in such a way," you snapped, "I am your wife, and I am here for you no matter what."

"You hardly know me."

"Because all you do is shut me out," your anger was fizzling into upset, and he could hear that you were suppressing a sob when you said, "So, stop it. Stop it."

Mattheo stood staring at you in silence: with only the candle lamps providing light, his eyes looked darkened. You could just make out that he had his inner cheek pulled between his teeth, judging by the dent in his smooth skin that you could see through your somewhat blurry vision. Finally, he reacted to what you said, and started taking powerful strides in your direction.

Instinctively, you began backing up, but you could only move backwards so far as you soon hit the wall.

Mattheo stilled a few inches in front of you, and appeared to be glaring into your eyes with a ferocity he had only ever briefly shown you before. Sure, he had been cold and arrogant for a while, but he had never been vicious.

You were, admittedly, convinced that he was about to slap you- punch you- hit you in some way or other.

But he didn't.

Instead, his lips crashed on to yours, which caught you so off guard you let out a "hmmph" while his hands cupped your face. The kiss was chaste until you recovered from your shock and took the step to deepen it, allowing Mattheo to begin moving his lips against yours in reciprocation.

"Your grace, the carriage is rea-" Reuben's voice came to a halt as you and Mattheo quickly separated from one another, although he didn't move away from you. The servant bowed deeply, his face paled, "My apologies, your grace, I did not mean to interrupt. I simply came to inform you that the carriage is ready for departure."

"Thank you, Reuben," your husband said, although he wasn't looking at the poor servant - no, he was holding intense eye contact with you, his hand having moved to rest on the wall beside your head.

Reuben looked shocked at having been thanked, but a small grin soon settled on his face as he disappeared back outside to where the carriage presumably was. Of course, Mattheo didn't see that, as his back faced the entrance.

"You told me at the beginning of this marriage that if I left you to your literature you would be more than content, and I have done exactly that. You lied to me," his words seemed harsh, but the teasing tone woven into his voice told you otherwise.

You shrugged, letting a cheeky smile grace your features, "I blame you for making me fall in love."

Mattheo stilled entirely, and you were about to apologise for the impromptu confession, but he spoke again before you could.

"Come, we must get moving," he said, pulling away from you entirely.

You regretted dropping the L word, but at least he wasn't stopping you from going with him.

***

The journey was long: so long that you slept a significant amount of it. Mattheo was too sick with worry to drift off, but he let you lay your head in his lap as you stretched across the velvet seat.

When you woke up, the sky was a golden-orange and the sun was peeking over the horizon, glistening through the open carriage window. You pushed yourself up from Mattheo's lap as you yawned, rubbing your eyes and settling against the backrest.

"How much longer?"

"About another hour."

"Have you slept at all, my Lord?"

He shook his head, and changed the subject, "I have told you already, you don't always have to call me my Lord. Mattheo is fine."

"Right, sorry," you said, suddenly remembering what had happened not long before you left the estate, "I'm sorry for- I'm sorry for saying that back then."

"Saying what?"

"That I... that I - you know - love you."

You watched carefully as he pursed his lips. "It's fine, I- I am not angry with you. I just do not believe I am ready to say it yet."

"Don't feel obliged to say it," you added, "I wasn't expecting a return, but I want to be honest with you. That's how a healthy marriage works, right?"

"Yes, I appreciate it," he gave you a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. You knew that the sadness swimming in his irises had very little to do with you, of course.

***

The countryside estate was much smaller than the main one, but it was still larger than your childhood home. Despite its smaller size, you found it to be more appealing than any previous house you had seen, with the surrounding trees accentuating the controlled yet chaotic flower gardens surrounding the main building. There were a couple gardeners tending to the area, and they clearly had instructions to keep things homely and natural - as opposed to symmetrical and neat, like your usual place of residence.

The very second you stepped over the threshold, Mattheo hurried off in the direction of his mother's bed chamber; you decided he would want some time alone with her at first, and so took control of ordering the servants to bring your belongings inside. The only worker who came with you on the journey was the carriage driver, who was in much need of some rest.

"The master chamber is prepared for you and the duke, your grace," what appeared to be the head servant of this estate spoke.

"Oh- okay," you didn't know how to tell the servant that you slept separately, as Mattheo had taken care of those arrangements when they were first put in place. Instead, you opted to leave the subject alone for now. "What is your name?"

"Diane Higgs, your grace," she curtsied, "At your service."

"Could you prepare breakfast, Diane? We're awfully hungry after such a long journey."

Diane didn't hesitate to pass the message to the kitchens as you felt another rumble in your stomach. You also felt the desire to freshen up, but decided that you should see Isabella before then, so asked the nearest servant where her chamber was.

You knocked on the door when you reached it, and a familiar feminine voice called out, "Who is it?"

"Y/N."

"Oh, darling, come in," the kind woman replied, giving you the green light to turn the door handle and enter, "You needn't knock, Lord knows that Mattheo didn't."

You smiled abashedly, pleased to see her so chipper despite her shallowed complexion. Mattheo was sat on a chair beside the large king-size bed, holding his mother's hand in his own.

Closing the door behind you, you stepped further into the room and cautiously sat at the end of the bed, facing them both.

"How are you feeling?"

"The doctor says I am gradually improving," she sighed, "But it's still early days. The wound has been stitched up-" she gestured to her leg, which was covered by the duvet, "-so it's simply a matter of whether or not it becomes infected."

"The doctor said it was a miracle you didn't die after such blood loss," Mattheo added, "And that your weakened state could mean your body will not be able to fight even the mildest of infections."

"Ever the pessimist," Isabella dismissed him with a wave of her hand, making you crack a small smile, "You take after your father in so many ways, Mattheo."

The man in question rolled his eyes.

"Ah," the former duchess exclaimed, "I am rather hungry, perhaps we should tell the kitchens to prepare breakfast."

"I already did," you said, "I am famished myself."

"Perfect! That means it shan't be long. Normally it's ready when I wake up, but somebody here woke me up earlier than normal." She gave a teasing side-glare to her son.

"I have been worried sick about you, Mother. I couldn't wait any longer for confirmation you are alive."

Isabella chuckled, "Delphini should be here soon. She is a tad further away so it takes her longer." The last sentence was clearly said in your direction.

"Is her husband coming?" you asked.

"I doubt it, the two seldom travel long distances together. Plus, I don't believe the man particularly cares for me."

"I find that hard to believe," you said, genuinely shocked.

"Not everyone is as sweet as you, darling, my son is very lucky."

You looked at Mattheo to see his eyes were already cast on you, the faintest ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"I shall instruct the servants to deliver everybody's breakfast here," he announced, as if to distract from the subject.

Neither you nor Isabella objected to him leaving the room: part of you wanted some time alone with the woman of whom had been more of a mother figure to you than your own flesh and blood anyway.

"I hear you're writing a novel."

You looked up in surprise, "He told you?"

"Yes, very enthusiastically, too. He certainly adores you."

Your cheeks warmed at the notion. "I have actually finished it now. There are probably still many mistakes, but I have the original copy bound and ready to send to a publisher's."

"Oh, really?"

You suddenly stood up, "I brought it with me - I did promise Mattheo that he could have the first read, but I am sure he would want me to let you instead considering you are bed-bound."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course," you nodded, "I shall fetch it."

Isabella watched as you left with a full smile on her face, meeting her eyes and all.

***

Delphini arrived around lunchtime, without her husband, just as Isabella had predicted. By that point, you had spent some more time with both the former duchess and her son, before the former requested some alone time to which you obliged. That was when Mattheo gave you a tour of the grounds, occasionally giving a brief childhood story that took place in the various locations. You felt ever so slightly closer to him after each one.

It wasn't until dinner did you speak with Isabella again, and it was at the main dining table, with her having had a significant amount of aide to get down there.

"The novel is quite marvellous, Y/N," she said, "I couldn't put it down! I'm not finished yet, though, so no spoilers."

"What are you reading?" Delphini asked.

"Y/N's novel."

Mattheo looked up at you with widened eyes from across the table, and you couldn't help but smile when you said, "I know I promised you the first read, Mattheo, but I figured your mother was more deserving at this time."

"I better at least be the second," he said with a roll of his eyes, but it was clear his anger wasn't genuine.

Delphini and Isabella looked between the both of you with a glint of something in their eyes that you couldn't quite place.

***

When you awoke the next morning, the sunbeams of dawn were peeking through the cracks in the curtain, and placing a golden-pink glow on to the pillows. You stretched, and turned to your side to see one sunbeam landing perfectly across Mattheo's unconscious and worry-free face. In a moment of self-indulgence, you allowed yourself to admire your husband's features: his soft brown curls, his strong jaw, and his plump pink lips. He was such a handsome man that you couldn't help but feel childish butterflies swimming in your stomach.

Because he was yours.

It was then that you felt the need to touch him, to hold him close, to be in his arms - a craving that ran as deep as your bones. Your mind was too sleepy to have regained your usual second-guessing thought process, and the moment felt surreal, so you began shifting closer to Mattheo's half of the bed. The first body parts of yours to touch were your arms - gentle, at first, so as not to wake him. Then your leg touched his, but it wasn't as gentle as the arm, as you hadn't been looking at where his leg was. Thus, it was more of a knock; far from a painful one, of course, but enough to stir him in his slumber.

He felt your presence before he opened his eyes, but when he did he was greeted by your widened eyes staring up at him in fear of being caught red-handed. Fazed wasn't how you would describe him, no, he looked as if he had expected you to be so close to him, at least to some extent.

You hadn't realised he had moved his hand until it was softly caressing your cheek, and you snapped out of your nervous daze when he mumbled the word, "Cute."

You stilled once you had deciphered his mumbles, which Mattheo felt thanks to your body contact.

"Darling," he murmured, "Don't be so shy."

"Sorry," you eventually forced out.

At that, he opened his eyes wider, in contrast to the mere slits of vision from before, and pulled you properly into his arms. "You have nothing to apologise for."

You hummed into his chest.

"When we return home, I would like it if you were to move into my chamber."

Your heart swelled.

***

Isabella, thank the heavens, recovered fully from her injury without infection, and was back on her feet after a few weeks. You and Mattheo returned home after three weeks in the countryside, when you were sure that she was in good health once more. The former duchess had complimented your novel tremendously, and passed it on to her son for him to read, who then passed it on to his sister. By the time you all left, every family member staying with Isabella had read the book, and they had all graced you with praise.

You sent it to a publisher, avoiding the use of your full first name by dropping it to just its initial, so as to not be rejected for being a woman. It was accepted, and while you never met the publisher in person, by the time the day of a month after its first release arrived, many of the higher class of society had read it. You suspected that both your husband and sister-in-law's influence had something to do with its popularity.

It was on that same month milestone that you were hosting your first ever reading, with much more guests in attendance than you had anticipated. It would be your first time revealing that you - a woman - were the author of the book. People had most likely assumed it was your husband, or perhaps a secretive brother of his, that had wrote it, due to the last name Riddle having been the one that you used. While you had always been annoyed that women were expected to change their last names, you were actually rather pleased with the change of your own. You now held the last name of a family that actually cared for you.

That thought alone made whatever consequences of revealing your identity you would have to deal with less daunting to think about. You would have a support system to help you through them.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mattheo announced from the podium set up in the ballroom specifically for the occasion. The alarming number of titleholders in the room went quiet and looked in his direction. "Thank you all for coming on this momentous day for our family name."

You were stood in between Isabella and Delphini by the edge of the room, both of whom were only visiting for the event, in order to support you. Their presence almost had you completely forgetting that your parents were nowhere in sight, despite having received an exclusive invitation. Although, you could spot a couple of your sisters within the crowds of people.

"I am sure that many of you will be wondering which member of my family it is that wrote such a beautiful piece," your husband continued, smiling with pride as he spoke - a contrast from his usually arrogant stance, "And I truly wish that I could take credit for it - but it makes me just as happy to be able to say that the author is the love of my life. So, without further ado, may I introduce to the podium my dear wife, her grace, Duchess Y/N Riddle of Slytherin."

Gasps rippled throughout the audience, and you gripped Delphini's hand tightly as you prepared yourself for the attention.

"Go on," Isabella whispered in your ear, "They will love you, I'm sure."

You nodded, and let go of your sister-in-law's hand, before beginning the walk to where your husband stood proudly. When you reached him, he placed a kiss on your lips, and then said loud enough only for you to hear, "I love you, my darling."

He hadn't said it before, and you hadn't said it since you let it slip the first time. It was only now you registered that he had described you as the love of his life only moments earlier - to an entire room of people, no less. You bit your lip as you felt your nerves reduce, and replied, "I love you too. Thank you, for all of this."

He smiled, "Of course." And then moved away from the podium, allowing you to gaze upon the audience of aghast faces alone.

"Well," you began, "This is evidently a surprise to you all..."

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masterlist

written; 11/08/2022 —> 20/08/2022 published; 22/08/2022 edited; 25/08/2023

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