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darknight3904 · 4 months

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You're a Liar

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: ɪɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋᴇʟᴇᴛᴏɴꜱ ɪɴ ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ' ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴛ.

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ / ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ ꜱɴᴏᴡ (ʜᴇ ɪꜱ ʙᴀᴅ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ)

ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ꜱᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ. ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇɢᴇ ꜰɪɴᴀʟꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ɢᴏᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴛᴅ ꜱᴏ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʜᴀᴠɪɴɢ ᴅᴀᴇᴍᴏɴ/ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ ʙʀᴀɪɴ ʀᴏᴛ.

Mornings might just be your favorite time of day. The way the sun just barely peaked through the curtains and shimmered its way across the bedspread made your shared room with Coriolanus look simply divine.

Mornings might just be your favorite time of day. The delicious scent of bacon and freshly cooked pancakes wafted through the mansion and under your closed door. The promise of fresh orange juice and perfectly hot coffee was enough to rouse anyone from their slumber.

Mornings might just be your favorite time of day. Coriolanus is still asleep beside you. Curly hair is splayed on the pillow, free from whatever styling gel he put in it. His face is relaxed and peaceful as you run your fingertips across his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. The stress of being president is gone from his face when he sleeps and that's how you know, mornings are your favorite time of day.

"I can feel you staring at me."

His voice was still muddled with sleep, deep and scratchy as he batted at your hands trying to keep them off his gorgeous face.

"I'm appreciating the art in front of me," You smile as he finally opens his eyes.

"Your hands on my face are making my nose itch." He says grabbing your right hand and gently squeezing it as he sits up beside you.

You hum a tune of acknowledgment and take in his appearance. Coriolanus' pale skin was a wonderful sight to behold as the blanket slipped and fell into his lap.

"You're staring again." He says playing with your fingers

"An incredibly attractive man seems to be missing his shirt, can you blame me for staring?" You state a playful smile pulling on your lips.

Coriolanus lets out a snort and gets out of bed with a grunt. Long red scratches adorn his back as you watch your fiancee walk across the room towards the bathroom, ready to scrub last night's activities off himself.

Yes, mornings were your favorite time of day. You had warm sunshine, delicious food, and Coriolanus by your side.

But, most of all, mornings were your favorite because you weren't alone.

Coriolanus never truly wanted to leave the bedroom he shared with you. Even now as you groaned and begged him to just lounge around the mansion with you, he wished he could go back to when he felt your soft fingertips brushing the bridge of his nose. He had woken up beside you, cleaned himself, and eaten a wonderful breakfast, now the next step was simple. The next step was attending to his duties as the President of Panem and leaving you to your day in the south wing of the mansion. Despite the tempting idea of staying with you, he knew you'd be eagerly awaiting him, tonight at the dinner table, ready to listen about his day. It was the perfect daily routine and Coriolanus never wanted it to change.

He could feel the press of your lips on his lingering hours later as the newest Head Gamemaker listed detailed plans for the games that were two months away. Dr. Gaul's death had been a blow to the way the Hunger Games functioned as a whole. Now, Coriolanus wasn't sure if the new man chosen for the job was truly the correct choice, he didn't have any of the ruthlessness Gaul had. Sure, he could've stepped in but how would he run the country and dream up deadly traps and mutts for tributes. Sure, he probably could've but that meant so many hours of overtime and leaving you to sleep alone in those overly soft sheets you had hand-picked for your shared bed. This new game maker would just have to do, he didn't want to imagine your sad little face if he didn't sit down for dinner with you each night.

The hours after Coriolanus left you at the breakfast table were terribly boring. There wasn't anything for you to do anymore.Sure, you could've gone shopping or gone to a local park but you hated doing all those things alone. Coriolanus had convinced you that running your Father's weapons company would be overwhelming for you and managed it in your name. As far as you knew it was doing well and was providing many jobs for people in the districts. Everything else in the mansion was tended to by an army of maids and butlers, who were ready at the snap of a finger. So, here you sat in your sunroom that Coriolanus had built as a special place just for you.

You had taken up painting nearly a year ago but your long days of solitude had caused you to quickly run out of inspiration. Now, the paints and easel sat, awaiting your touch but your creativity was gone. You missed Coriolanus and he wouldn't return for another hour. Surely dinner was nearly ready and you wished you were sitting with him, listening to whatever he had spent his day doing. Perhaps you should start a new book before he returns. That'd give you something to tell him about when he did come back.

Maybe the extensive in-home library here would have a book about a lonely woman, wishing for her lover. Maybe there'd be a book all about her and how she spent her days without him and how to pass the time. Maybe, there'd be a book all about her mornings with him and how she never wished for them to come to an end.

It was during these long days that you felt like the loneliest woman in all of Panem. Moments like this made it feel like you were a delicate china doll, only removed from her case to be admired for a few spare moments before being placed back on her shelf.

Two Years Later

Watching. It was something you had gotten good at over the past few months, especially since Coriolanus stopped allowing you to leave the grounds of the mansion. You watched as the boy you grew up with and danced at countless galas faded from view. You tried to welcome the man who sat across from you eating his dinner but it was had more and more difficult as the weeks bled into months and months turned to years. Coriolanus even seldom kissed you now. It hurt even though you knew it was for your own safety. He had admitted it one night in the darkness of your room as he lay beside you. Poison had created sensitive sores in his mouth. You wished he'd stop using it, surely there had to be other ways to do away with enemies.

You felt as though you were withering away, your days were so tedious and you often found yourself eagerly waiting at the dinner table for Coriolanus. Your long days were spent in isolation and you rarely spoke to the staff of the mansion. That didn't stop you from racing to the dining room when the sounds of Coriolanus' return sounded through the halls. Some days it felt like you were a child waiting to tell their parent about their day.

Tonight, it was like your words were falling on deaf ears as Coriolanus was paging through a book while nibbling at the food that had been placed in front of the two of you. Your engagement ring was a dazzling silver as you played with your fingers, wishing he'd look up from whatever knowledge that book might've held.

"Coryo..." You began

"Yes?"

His tone wasn't what you had hoped for. He was annoyed that you were interrupting whatever was on the page in front of him so you didn't elaborate on what you had wanted to say.

Watching. It was something you had gotten good at since there wasn't anything else for you to do.

It was raining the day you found them. You had spent most of the day lounging around and working with the wedding planner Coriolanus had hired so you wouldn't have to do all of the work yourself.

It was nestled in an old shoe box, covered in dust, perfectly hidden behind Coriolanus' clothes on his side of the closet. At first, you had thought it might have been more of Sejanus' things that Coriolanus never gave back to Strabo. Instead what you were met with was worse than a dead boy's things. There, wrapped up in a silky orange scarf sat a single golden earring and an envelope. You swore you could smell lingering perfume on the scarf as you opened the envelope.

It felt like your hands were burning when you finally looked at them. Surely they weren't real. Right?

Two pictures sat in your hands. One of Lucy Gray Baird on some unknown stage, a black guitar in hand. Her pretty dark curls were pulled back and behind her a small group of blurry faces were muddled together, unrecognizable due to the poor lighting. You felt a lump of anxiety and anger swell in your throat when you moved on to the next picture. It was taken as if the subjects of the photo had no knowledge of the camera. Lucy Gray sits on a dilapidated-looking couch with your Coriolanus beside her. Her face was partially obscured as she pressed her lips to his cheek and Coriolanus was smiling, his one arm wrapped securely around her waist.

How long had it been since he smiled like that at you? Perhaps it was even before the reaping that had brought her to the Capitol. When was the last time you saw a truly genuine smile from the boy you grew up with? You wondered how you had missed the way his boyish smiles had transformed into those cruel smirks he donned when things went his way.

Jealousy and sadness burned in your stomach as your mind raced. How long had it been since these photos were taken? It had been nearly 7 years since her games. Coriolanus' head was clearly buzzed in the photo with Lucy which meant it was after he was forced by Highbottom to leave the Capitol. How many times after his return to you had he assured you that nothing had happened between them? How many times had you believed him and his sweet words and actions? How many times had he lied and betrayed you all for another girl who mysteriously disappeared?

Betrayal is what you felt as you pocketed the pictures and slid the box back into its spot behind his fancy coats. Tears were pricking at your eyes as you dressed for dinner, Coriolanus would be back soon and you would confront him about the pictures once he was seated across from you at that dinner table you had sat at hundreds of times.

Dinner is silent as you pick at the cut of steak that was placed on your plate. Coriolanus is talking about how he's on the hunt for another head game maker and how annoying it is but you just can't help but not care. The table that separates you from him makes it feel like a huge ravine has grown between the two of you as you tune him out.

15 years is how long you've known Coriolanus Snow. In those 15 years, you had never dreamed of doing what you were about to do as you removed the pictures from where they sat hidden under your pretty skirt, a floral pattern Coriolanus had picked for your 27th birthday a few months ago. Your heart ached as you slid them across the table to him.

"I found these today. In our closet. Wrapped in your mother's scarf with a gold earring."

You finally have all of Coriolanus' attention as he swallows his food and stops his complaining.

"I thought you said it wasn't romantic. You promised me it wasn't."

Coriolanus glances down at the pictures and reaches out to brush his finger across the one with him and Lucy Gray on that couch.

"You promised, Coryo."

Your voice was breaking. Damn it, don't cry!

"I know I did."

He finally speaks. You wondered what was going through that ridiculously complex mind as he fumbled for his words.

"Then why did you lie? I would've listened if you had just told the truth to begin with." You honestly say.

It's true, you would've heard him out. Maybe you wouldn't have taken him back but you would have at least listened.

"I wasn't thinking straight, okay," He says " I should've told you. I should've gotten rid of that stuff years ago. I don't know why I didn't."

"Yes, you do." You sigh "You love her Coryo. Even now, you're looking for Lucy Gray. That's why you keep me here, you're scared I'll run off like her."

"No, no that's not it. I just...want you to myself." He reasoned

"If that were true you'd let me leave."

"Why do you need to? Everything anyone could ever wish for is right here in this home." He points out, you don't miss the way his fist is clenching, his nails digging into his skin.

"I haven't left the mansion in two years!" You cry, blinking back tears "I feel like some prize you've won and caged up! You don't even let me attend galas anymore."

"You hated those galas. All the nosey reporters and their questions were something you hated. Do you want me to apologize for doing you a favor? I won't. I've done nothing but make your life easier." Coriolanus says

"Yes, you have made my life easier, you've eliminated all challenges I might come across by keeping me here, like a doll." You agree, tone dripping with sarcasm

"Look, if you want you can go to the next gala with me. It's in a week I'll get a designer here tomorrow morning to make you a nice dress." Coriolanus sighed, clearly tired "I don't want to argue with you about petty things"

"Good, then we can argue about these photos." You say, ready to finally hear what he had to say.

"I don't love her. Maybe I did at some point but none of that matters now, I came back to you didn't I?"

Maybe I did at some point.

Hot tears fell from your eyes as you looked down at your feet. How could you be so stupid? Why didn't you see it sooner?

The sound of Coriolanus getting up and walking towards you had you wiping at your face and unattractively sniffing as you tried to fix your runny nose. You didn't want him taking your tears as a sign of weakness. He couched down beside you and pulled your chair out so you were facing him.

"Stop crying." He commands placing his hands on your thighs.

Another fresh set of tears falls from your eyes and Coriolanus brushes them away.

"You're a liar." You say, your voice barely a whisper

"I'm not...I want to be here, with you. I'll let you go back out on your little shopping trips and attend galas, shitty reporters and all."

It's tempting, to agree and let everything perfectly mend itself. But as you glance at the pictures that fell off the table and Lucy Gray's face stares back at you, you feel your heart sink to your feet again.

"You're a liar." You say, this time your voice comes out strong as you push his warm hands from your face

Coriolanus gives you a hard stare but lets you pull away from him.

"You can't even apologize for seeing her." You point out

Coriolanus looks guilty as he disgests your words.

"What happened between the two of you?" You asked

"She ran off, I think. I also had some personal issues after Sejanus was killed. She offered for me to go with her, I almost did." He says

You let out a soft hum of acknowledgment as Coriolanus remains in front of you, on his knees, fiddling with the end of your skirt.

"I don't think I ever really loved her. I think it might've just been the idea of possessing her that I liked." He admits, eyes on the floor

"And how is that different than us now?" You ask

Coriolanus' eyes snap up to yours when the question leaves your lips.

"It's different because...we're us...We grew up together, darling. You ate Tigris' cabbage soup and gave me lunch when I didn't have money for my own."

You swallow the lump in your throat and stand up. Coriolanus immediately rises, not interested in being so much shorter than you. You know what has to come next but you're not sure if you're strong enough to do it. Your actions will close the chapter of a book 15 years in the making.

"Coryo...I think I want to go home." You say looking up at him, fresh tears pool in your eyes.

"You are home. You're with me." He says reaching out and taking your hand in his

"No, I mean...to my family's home. I want my mom, I miss her." You admit, pulling your hand out of his.

Coriolanus' face is confused as you look down at the gorgeous ring he gave you at his proposal. It looked so perfect on your hand when you woke up just this morning but now it felt like a death sentence as you sighed.

"I think you should have this back too..." You say as you slip it off and hold it out to him, "I'm sorry about things ending like this, but if you can't even apologize, I don't think I can stay."

Coriolanus' confusion quickly morphs into anger as he looks at the ring in your hand.

"Put it back on. I'm not letting you walk away." He says, upset

"Coryo, don't make this difficult." You say taking the ring and placing it into the pocket that sits just above his heart in his button-up shirt.

You begin to walk towards the looming archway that marks the entrance to the dining room but you're blocked by an angry Coriolanus Snow, tears in his eyes, fists clenched, and his mouth set in a cold line.

"You're not leaving. I won't let you."

Part Four

Series Masterlist

Taglist:

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#the hunger games #fanfic #coriolanus snow smut #young coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #katniss everdeen #mockingjay #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #lucy gray baird #tom blyth #rachel zegler #coriolanus snow fluff #sejanus plinth #thg #tbosas #coriolanus snow x fem!reader

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malum-forev · 9 months

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First Trimester

(This is a short drabble I couldn’t get out of my head, idk what this is lol)

Bucky kept his head in his hands, eyes closed tightly. His breath ragged.

He could hear Steve’s loud footsteps pacing the room while Sam stood rooted in place. He could hear his friends’ heartbeats thumping rapidly.

“And you two-“ Steve couldn’t get the words out.

“That’s usually how that happens.” Sam retorted sarcastically.

Steve’s hands shot up. “I’m just trying to understand how this happened!”

“Looks like I should have had the birds and the bees conversation with both of you.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“What am I going to do?” Bucky croaked, his throat dry and scratchy. The question was mostly for himself, wondering just how he would manage everything happening in his life.

“You aren’t going to do anything.” Sam ran his hand over his face. “Before you go into crisis mode like a chicken running with its head chopped off, you need to make sure it’s yours.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped open.

“Sam-“ Steve’s cautious tone only made the Falcon more angry.

“Here’s what we know,” Sam’s voice was firm. “You two have got super soldier serum running through your veins, it changed your bodies drastically. Which obviously means your swimmers were altered, doctors told you the probabilities of you two getting someone knocked up are zero.”

“Close to zero.” Steve corrected.

“Whatever,” Sam rolled his eyes again. “Now- this one goes around the tri state are area banging anything with legs.”

Buckys cheeks burned red.

“Two months later, someone comes around saying they’ve got a super soldier baby brewing- does that not sound shady to anyone else?”

Steve rubbed his hand against his chin. “When did Dr. Cho say she could get a paternity test?”

“Two weeks.” Bucky whispered.

“Then these are going to be the most stressful two weeks of your life, kid.” Steve slumped his shoulders.

She hadn’t let the crippling nervousness seep into her body, work, friends and exhaustion had been great distractors. But now, as the steel gates of the Avengers compound opened she felt it.

She was the one who had encouraged a paternity test when she knocked on Bucky’s door weeks ago.

She hadn’t thought twice about missing her period the first month. Long hours at the art gallery we’re to blame, right? But as the days turned into weeks and the strange knot in her throat tightened, she decided to take a test.

Not thinking anything would pop up except the not pregnant label on the plastic test, she left it on the counter and forgot about it. That is, until a three minute timer rang and the scariest word ever written was staring at her. Pregnant.

(Y/n) waited a full week before visiting a gynecologist. Some gel, and ultrasound and some probing later, she was pregnant and that was that. She didn’t even register the bean sized blob on the screen. A muffled sound replaced the cheery doctor’s voice.

“Is Dad excited?” The young doctor smiled. Dad, fuck there’s a dad that needs to be notified.

(Y/n felt as if she’d stuffed a handful of gravel down her throat. She nodded weakly and lied. “He’s ecstatic.”

What she should have said is: he’s terrified.

When Bucky saw (Y/n)’s text on his phone, he’s ego shot up. He whistled as he prepared some eggs that morning, thinking highly of himself.

I don’t usually go back for seconds but I guess I can make an exception. Bucky thought as he shaved his face that morning. He wore a pair of grey sweatpants and a tight shirt, a combination he’d read online was the bee’s knees for getting women riled up these days.

But there might as well have been nothing underneath those boxers he was wearing because the shocking news killed any kind of vibe he had been feeling.

(Y/n) rocked backwards and forwards nervously as she stood in his living room. She didn’t even want to come in but he’d insisted. Now, Bucky was slumped back on his couch with his eyes set on the floor.

“I know this sounds strange-“ she swallowed. “But I don’t usually do what we did, I don’t do one night stands. I love relationships which is why my friends convinced me to sleep with you- not that I needed convincing you’re like so hot but you know what I mean. Well, I guess you don’t know what I mean because you barely know me, barely know I exist.”

“You love relationships?” Bucky’s eyes widened.

“I-well- shit- I shouldn’t have said that. It sounds-“ You sighed deeply, trying to collect her thoughts. “What I’m trying to say is that, you’re the only person I’ve had sex with in- a long time. And I want you to know that I’m not telling you this to make you feel like you have to be involved- that is if we decide to keep it. I just thought you should know that I’m pregnant.”

She tried to make her voice sound firm and confident but her whole body rejected the idea. There was nothing she was more afraid of than this. This life altering decision.

“And you’re thinking of keeping it.” He whispered, blue eyes staring back at her.

(Y/n) nodded slowly then shook her head. “I don’t know. Yes, maybe. I have a stable job, pretty decent insurance and a nice apartment downtown so, I’ve got the basics covered. I’ve always wanted children, not now but- I don’t know.”

“I’m also aware this is insane news so, I understand if you need time to process or decide if you want to- be involved, I guess.”

Bucky slowly nodded. She wrapped her cardigan closer to her body and his whole body jerked up, standing from the couch.

“Ar-are you, showing?” Bucky’s curious tone made her lips tweak upwards.

“It‘s been like two months and it’s the size of a bean so, no.” She tried to lighten the mood.

“You’ve been to the doctor?”

She nodded. “She told me I could have a paternity test done in a couple of weeks, if that’s something you’re interested in.”

Paternity test- paternity. Those words didn’t even seem real to Bucky. It had been such a distant thing that the thought hadn’t registered in his mind yet.

“I’ve got a couple of doctors that would probably know how to handle that-“ he said pointing to her stomach. “With the whole, serum and everything. Would you mind if I talked to them?”

“I don’t mind, whatever’s better for bean, right?”

Bucky’s body was enveloped in a foreign feeling. So different than anything he’d felt before, an unsettling feeling in his stomach that brought goosebumps to his skin.

“The bean?” Bucky furrowed his eyebrows.

“Not the bean. Just, bean.” Her cheeks burned and a smile developed on her lips. “The doctor said it’s going to be a while until I can find out the sex so, I’ve been calling it that. Bean.”

“Bean.” Bucky repeated quietly, fighting from letting out a smile. He couldn’t let himself get involved, not before a decision was made. Did he want to be in bean- the baby’s life? Was he even the father?

(Y/n) and Bucky walked through the white corridors at the Avengers med bay in silence.

Both of them stopped at an opened door.

“You sure you don’t want to come in and check I don’t switch up the viles, rig the paternity results?” She regretted the joke as soon as the words flew out of her mouth. Bucky’s blue eyes widened. She had tried to lighten the mood but the only thing she succeeded was to make Bucky uncomfortable-

“Good thinking,” Bucky’s lips twitched upwards. “I’m sure having my old ass sperm in there was your plan all along.”

She couldn’t help a giggle escape her mouth. Bucky placed his hand on her lower back and lead her into the room.

He held her hand through the procedure and followed her back to her car after everything was done.

“I guess I’ll call you once the results are in.” Bucky bit his bottom lip as she nodded, the tired look on (Y/n) worried him. “I just wanted to say, again, how grateful I am you’re being so cooperative.”

(Y/n) saluted him. “Anything for our troops.”

Bucky tipped his head back with laughter. “Please let me know when you get home safe.”

—

Her feet ached, scratch that, her whole body hurt. (Y/n) usually worked a double shift on Sunday’s to get double pay since that was the day rich people usually liked to shop at the gallery. Even though this was routine for her, she felt extremely tired this time. Pregnancy was starting to take a toll on her body.

(Y/n) heard the rain patter intensify as someone opened the glass doors.

“H-hi.” Was all she heard.

“We’re closed.” She called out but no one answered.

A sopping wet Bucky stood at the front of the gallery.

“Looks like you need to buy an umbrella.” She smiled.

“I’m going to be a dad.” The words came out stuttered, like he was trying to stop them.

Bucky stopped talking the second he received the email. DNA test result came back positive. He was the father. A father. That word echoed through his mind all day but he didn’t tell anyone a single thing, not until he could figure out how to manage the information. Steve would try to find solutions, Sam would freak out, Nat would laugh and Tony would probably ignore him. Each and every one of his friends’ reactions would stress him out more than he already was. He had no one, no one to talk to about this. Except her.

(Y/n) sighed deeply, taking her heels off and walking towards him. Without saying anything, she wrapped her arms around his neck and brought Bucky close to her. The tension he felt between his shoulder blades disappeared the second he was in her arms.

She softly held his face in her hands. “I haven’t decided anything and we still have time to figure out wether or not we want to keep bean-“

“Bean, oh God bean.” Becky’s eyes met hers. I can’t let bean down. He thought.

“I understand if you don’t want to go through with this.”

“Look at me.” Bucky’s voice was hoarse. “I need you to know that I want this- I want bean so much you have no idea. The thought of me having a kid was so lost but you’ve- I- I am forever grateful and indebted with you, you have no idea.”

(Y/n) smiled. “So we’re doing this? We’re having a baby?”

“Let’s have a baby.” He said.

Part 2: Second Trimester

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barns x you #bucky fanfic #bucky imagine #bucky x reader #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot

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thegettingbyp2 · 4 months

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You're Hurt

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Your head tilted back as Coriolanus’s lips were fused to your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin before instantly soothing the mark with his tongue. His arms were tight around you, his fingers tightly wound in the skirt of your dress as he held you against him, not willing to put any space between your bodies.

He moved his lips away from your neck to press against yours and your hands came out to gently cup his face, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss. Coriolanus kissed you with an urgency that you weren’t familiar with when it came to him and you couldn’t help the knot of worry that was forming in your mind.

‘They sent me into the arena tonight,’ he mumbled against your lips suddenly and you felt your entire body freeze; you knew there was something wrong. You broke the kiss and pulled back as best as you could with Coriolanus’s grip on you unfaltering.

‘They what?’ you asked, horrified that someone would have willingly put him in danger. ‘Who did?’

‘Dr. Gaul. She sent me in to get Sejanus out after Marcus died,’ he said, his fingers seemed to dig into you further, as if he was using you to ground himself.

‘She had no right to do that, she should have sent Peacekeepers in there, not you,’ you exclaimed, anger filling your body. ‘Are you okay?’ you asked, cupping his face again and running your thumbs along his cheekbones.

‘I killed someone,’ he said quietly, lifting his gaze to meet your eyes. ‘I didn’t have a choice, he was coming after me and Sejanus and he was going to kill us and - ’

‘You did what you had to do,’ you reassured him, shushing him gently. ‘You’re out and you never have to go back in, that’s all that matters,’ you said, leaning in to gently press your lips to his.

The second your lips were on each others again, Coriolanus pulled you impossibly tighter, deepening the kiss before he laid you down on the mattress and crawled over your body, not breaking your kiss once. Your hands moved from his face, down his neck until they slipped underneath his blue Academy shirt, pulling away instantly when you heard him hiss against your lips as your fingers came in contact with something scratchy on his skin.

‘What’s that?’ you asked, breaking the kiss and slipping your body out from under his despite Coriolanus’s attempts at keeping you underneath him.

‘Nothing,’ he replied quickly, trying to pull you back into him.

Ignoring him, you reached out to deftly undo the buttons on his shirt, slowly and gently pulling it off of your shoulders and you felt your heart beat in your throat when you saw the bandages still wrapped around him from his injuries during the rebel bombing. Coriolanus had given up trying to hide anything by this point so he put up no fuss when you turned him around, his heart clenching when he heard your gasp as you saw the stitches that lined the back of his shoulder.

‘Coryo, what did they do to you?’ you asked, sadness filling your voice as you felt tears blurring your vision.

‘It’s nothing. One of the tributes, the boy I killed, he knicked me with his axe,’ he said, clearly trying to downplay it.

‘Coryo, there’s 15 stitches here! That’s not nothing,’ you pressed your forehead against his back, your tears spilling from your eyes and running across his skin.

Coriolanus reached behind him and pulled you back in front of him, settling you in his lap and tilting your face up to meet his. ‘I’m okay. The stitches will heal.’

‘But you’re hurt,’ you protested.

‘Then maybe you should make me feel better,’ he said, a small smirk working its way onto his lips. Laughing softly, you draped your arms around his neck, careful not to brush your fingers against the stitches before bringing your lips back to his.

‘Now that sounds like something I can do.’

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow imagine #coriolanus snow x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

404 notes · View notes

cupid-styles · 8 months

Text

lace (grumpy!h)

in which Harry is grumpy and mean to Y/N, who's just shy and trying to get through the day, and they're both teaching assistants for the same class.

word count: 4.9k

content warnings/author's notes: h being a dick, grumpy h x soft girl trope <;3 part two will be posted a week from today!

masterlist | talk to me |

part two | part three

Y/N thinks Harry hates her.

Which is kind of silly, really, because they didn't even know each other prior to being assigned as teaching assistants to the same literary seminar. They roam in two completely different circles and never would have crossed paths if not for the fact that Y/N is an English major and Harry got an A- in the course last year.

Y/N's initially really excited that Professor Donnolly asked her to be one of her TAs. At their first one-on-one meeting together, she lets Y/N know that there will be one other TA this semester since it's such a large class, but this isn't concerning to her. She's quiet and introverted and an expert at keeping to herself, and she's far more focused on helping students in the seminar and building up her resume.

So, she's generally pretty careless about the whole thing until Harry strolls in on the first day. He's dressed in all black, a tattered band tee decorating his torso, inky tattoos covering his arms, and a coffee in hand. He doesn't even have a backpack with him, which Y/N finds weird — she'd spent the previous night printing out worksheets and contact information for her batch of students, all of which were neatly filed in a folder in her bag.

He plops down next to her at the front of the lecture hall and pulls his phone out. Y/N isn't typically very nosey, but she can't help that as she sits there, anxiously awaiting for the class to begin, she notices just about 20 missed texts lighting up his screen. She doesn't think she receives that many messages in a week.

Because she's shy, she's hesitant to introduce herself, but maybe he doesn't realize there's another TA for the course despite sitting down right next to her. So she clears her throat and nervously picks at a loose string on her knitted cardigan before mustering up the courage to say something.

"Hi," her voice is scratchy since it's the first time she's said anything all morning, aside from ordering an iced vanilla latte at the on-campus cafe, "I'm Y/N. Are you the other TA for this semester?"

Harry peers up at her with a glaring look. His eyes are so piercing that it almost makes her jump under his gaze.

"Yeah, I'm Harry. Please don't continue this conversation, I'm hungover."

Y/N's jaw snaps closed at his bluntness, a warm blush encasing her entire body. She's so embarrassed that it physically hurts — and it's enough of a reason to stay quiet every time she sees Harry, twice a week at the seminar.

Weeks go by and nothing changes, the pair seemingly fine with their lack of verbal communication. Every now and then they'll have to physically interact, whether it be passing papers or the one time Harry held the door open for Y/N when they were leaving the lecture hall. She's surprised he didn't purposely slam it in her face.

She'll admit, it bothers her just a tad, but it's just another facet of her personality — an incessant need to people-please — that she scribbles down in her planner as a reminder to bring up in therapy sometime soon.

On Tuesday after class has ended, she's packing up her things, her back to Harry when Professor Donnolly strolls over to their table, the sound of her pumps clacking against the tiled floor.

"Harry, Y/N, are you two available right now?"

In any other instance, Y/N would find a reason to be busy — her social battery is drained from today's workshopping class, where she went around discussing thesis statements with her assigned group of students — but this TA gig matters to her, especially after she did some online digging on Professor Donnolly and found out she has connections at multiple publishing firms Y/N could only dream of working at. So she sucks it up and bears herself for whatever her presence is needed for, even if it means being around Harry.

"I'm free," Y/N replies and Harry grunts out some form of affirmative answer.

"Great!" Donnolly claps her hands together, "So listen, I'm seriously behind in going through these outlines and they need to be graded and handed back by Thursday's class. Do you guys think you could make a dent in the stack this afternoon? You could use my office while I teach this next lecture."

The thought of sitting in an office alone with Harry sounds absolutely humiliating, but to her surprise, he's the one that agrees to it before she even has a chance to run it through her brain. She zones out while Donnolly hands Harry the keys to her office, providing instructions on where the papers and rubric are, before he's turning on his heel and heading in the direction of the English department. Y/N scrambles and throws her bag over her shoulder, her chunky oxfords squeaking as she rushes to catch up to Harry.

"You don't have to join me," Harry grumbles once she finally reaches him so they're walking side by side, "I'm perfectly capable of grading these outlines by myself."

With a wrinkle in her brow, Y/N hugs her backpack strap closer to her body. "She asked both of us, so I'm helping."

"Yeah, but she doesn't have to know if you duck out to do whatever shit you do in your free time. Volunteering with the elderly or summat."

He mutters the last part under his breath, but Y/N hears it. Pain quickly zips through her stomach but it's gone just as quickly as it entered.

"I don't volunteer with the elderly," is her final comeback, albeit mumbled as they reach Donnolly's office. Harry stuffs the key in the lock and twists the door open before flicking the lights on and zeroing in on the stack of papers on her desk.

"Right, well, you act like a fuckin' church mouse, so apologies if my assumptions are a bit off."

Y/N huffs and drops her bag on the cushiony couch. She doesn't even know Harry, so what gives him the right to talk about her like that?

"You're the one that told me not to talk to you on the first day," Y/N says pointedly, walking over to where he stands with the papers in hand, "I'm only doing what you asked of me. And don't call me a church mouse, you don't know anything about me."

She snatches the folder from him and halves the papers as he cackles from above. She can't help but notice that he towers over her, and it makes her swallow nervously.

"You took that seriously? Jesus, you need to lighten up. Haven't you ever been hungover before?"

Y/N rolls her eyes as she sits down on the couch, folding her legs so her skirt doesn't ride up. She digs in her bag for her favorite red pen, fetching it from her pouch of writing utensils.

"Oh wait, you probably haven't. Because you're a church mouse."

Y/N grits her teeth. She's never had someone care to provoke her this much and it's so annoying. Harry is so annoying!

"Can you please stop?" She says softly, removing the cap from her pen. "You don't have to be mean to me just because you don't like me."

"How do you know whether I like you or not?" Harry scoffs as he sits down at Donnolly's desk, "I don't even know you."

Y/N has to admit, that one hurts. So instead of responding, she swallows the lump forming in her throat and starts to read over Amanda Mai's outline.

Harry doesn't bother her again that day. In fact, he doesn't even say goodbye when he's done.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

The following weeks go similarly.

Donnolly stops them both after class with some ask of grading papers or outlines or otherwise, claiming that she thinks they work well together, which Y/N thinks is some cruel joke from the universe. Every time her and Harry walk the familiar route to her office in silence, she wonders what she did wrong in her life and what bullshit karma she's on the receiving end of.

At a certain point, she wonders if someone has made a voodoo doll of her just to torture her, especially when she thinks Harry's finally skipping one of their grading sessions together, only to find his tongue down some sorority girl's throat. He nearly pushes the girl off of him when he notices Y/N's unintentionally interrupted their makeout session. She holds back a snicker when she hears the girl ask what his problem is as she unlocks the door.

"Gotta go," Harry tells the girl lowly, brushing past her to follow Y/N into the office. The girl garbles out a surprised "what?" just as Harry's shutting the door and plopping down at Donnolly's desk chair.

It's quiet for a moment and Y/N debates saying anything, knowing that however she chooses to approach the situation — whether she ignore the confused, pissed off girl outside or comment on Harry's apparent distaste for her — he'll dole out some rude response.

She rolls her lips into her mouth as she passes him his half of the papers, eventually settling on, "You probably shouldn't bring your girlfriend to your job. It's unprofessional, I think, and you both could've gotten in trouble."

Harry chuckles dryly and Y/N immediately regrets her decision.

"Mind your business, little mouse." he mutters, but not before he utters something out under his breath. "She's not my girlfriend either."

Y/N nods slowly and lowers her eyes to the assignment in front of her. Today, they're working on editing the first drafts of the class' papers, which is guaranteed to take hours. She grimaces as she reads over Ty Baker's introduction, realizing that she has a hefty load of grading ahead of her.

When she pulls out her pencil case from her bag, she hears Harry scoff from across the room. Mentally, she hopes it's due to the poor writing he's reading, but she knows she's wrong.

"Do you always wear shit like that?" he sneers. A hot flush instantly pulverizes her body, making her feel embarrassed and self-conscious within seconds.

She doesn't reply, but of course — of course — Harry continues.

"I mean, seriously, how old are you? 23? 24? And you come to campus in little skirts and cardigans and those stupid Doc Martens. Are you trying to look half your age?"

Y/N swallows harshly, attempting to focus on the words on the page. If she ignores him, he'll stop eventually. Harry thrives on her attempting to fight back.

"Are you even gonna defend yourself?" Harry spits, leaning back in Donnolly's chair, "Kind of pathetic, really—"

Y/N's head snaps up, tears blurring her vision. She sniffles and looks at him, the embarrassment now overwhelming when his face falls, realizing that he's made her cry.

"Please stop," Y/N says in a watery voice, "You're just being mean."

Harry stares her down with low eyes, his raspberry lips slighted parted. She can feel his intimidating gaze even as she tries to redirect her attention back to Ty's draft, attempting to blink the salty tears away. She thinks she's made it through until a shudder racks through her body, a sad and involuntary quiver sounding from her chest.

The room is dead silent so she knows Harry hears it, and she wants nothing more than to dig a hole in the ground and bury herself alive. It would be better than having to face the fact that Harry made her cry over rude comments.

She braces herself for another tongue lashing but instead, he stands from the desk, grabs his things, and rushes out of the room, leaving Y/N sitting on the couch by herself with tear-stained cheeks.

She wonders if she's ever been this embarrassed before in her life.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Y/N spends the weekend wondering if she can ask Donnolly to transfer her to another section.

As she cuddles with her kitten, Ginger, on the couch, binge-watching episode upon episode of Love Island, she contemplates how to approach the situation.

"Ging, what do you think I should do?" she murmurs to the orange cat perched on her thighs, "He's kind of awful and he's so mean to me, I don't understand why. I never see him act that way with anyone else. I don't think I did anything to him."

Ginger meows.

"Okay, meow again if you think I should try to move to Donnolly's other seminar."

The kitten jumps off her legs and traipses to her food bowl. Y/N lets out a sigh and falls to the side face-first into a mess of throw pillows.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

On Tuesday morning, Harry is tired.

He stayed up way too late last night and Jenna wouldn't stop blowing up his phone, wondering where he was over the weekend and asking if he wanted to come over and hookup.

(It was a Monday for Christ's sake, and she clearly couldn't take a hint — if he hadn't replied to her last five texts, why on earth would he want to go and get his dick wet now?

He realizes that he's done worse, so he takes it back.)

He typically spends his weekends ambling through parties and bars with his mates. Jenna is just one of his current and most reliable hookups, and he clearly made a mistake by tonguing her in public last week while he waited for Y/N to unlock Donnolly's office. It had been a spur of the moment rendezvous — Jenna happened to be walking through the English department just as Harry was, and she surged towards him for a kiss that quickly grew to a heated makeout once she stuck her tongue in his mouth.

Harry was weak and rarely one to turn down a midday hookup, but the second he heard Y/N's clunky footsteps (those Doc Marten oxfords she wore were a dead giveaway), he tore apart from Jenna.

Because of their public snog session, he assumes that she thinks their arrangement is something more. And she couldn't be more wrong, because ever since Thursday afternoon, all he's been able to think about is Y/N.

He doesn't even know why. She's quiet and shy and the complete opposite of any girl he's ever been attracted to. She rarely even fights back when he tries to rile her up, which he thought would be fun, but then he went and made her fucking cry last week and now he feels like the worst person to walk the planet.

In hindsight, Harry knows he was a fucking dick to her on Thursday. He doesn't know what it is about her, but it annoys him that she's so shy. She's smart and pretty and sweet and he doesn't know why she doesn't see that, instead opting for quietness and soft smiles and a constant hope that no one will notice her.

Harry very much notices her, and it makes him grumpy.

So on Tuesday morning, he decides that he's going to attempt to make it up to her. He can't promise that he won't be rude, but when he makes his daily stop at his favorite coffee shop, he orders his own drink and hers, an iced vanilla oat milk latte. He hopes that she also didn't grab one before class but figures that at the very least, the effort would be appreciated. Maybe.

And Harry is actually kind of... nervous as he strolls into the lecture hall. He usually arrives a minute or two before class starts but today he's a whopping 10 minutes early, giving tight smiles to the students that wave hello to him. He's surprised that Y/N isn't there yet though he's never been this early before — maybe she likes to get there with five minutes to spare, even if she strikes him as an obsessively early type of person.

His eyebrows furrow when Donnolly enters the room and greets Harry with a grin, setting her things up at the podium. Clearing his throat, he tries to seem as normal as possible as he glances at the clock at the back of the hall.

"Where's Y/N?" he asks, turning to look at Donnolly.

The professor glances down at Harry, who's sitting at the TA table, his leg bouncing. He's clutching his own coffee cup and Y/N's is next to him, but now the plastic cup is beading with condensation and sweating onto the wooden desk.

"She's not feeling well today," Donnolly replies casually, her eyes peering over to the extra coffee on the table, "She said she'll try to make it to grading this afternoon, but I told her that wouldn't be necessary if she needs time to rest."

Harry coughs awkwardly and nods, ignoring the pang of guilt zip through his heart.

Donnolly purses her lips before clearing her throat and typing something on her laptop. "You have her number, right? I haven't had a chance to check on her but I want to make sure she's doing alright. Would you mind?"

"I don't have her number, no."

She hums and nods, "I just emailed it to you."

Harry goes to reply, but Donnolly is already clapping her hands to announce the start of class.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Harry can't stop staring at Y/N's phone number.

At this point, he knows he's being a total and utter weirdo. Donnolly gave it to him to check on her, but instead of texting her, he opens her email and stares at the 10 digits until they blur together. He types it in his phone twice but can't decide on what to say. He knows it doesn't have to be a big deal — he's never been this stressed over having a girl's number before! And besides the fact, this isn't even that kind of deal, it's Y/N.

Silly, stupid Y/N, who he can't stop thinking about, who he feels bad for being mean to, who he wishes came to class today so he could give her her dumb iced latte but instead had to throw out the melted, watered down beverage.

He doesn't text her, but he does the next logical step of looking her up on social media. Of course, her Instagram profile is on private and she hasn't posted on Twitter in five years. He tries to find any public trace of her online only to come up empty, so he groans and leans back against his pillows, pulls up the empty text thread and pastes her number in.

It takes him four rewrites and 10 minutes of agony to finally land on: Hey. Donnolly asked me to see how you're doing.

Harry wants to throw his phone across the room but he resists, instead clutching it tightly in his palm. It buzzes a moment later and he nearly yelps to see her number on his screen.

who is this?

"Oh my god," he grunts, slapping a hand over his forehead, "I didn't even say it was me!"

Grumbling, he quickly types back. It's Harry. She said you weren't feeling well.

He keeps the text thread up and watches as the speech bubble appears, then fades away. It happens three times before she replies.

yea I have a migraine. im fine thanks

Harry swallows. His mouth dries as he tries to figure out how he can continue the conversation but she's really not giving him anything to go off of. He can't say he blames her, though.

Do you need anything?

Again, the three dots pop up on his screen and disappear twice more.

no thank you

This time, he replies quickly: Do you think you'll be able to attend class on Thursday? If not, I can bring you the papers you have left to grade so you don't fall too behind.

He figures that's a decent response — maybe one that warrants more than three words, and he even wonders if it portrays his attempt to patch things up.

if i need anything im capable of doing it myself.

Harry sighs and locks his phone. He definitely deserves this.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

On Thursday, Y/N doesn't show up to class again.

And at this point, Harry is ready to call her up or text her, or even email her to demand some answers. He's not sure what answers he's looking for — she said she had a migraine on Tuesday, but how could she still be dealing with it two days later? — but he's annoyed that she's not here.

When class is over, Donnolly wordlessly hands her keys to him. He flashes her a tight small, dumps the rest of his coffee, and walks the short distance to her office, stewing in his anger. Had he really been that mean? He didn't think so; he knew he was a dick and yeah, he still regrets making her cry, but was it worth missing two days of class? She'll be so behind in grading, what's the point in even being a teaching assistant if she's just going to—

Harry's face wrinkles in confusion when he approaches the small office space, noticing that the lamp is already on, radiating a warm glow from the corner. The door is unlocked, too, which Donnolly never does.

"Go fuckin' figure," he mutters to himself, prepared to have to deal with some sort of English department break-in, when he pushes the door open to find Y/N inside, sprawled out across the blue velvet sofa with her pink cardigan bunched up over her eyes.

He's immediately perplexed, and he wouldn't know it's Y/N if not for those clunky Doc Martens on her feet. Instead of her usual Levi jeans or rotation of mini skirts, she's wearing leggings and a baggy t-shirt over her form, her hair tied up and flopped over her head.

He can't tell if she's awake or not, so he very quietly shuts the door behind him. Her lips part and she takes a deep breath, her hand flying up to her temples with a wince.

"Y/N?" Harry whispers, dropping Donnolly's keys on her desk.

"Leave me alone," she croaks, "Everything hurts, just shut up. Please."

Harry smiles gently as she tacks on a please at the end of her request. Something about her delicate state is very sweet, but it's quickly replaced with concern as he kneels down next to the couch.

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly, fingers itching to move the cardigan covering her face.

"No."

"What's the matter?"

"Migraine."

"Why are you on campus, then?"

"Stop asking me questions."

He does, allowing her to ruminate in the silence as he decides what he should do. It's but a minute or two more before she slowly moves the cardigan down her face, revealing tired, squinty eyes that stare up at Harry.

"I've missed two days of classes and I didn't want to miss anymore. I came to campus this morning and I couldn't even make it through my first one. Donnolly said I could rest in here."

"All from a migraine?" Harry presses, a bemused expression on his face.

"Yes. I get them from stress."

It's the most that she's spoken to him in days and he chalks it up to her disoriented nature. Her hair is a mess and her eyes are bleary, fatigue and pain apparent in her every move.

"Do you want to go home?" he asks. He doesn't know much about migraines, but his sister gets them sometimes and she always complains about his voice being too loud. He tries to keep his questions at minimal volume, teetering just above a whisper.

"Yeah, but I don't have a car and it's too bright outside to walk."

"I can drive you," Harry murmurs without a second thought, "My car is in the building lot."

"Isn't that a faculty lot?"

He rolls his eyes, "Are you really gonna harp on that right now?"

Y/N doesn't reply to this, instead trying her best to sit up, only to be met with a painful recoil. Harry jumps to keep her stable, his hands stretching out to steady her arms and keep her upright.

"Sorry," he quickly mutters, "Don't want you to pass out on me."

She nods, and that's how Harry knows she must be really sick. He scrambles up and digs his car keys out of his pocket, then grabs his sunglasses dangling from his tee-shirt.

"Here, you can wear these."

Y/N doesn't reply and his shoulders droop in concern, carefully reaching forward to place them over her eyes.

"Don't tell me if I look dumb." she mumbles, making him laugh.

"You don't. You look quite sweet, actually."

He ignores the compliment that seems to fall from his lips effortlessly, instead choosing to focus on getting her home safely. Harry grabs her backpack and swings it over his shoulder, "Do you need help getting up?"

With squinted eyes, Y/N looks up at him, nodding once. She looks so sad and it kills him, mumbling out an "alright" as he reaches his hands out to help her stand. Once she's on her feet, she's capable of moving on her own, clutching her soft cardigan in arms. He doesn't want to touch her any more without her permission, especially if she hates him as much as she acts. He may be a dick, but he'd never intentionally try to make her feel uncomfortable when she's in such a vulnerable state.

Together, they walk out of the building and to the parking lot, where Harry's navy sedan is parked. He wants to make a joke about her pointing out that yes, technically he left his car in the faculty lot, but she just looks so exhausted that he doesn't have it in him. Gently, he guides her to the passenger's side and unlocks the car, making sure that she gets in safely. When she does, he rushes around the vehicle, placing her bag in the backseat and starting the car.

"Where do you live, Y/N?" Harry asks quietly. She looks over at him in his black Ray Bans and a small smile quirks at his lips. He knows she would never be caught dead in this style of sunglass, but for the time being, he wants to take a picture on his phone so he never forgets the way she looks.

"On Maple." she grunts out as she tucks her arms into her cardigan. It's the end of summer, slowly crawling towards fall, but the daily temperature is still quite warm. He frowns and lowers the air.

"Do you have a roommate that can take care of you?"

"I live alone."

His frown deepens at this as he pulls out of the parking lot and down the road. Yes, they're in grad school, both fully capable adults, but she has to get lonely living by herself, didn't she? He's never seen her out at bars or parties, and if stress migraines are a persistent thing in her life, how does she typically get through them alone?

Harry lives a few streets over from Maple so he knows how to get there. She makes some grumbly noise to let him know that he's reached their destination, so he parks outside and turns the car off.

"I'll walk you in, if that's alright," Harry says. She pauses as she undoes her seatbelt, taking a moment to glance at him through the dark sunglasses.

"Okay. But only because I need you to carry my bag in and make sure I don't puke on the way to my bed."

"Sure," he murmurs, making quick work to follow her inside. He realizes he must look ridiculous, dressed in all black with her pastel pink bag looped over his shoulder.

Y/N's house is very... Y/N. He's not sure what he expected since he's never really wondered about her living conditions, but the one-bedroom apartment is small and cozy, filled with art and plants and candles. Her favorite colors — or what Harry assumes to be her favorites — are constant threads throughout the home, accents of light pink and forest green dancing through her kitchen on mugs and in her living room on throw blankets and pillows. She has a large vase of sunflowers on her coffee table and a sting forms somewhere in his body, wondering if someone — a romantic someone — gave them to her.

Harry notices a small cat toddle towards her, instantly pawing at her shoes as she kicks them off.

"Not now, Ging," Y/N mumbles, "Love you bunches, but 'm still sick."

"Ging?" Harry asks as he gently places her bag on the velvet green armchair in her living room. He picks the tiny kitten up and strokes the white patch on its head.

"Short for Ginger," she replies, turning to look at him. Her eyebrows raise behind the sunglasses when she sees that Ginger is already in Harry's arms, purring away at his pets. If she wasn't in so much pain, she would roll her eyes at the little traitor. "Um... I'm just gonna go upstairs and change and go to bed."

Harry nods, "Do you need anything?"

If she's being honest, Y/N hates going through migraines alone. She can't do anything by herself and she feels far more isolated and lonely than usual. In college, her roommate, Kelsey, was helpful and understanding, but Kelsey moved across the country after graduation. Besides her parents, Y/N doesn't have anyone else to help her in times of need like this.

"Yeah," she finally sighs, much to both her and Harry's surprise, "Can you... just stick around for a little? It's fine if you have things to do, but migraines give me a lot of anxiety and I... it helps to have someone here. Also, Ginger is lonely."

"Well, if Ginger needs company, then I'm more than happy to stay."

It's the first time he's ever made Y/N smile.

Read part two here :) | Read part three here :)

942 notes · View notes

natashaslesbian · 6 months

Text

Sleepy Bear

Summary: Natasha finds an unusual way to help you sleep

Word Count: 1.1k

Parings (Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

Warnings: none I believe :))

————

You had no idea how long your girlfriend had been doing this for you. Sleep had never come easy to you, only did you get a rest when your exhaustion would force your body to shut down. Your thoughts leave you restless each night, the anxiety had always been there. Your mom started you in therapy when you were 7, the nightmares should have stopped by then. She tired everything, your mother, each week was a new medication. Your dad on the other hand, he couldn’t have cared less. It was him who marched you into the hospital demanding they scanned your ‘daft brain’ as he put it. There was nothing to be found. Years of therapy only brought the diagnosis of anxiety, much to the disappointment of your father. Dr Grey was a nice lady, but she couldn’t quite solve your problems. You were too young to put your anxiety into words, you just knew it made you too scared to sleep. You stopped therapy after your mom died and your dad refused to pay, you were left to your own devices.

You met Natasha 2 years ago at the coffee shop you work at. She fell head over heels the second she laid her eyes on you, not that she’d ever tell you that. You had your eyes on her too, it took you months to realise that she was purposely going out of her way to visit the shop multiple times a week. It started with lasting looks and then lingering touches when you passed the redhead her iced caramel oat milk latte. Soon you were slipping her extra cookies and then one day she slipped you her number, you never looked back after that day. After a few months you finally let Natasha come over to your apartment, she was horrified at the state you were living in, sleep was the last of your worries. Your dad kicked you out after you told him you were gay, you took what you could and found the cheapest little studio available. The paint was chipped all over, the cooker didn’t work and you were on the verge of eviction. The widow was desperate to move you into the compound, despite your discomfort at the idea. Eventually you agreed to take residence in one of the spare rooms, and surprisingly you settled in straight away. Your life fell back on track after that and you and Natasha had grown closer and stronger than ever, you even shared a room now, Natasha had to move the ring in her bedside draw to Clint’s room.

A slightly sharp corner had you stirring slightly, the assassin quick to flash you a worried glance. You settled again straight away, rolling your face into the cold window. The day you had finally told Natasha about your anxiety was a relief, you cried for hours that wednesday. Since your mother, no one had been so kind. You were so afraid she would run a mile, but she sat with you for all those hours, just holding you. Nat promised to spend every sleepless night with you, lord knows she had her own problems when it came to sleep, but you somehow found comfort in each others restless nights. Often you would take turns in reading to each other, some nights you would go for a stroll around the grounds of the compound. But your favourite form of medicine was the car. Natasha would wrap you up in her fluffy blanket and strap you snug into the passenger seat, the gentle hum and sway of the motor would eventually lull you into a slumber. It took months for your girlfriend to convince you to even try the idea, you hated it at first, what did she think you were, a baby? “I know you’re not an actual baby, but your my baby” she would say “let me take care of you” how she even thought of the plan was a mystery to you and you definitely didn’t want to admit it was working.

Natasha pulled into the 24 hour gas station, the car coming to a scratchy stop. “Mm, Tasha?” You mumbled, half asleep still. “I’m here sweetheart, I just need to get some gas” she said “would you like some snacks? Or do you wanna sleep a little longer?” Your belly rumbled right on cue “choccy biscuit” maybe you were still a baby at heart, “one pack of chocolate biscuits coming right up” the beautiful red head said, oh how you thought her locks were just gorgeous. “You’re so pretty” you whispered, eyes only half open “thank you baby” Natasha laid a kiss on your warm lips and you couldn’t stop the little squeal that escaped you. She wasn’t gone long enough for you to miss her, considering you continued to doze in her absence. You heard the familiar commotion of your girlfriend climbing back into the drivers seat, you peeled your eyes open to give her a sleepy smile “here you go sleepy bear” your favourite biscuits were deposited into your lap and you whispered a small thanks.

You contently nibbled for the 45 minute journey back to the compound, while Natasha quietly sang along to whatever trash was on the late night radio, you always thought they played the worse songs during the early hours of the morning. A quick glance at the clock told you it was 2:36am, Natasha had been driving you to sleep for over an hour, there was nothing she wouldn’t do for you. “I love you” you said, breaking the silence “I love you too y/n” Natasha replied, a bit unsure at why you were suddenly all mushy. “No” you continued “I really love you” a red light gave Nat the chance to flash you another worried look, she softened when you saw your eyes glistening back at her, and the smile engraved on your face “you’re welcome baby girl” you swear she could read your mind. With the conversation at a happy standstill you decided to close your eyes again, just for a little nap until you were home.

When you stirred again, the rough car seat had become your plush mattress and your head was laying comfortably on your pillow. It quickly became Natasha’s as she climbed into bed with you “can I have my own pillow sleepy?” She giggled “no” you sighed, carrying the sound to the end of your breath “it smells like you” you mumbled “but I’m right here?” The widow kindly shot back “oh yeah” you said, eyes still tightly shut, you still failed to roll back over though. “You’re not gonna move are you?” Natasha said, you shook your head against her arm and she didn’t hesitate to haul you up into lap, her arms wrapped tightly around your waist and your head perfectly slotted into the crook of her neck. “Sweet dreams y/n” Natasha wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep that ring locked away.

————

I wrote this when I couldn’t sleep and I almost cried

-Astara

#marvel #natasha romanoff #black widow #marvel fic #nat x reader #avengers #fluff #insomia #wlw

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humanpurposes · 10 months

Text

Hysteria

(1950s AU) A housewife reaches breaking point and seeks medical advice at her husband's request // Main Masterlist

Aemond x nameless female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, period typical sexism, dub-con,

Words: 5400

A/n: inspired by this ask on @lightningandfireinmybones 's blog, shout out to @b-vvitched for the prompt, I couldn't stop thinking about it :) Also available to read on AO3.

She reads over the gold painted letters on the door to make sure she has the right room.

Dr A. Targaryen

General Practitioner

She brings her hand up to the door, hesitating for a moment before she softly taps her knuckles against the wood, thrice.

She holds her breath, unsure if a moment passes or a minute.

His voice comes soft and distant from the other side. “Enter.”

The room is simply four white walls, a dark wood desk and cabinets and an examination table with black leather upholstery. The harsh afternoon sun and a slight breeze bleed in from the open windows, floating through thin, white curtains. It’s surprisingly serene but still plain and inoffensive.

Dr Targaryen– Aemond as he insists as he shakes her hand– has harsh blue eyes, the left framed by a long scar slicing down his face, a pointed nose, curved lips, a sharp jaw and pale blond hair, stylishly gelled like some movie star. Something about him is unsettling despite the small smile and the impeccable manners as he offers her a seat in the green leather chair on the other side of his desk.

She contracts her hand slightly once he lets go of her. His grip had been rather firm.

He opens a brown leather notebook and flicks through a clipboard on the desk, frowning and tapping a pen against it as he goes over some paperwork and basic information she had given the nurse, as instructed.

She holds her hands together in her lap and winces at how damp her palms are. She’s sure it’s just the weather, and smooths them over her pale blue, rayon skirt. She checks her nails while she’s at it too. She had painted them red the night before, but they are already starting to chip from where she’d started her day with washing the dishes and doing a deep clean of the kitchen.

“You said your husband recommended you seek medical advice, is that right?” he asks, his head tilted down and his eyes meeting hers, expecting a prompt answer, she realises.

She swallows through the scratchy feeling in her throat, wishing she had accepted the receptionist’s offer of water. “Yes, that’s right.”

His eyes move over the page again and he gives a cryptic “hmm.”

The specifics often change but lately she’s realised that each day of her life feels the same. Wake up before her husband, make his coffee and his breakfast, make sure he wants for nothing and see him off to work. Help the mother-in-law with her shopping and her laundry. Bake a cake for the village fundraiser and drop it off at the the Church. Make polite conversation with the vicar and the other women helping out, compliment their babies, ask about the older children. Try not to cry when she’s bombarded with the dreaded question. “How soon can we expect little ones from you?”

Two weeks ago her husband had come home from work and found her on the sofa, staring into space, too tired to even reach for a book or a magazine. Everything had seemed to be going wrong for her that day, evidenced by the broken washing machine, the broken heel on her shoe, the cuts and blisters on her feet, the shopping left unceremoniously on the kitchen counter. She was absolutely exhausted, but when his dinner wasn't ready and waiting for him, her husband hit the roof.

Something snapped. Before she knew it, she was screaming, eyes hot and streaming with tears as she choked on her own sobs. She had never been so loud in her life. She can hardly even remember what she said.

Her husband’s voice screams inside her head. “Emotional… irrational… hysterical…”

“And you went to the nurse first?” Aemond asks.

“Yes.”

He looks back at the notes. “What did she tell you?”

She shifts in her chair. It should all be right there in front of him, why does she have to say it?

She takes a deep breath, as subtly as she can. “She suggested it could be a hormonal imbalance, or a symptom of…”

Aemond raises a brow, expectantly.

She feels a warmth rushing to her cheeks “... monthly courses,” she says quietly.

“And have you had issues with those?” he asks.

“They can be irregular.”

He hums again and writes something in his notebook.

She clenches her fist around her skirt and notices the soft ticking of the clock on the wall over the desk. It’s not too obtrusive, and the rhythm gives her something to focus on while neither of them are speaking.

Aemond shifts back in his chair, crossing a leg over the other, absentmindedly pressing the lid of his pen to his lips like he’s trying to solve a crossword in the morning paper. “What exactly was your husband’s main concern?”

There comes a familiar feeling, an emptiness in her chest like her body might concave, and a swelling in her eyes. She bites down on her lip to dispel the urge to cry.

Everyone around her loves to comment on how happy she is, how blessed she is to have such a happy marriage and a loving husband.

“He says I’ve been too emotional.”

“Emotional in what way?”

She tells him about the outburst two weeks ago, expecting him to tut and shake his head and chide her for her behaviour. Instead he watches her and listens.

“He says he doesn’t know what else to do with me. He says he does everything he can to make me happy, but that it’ll never be enough for me,” she says.

“And does he make you happy?” he asks.

Her answer hitches in her throat. The obvious response would be of course. He does what any good husband does, works, brings home a salary, sweet talks her mother and smokes cigars with her father when they visit every other Sunday.

Happiness seems to be an external factor, something people comment on and praise her. When other people say she is happy she wears it with pride, like a medal or a precious piece of jewellery.

She loves her husband, as well as any self respecting woman does. She reminds herself that’s the whole reason why she’s here.

At her silence Aemond smiles to himself and begins to write. She follows how his fingertips grip the pen and how the tendons in his hands flex.

“Wait!” she says, shuffling forward in her seat.

He pauses and looks at her like he did before, with his chin tilted down.

“No– I meant to say yes. Yes, he makes me happy.”

His eyes move around her face and briefly down, over the pearl charm hanging from her neck, her white blouse and her hands bunched in her blue skirt. She releases them when she realises he’s looking and rests them on the arms of the chair instead.

This feels like a test, one in which every word and gesture will be put to scrutiny, earning either a curious “hmm” or a scratching of the pen against the paper. She wonders which is worse.

“How long have you been married?” he asks.

“A year in July.”

“No children?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

His question leaves a tight feeling in her chest and in her gut.

Aemond sets the pen down on the desk without making a sound. “Sorry, I know these questions can be obtrusive. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but it would be useful to know what I’m working with.”

That’s an odd way to phrase it, she thinks.

“No it’s alright,” she says, her fingers moving anxiously over each other. “It’s not for lack of trying. We… try a few times a week. Usually on the weekends or when he’s not tired– he’s often tired after work.”

“And how is it?”

“Oh, um–” without thinking her hands move back into her lap and she starts to pick at the red nail polish. “He says there’s something wrong with me.”

Aemond tilts his head. “Wrong with you?”

She squeezes her thighs together at the familiar memory of her husband’s downright painful attempts to make love to her. He practically has to force his way inside of her and she can never stand it for more than a few thrusts before she pushes him off.

He was understanding for the first few months, but she can tell it’s starting to irritate him now. She doesn’t understand why it doesn’t work, what she could possibly be doing wrong.

“Does he prepare you?”

She looks up with a knitted brow. “Prepare me?”

He tuts and mutters something that sounds like “poor thing,” before scrawling another quick note.

Then he stands, rolling up the sleeves of his white coat and the black shirt underneath. “I want to check a few things,” he says, cocking his head towards the examination table on the other side of the room.

She follows dutifully, propping her hands against the leather upholstery and pushing herself up to sit on it. Her black heels don’t reach the floor. She crosses them at the ankle and lets them swing a little.

Once Aemond has washed his hands he approaches her. He’s tall, she realises as he stands before her. His hips are level with her knees and the edge of the table and while he’s not quite close enough to touch her, her legs twitch at the proximity.

She tries to avert her gaze from the somewhat intense expression in his eyes as he simply looks at her. Her eyes don’t stop moving, looking past his shoulder or down at her sides, but there’s not anything interesting to look at.

She focuses on the steady ticking of the clock, counting ten long seconds before she realises she’s holding her breath.

When she finally releases she finds herself focusing instead on the gentle sounds of Aemond’s breath through his nose, the smell of his hair gel, musky aftershave and the lingering scent of smoke.

Warm fingertips brush against her jaw as he brings her to look at him. She can feel the slight roughness of the pads of his fingers, but he’s gentle when he touches her, almost cautious.

He leans in a little closer until he’s touching her knees. She doesn’t let herself react but her heart is drumming furiously, more so when his thumb strokes over her cheek. He moves back and forth, grazing the corner of her mouth, before he swipes it over her lower lip.

She relaxes her mouth as he presses and tugs on the soft flesh. It’s somehow both terrifying and oddly reassuring.

And then he settles, pressing both of her lips into a slight pout while his fingertips rest against her jaw and the top of her neck.

“Open your mouth for me,” he says.

She stares back at him with wide eyes. Had she heard that correctly?

The corners of his mouth curl politely, waiting for her compliance.

So she does as he asks.

With his fingers holding her chin, Aemond inches his thumb into her mouth, settling on her tongue. His skin tastes clean and faintly medicinal from the amber soap.

“You can close your mouth,” he says.

She keeps her eyes on his as she closes her lips around him, careful not to touch him with her teeth.

He hums again, low and contentedly. “Good girl.”

She shudders at the sudden weightlessness in her belly.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

She gives him a small nod.

"Good," he utters, "just breathe."

She loses count of the seconds on the clock as he simply settles inside of her. She does as he says, breathing deeply through her nose, looking up at him through her eyelashes, trying to read if he's pleased or not.

When he starts to withdraw and she instinctively drags her tongue along his thumb. She looks down at his hand, the imprint of her mauve lipstick on his skin, the glistening digit and the small line of spit that trails from her mouth, which he wipes away with his fingers.

“How did that feel?” he asks.

She thinks for a moment. “Good.”

He glances down and her eyes follow, to the fabric of her skirt. When she stands it falls to her shin, but seated, the hem rides up to just below her knees. He places a wide hand on her left knee, their skin separated only by a thin layer of nylon stockings.

“These outbursts of yours,” he mutters, “are they a regular occurrence?”

“Not really,” she says.

“What do you think caused it?”

She presses her teeth together and looks away from him to think. “Lots of things I suppose. It all piles up.”

“How did it feel, to shout at your husband?”

She huffs a laugh at the instinct that appears in her head, it’s not something she should ever admit, but there’s something about Aemond’s eyes and the feeling of his hands that make her want to tell him the truth,

“I liked it, I was just so…” she shakes her head looking for the right word, but she supposes there’s a simpler explanation. “I was so angry, angrier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

“What were you angry at?” Aemond asks, his thumb starting to stroke against her thigh.

Would it be too much to list every aspect of her life that irritates her?

She hates a lot of things. She hates tidying the house just for it to get messy again. She hates it when her new shoes dig into her skin and make her bleed. She hates that she seems incapable of interacting with another person without suffering their scrutiny. She hates it when people tell her that her life is perfect.

Everything races around in her head, screaming and shouting at her until the noise becomes silent, just a throbbing pain in her head.

“Just… everything,” she groans, rubbing her fingertips against her temple. “I don’t understand it, everyone says our life together is so perfect, but I don’t feel perfect.”

His hand moves away from her and she looks up at the absence.

Aemond takes a slow breath. “Are you familiar with hysteria?”

Her heart sinks and he seems to see it in her face.

He purses his lips for a moment before he explains, “it’s essentially an excess of ill-managed emotions. It can lead to irrational behaviour and quite severe distress.”

She’s heard of the condition before, sparse stories here and there of men who had no choice but to seek proper treatment for their wives when they are too emotional… irrational… hysterical.

She’s not like those women, surely, and her husband knows that, right?

“Is that what's wrong with me?” she asks.

His mouth quirks. “Quite possibly.”

“But I’ve heard of women with this condition before. I’ve heard what their husbands do to them, I—” she can feel her eyes beginning to well with hot, stinging tears. “That’s not going to happen to me, is it?”

She hangs her head, dread pooling in her belly, until his hands cup the sides of her face. Aemond brings her gaze up into his eyes.

“Don’t send me away,” she whispers, blinking the tears from her eyes so they roll down her cheeks. “Please, there must be something you can do–”

“There there, pet,” he says, tracing his thumbs along her teartracks, “everything is going to be alright, hmm? We can sort you out.”

She nods at his reassurance and the feeling of his hands against her skin. It must be entirely improper to be so close to another man, even more so when she starts to realise just how much she likes it, a sweet sort of unease. Perhaps that’s just his nature, perhaps he’s just good at this part of his job.

For a moment he presses his lips together in a strange way, like he’s holding something back. “There is one treatment I’m keen to suggest,” he says.

“What treatment?” she asks.

He tilts his head slightly. “Hysteria is an instability of emotion. You need a release.”

“Like when I shouted at my husband?”

He smiles at that. “It felt good, didn’t it?”

She nods.

“We can undergo controlled releases,” he says, “you’ll be much happier for it.”

She takes a sharp breath when one of his hands moves down from her cheek to rest casually at her waist.

“I can start the treatment today, if you’d like?”

His face is close to hers now, She feels every flutter of his breath, the heat of his body separated by inches of empty space.

“Yes please,” she says quietly, like she might disturb the peacefulness in the room if she speaks any louder. “If it’s not too much trouble?”

“Don’t worry, pet, we’ve still got plenty of time left,” he says, stepping away. “Take your skirt off, and lie back.”

Suddenly her skin feels tight. “My skirt?”

“If you don’t mind?” he says over his shoulder as he walks towards his desk. “It just makes things a little easier, maybe the blouse too.”

She hops down from the table, heels clicking against the floor. While Aemond’s pen scratches against paper, she turns her back and starts to pick at the buttons on the top of her blouse. She pulls it over her head and folds it, setting it down on the table, where her head will go. Then she pulls down the zip on her skirt and lets it fall around her. For the slightly mortifying prospect of standing there in her stockings and undergarments, the breeze from the window washes over the bare skin of her arms and torso. It’s quite nice, a welcome relief.

She waits with her heels close together and her hands clasped in front of her. Aemond has his back to her and she watches the way the sunlight catches in the silvery streaks of his hair. He tears a sheet from the pad of prescription papers and leaves it on his desk before he moves to the sink to wash his hands. It’s methodical, like before, well rehearsed and memorised for efficiency. Does he even have to think about what he’s doing, she wonders?

Once his hands are dried he reaches into a drawer under his desk. He keeps his eyes on the small object in his hands as he walks towards her.

She straightens her back and puts her hands on the table behind her, testing her weight so she can shuffle on top of it.

Aemond looks up and she pauses.

His eyes dart up and down her body. “Shoes and stockings off too.”

Blood rushes to her cheeks but she complies, reaching down to undo the small buckles on each shoe. Once they’re under the table she stands straight and curls her thumbs around her stockings.

She looks up to Aemond. He gives her a small nod.

She starts to pull the thin material down her legs, so thin it should hardly make a difference. She shivers as the breeze meets a new part of her body. She straightens again, dutifully awaiting her next instruction.

The corners of Aemond’s mouth curl. “Perfect,” he mutters.

He steps closer to her, until she can make out the object in his hands. It’s a coppery colour, gleaming like metal, and no smaller than a tube of lipstick. He slips it into his coat pocket.

She follows Aemond’s hand as he reaches out and runs a slender finger under the strap of her brassiere. “I think we’ll keep this on,” he says.

She nods, though she doesn’t really know why.

A hum sounds in his throat and his eyes look over her face. “Lie back.”

She does as he says and fiddles with her hands, unsure of where to put them until she decides to keep them by her sides. Anticipation sets her nerves alight. She listens to every breath, each taunting footstep as Aemond comes to stand at the foot of the bed.

He moves slowly so as not to agitate her, but her whole body tenses when his hands clasp around her ankles. It’s obvious he’s trying to be gentle, but even when softly spoken his voice leaves a restless feeling in her gut. “Shh, try to relax, and just let me…” he lifts her legs up along her body until her knees are by her hips. His hands go to her thighs next and she lets out a short whimper of surprise when he pulls her closer to him.

“There we go,” he muses to himself, one hand on her thigh while he gently rests the other on her navel, over the hem of her panties.

Her hands are restless, fists clenching and nails digging into her palms.

Aemond looks down at her with a hint of concern. “You can tell me if you want to stop, at any point.”

“No it’s alright,” she breathes, suppressing the urge to arch her back.

His brows raise as he looks down, grazing his fingertips over her skin. Each movement has her breath hitching or her body squirming, no matter how hard she tries to relax, just as he’d instructed.

He brings both hands to her knees, closing them together before he reaches for her panties and slides them from her legs. She doesn’t see where he drops them. Her hands come into fists again as he gradually spreads her legs.

She’s not sure what to expect or how this is supposed to help her control her emotions, but she tries to concentrate on staying still, keeping whatever dignity she has left.

“Look at that,” Aemond hums, circling his thumbs against her inner thighs, “you’re already getting wet.”

She can feel it, the warmth pooling between her legs. No one has ever told her it’s bad, but it’s one of those things she wonders if she should be ashamed of. She tries to shift but there’s nowhere for her body to go, nowhere she can hide from him.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, “it’s not bad, is it?”

Aemond frowns. “You mean you don’t…” he trails off as his face melts into an amused sort of sympathy, like he’s piecing together a puzzle. “Bad news for your husband maybe. It means you’re aroused.”

Aroused. She repeats the word to herself a few times.

Surely it is a bad thing to find herself in such a state, only she finds herself turning her attention to Aemond. Her gaze trails shamelessly over the veins and tendons of his hands and forearms as he kneads at her thighs, the curve of his upper lip and the tip of his tongue swiping between his teeth. If only she could read his mind, figure out what he’s thinking behind those pretty blue eyes, what hypothesis he’s playing around with inside his head.

And then he reaches into his pocket. She lifts her head to try and get a better look. The coppery object looks more like an oversized bullet, with a slightly pointed head and a black button at its base. When Aemond presses the button it starts to hum. Even the noise of it sparks a reaction from her. She feels something strange, like a shockwave flashing through her body.

“Relax,” Aemond says, bringing his other hand to her hip. “I don’t want to have to tie you down.”

“No,” she utters, “sorry.” She lets her head fall against the upholstery and stares up at the ceiling, determined not to react.

Until something presses to her centre, humming against her. Pleasure pulses through her, unfamiliar but hot and bright. Her eyes snap shut and her hips try to buck but Aemond’s hand holds her down.

“How does it feel?” he says.

Her first attempt to speak comes out as a broken whimper. “Good,” she manages, stilling her hips from trying to rock against the bullet. “Fuck…”

Something inside of her feels tight, tensing and tensing until she’s sure she can’t take any more. But he keeps it against her, making small, rhythmic movements through her folds, edging her closer to that rising feeling only to relieve her of it.

Her nails start to drag along the leather, clawing at it for purchase. She tries to stay still, to keep her hips steady but something has to give. She turns her head to the side, whimpering and groaning into her shoulder.

“There you go,” Aemond hums, as he finds a truly torturous pattern, slowly swiping upwards from her entrance to the sweet spot of her pearl, only to start over.

“Please,” she whimpers as he tears her away from that feeling again. Blissful tears blur her vision and she feels utterly weightless. “I can’t stand it…”

He lingers the bullet just below her pearl. She’s so close to something. She can feel it.

“Do you want to stop?” Aemond asks.

“No!” she cries.

He starts to move in small circles now and her body feels like it’s burning. “Just take it,” he says, “you can take it, just be a good girl for me, hmm?”

“Yes… yes…” she utters like a dreamy chant.

The button clicks and the vibrations increase. She hardly registers the wanton noises she makes, but she’s all too aware of wet sounds of her arousal and Aemond’s short hums when her hips start to buck again.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” Aemond says. “Come on, pet, you can do it, you’re almost there…”

She feels the hum of her throat as she groans his name and suddenly the tight feeling snaps. Her whole body releases, just as Aemond promised, and she feels herself come undone. He guides her through it, the bullet whirring against her and his hand steady on her hip.

When he finally withdraws, her limbs don’t feel like her own. She listens to her own breath and feels the rise and fall of her chest as she wills herself into a state of awareness. She props herself onto her elbows and her eyes meet Aemond’s.

He smirks, and looks down again, gently drawing a thumb through her folds.

Her back arches and her breath hitches, though not as intensely as before. She can feel how slick she is now, how easily he moves against her. She eases under his touch and just lets it feel good.

“You did so well,” he says, “fuck, the way your cunt twitches when you come…”

She gazes at him with a bewildered kind of awe, at his parted lips, the golden glow of sunlight trailing down his jaw and his neck, and now the dark, almost hungry look in his eyes. She can already feel the desire rising again, the wanting for more.

“There’s something else I want to try,” he says. His thumb slips further down, teasing her entrance. “If you’ll let me?”

She holds her bottom lip between her teeth and nods.

“Good girl,” he hums.

That alone has her trying to roll her hips against him, but then he’s gone. She wants to groan in protest but keeps her mouth shut as she watches him remove his white coat and black shirt, both of which he drapes over his chair. For his seemingly slender frame, he’s surprisingly muscular.

With his back still turned to her she watches his hands move to his trousers. She hears the clinking of his belt buckle and the sound of his fly coming undone. He reaches back into the same drawer, tears something between his teeth and discards a small, white packet on the desk.

As he comes to stand before her once more she can’t help the small smile that graces her lips, unashamedly appreciating the muscles of his torso, his pectorals and the lines of his abdominals, and his now freed cock, already hard, and certainly larger than her husband’s.

He stands before her once again, bringing her knees down so he can slot himself between her legs.

She can already feel herself twitching and her heart racing.

He doesn’t waste much time on preamble. “You’re fucking soaked,” he mutters, lining the his cock to her entrance and taking a hold of her thigh, “be a shame to waste it.”

She expects it to hurt when he pushes inside of her, and for a moment it does. She feels the way he stretches her out with just the tip. He moves slowly, dragging in and out of her, each time pushing in a little more. She can take the pain, at least until it starts to melt away. After a few strokes it feels effortless.

Aemond lets out a sharp grunt as he comes close to bottoming out. “How does it feel?” he asks with a small amount of strain.

It’s a different kind of pleasure, it’s duller and deeper, less frantic but it still burns in the best way.

“Good,” she breathes.

Aemond’s hands take hold of her waist as he increases his pace, dragging her into him to match his thrusts.

The air feels hot and thick now, the ticking of the clock drowned out by laboured panting, breathless moans and the soft sounds of skin meeting skin.

“Fuck you’re tight,” he hisses, sinking his fingertips deeper into her flesh.

“I don’t suppose that’s a medical term?” she says with a dazed grin.

Aemond huffs a laugh but it seems to spur him on, his jaw slack and his brow furrowed in determination.

She wraps her legs around his hips and reaches up for him, but all she manages is to graze her fingertips over his torso. He snatches her wrists, leaning over to pin them on either side of her head as he brutally starts to snap her hips into hers. Like this he fucks her deeper and harder against the leather.

She feels her release building slowly, his cock brushing against a spot that has her eyes watering again.

“Going to come for me?” Aemond grits out, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I want to,” she whimpers, arching her back to get closer to him, “fuck–”

He releases one of her wrists and slips his hand between them, circling her pearl with the pads of his fingers.

He brings his lips to the shell of her ear. “You’re squeezing me so good,” he whispers harshly, “nearly there, nearly there sweetheart…”

Her legs start to shake as her pleasure peaks and her climax washes over her. Every part of her body tenses and moulds itself into him. Aemond doesn’t relent, he keeps fucking her until she’s whining and squirming, until finally he lets out a guttural groan into her neck. His hips still and she feels him throbbing inside of her, spilling himself into the condom.

For a moment she’s content to lie there, no matter how uncomfortable the surface of the bed is. She likes Aemond’s weight on top of her, his breath on her neck, the scent of him, the sweat from his brow against her skin. But they don’t stay like that for long. He pulls away from her and makes quick work of disposing of the condom and tucking himself back into his trousers.

“Nothing wrong in that regard,” he says, reaching for her hand to help her sit up. “If you’re having trouble it’s the fault of your husband. He needs to prepare you before he tries to fuck you.”

She flicks her hair from her neck to relieve some of the heat. “Oh, right.” She can feel herself trembling, but she feels light, like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

“How are you feeling now?” he asks, placing a reassuring hold to her arm.

“Good,” she says.

Aemond carefully helps her back into her panties, stockings, shoes, blouse and skirt. He rights her necklace, wipes the dried tears from her cheeks, drags his thumb around her mouth where her lipstick has smudged and helps her down from the bed, keeping a firm hand on her until she nods to let him know she’s alright.

He tears off a prescription paper and hands it to her. She quickly skims over it. He’s not prescribed any medication or recommended a lobotomy, thank God.

“Contraction therapy?” she reads, looking up at him with a raised brow.

“I want to see you twice weekly,” he says, buttoning up his shirt. “Maybe we can go for three times a week, if you feel it would be beneficial.”

She tries her best to hide her smile. “Well I’m sure you know best, doctor.”

General Taglist (comment if you wanna be added): @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy

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joelswritingmistress · 5 months

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You Scare Me, Professor: Chapter 1

Summary: The reader is taking graduate classes at a local university in the wooded upstate New York. She is drawn to her professor, Dr. Joel Miller, though she is also inherently aware that he has something dark about him that she can't quite put her finger on. As the reader's attraction grows deeper, she has to decide whether to endure the danger or run away as fast as possible.

Eventually Pairing: Professor Joel Miller x f!reader

Abnormal Psychology. It was among the final requirements to successfully complete the Master's Degree I had been working on for nearly two-and-half years.

Slow and steady wins the race. It was a common mantra that I continually used to motivate and justify the turtle-like pace of my educational progress. Working full time and refusing to take online courses were the two main factors contributing to the prolonged nature of my tenure at Woodbridge University. I had nothing against online learning. It just simply wasn't for me. Call me a geek but I genuinely enjoyed the classic classroom setting.

It was mid January. The younger generation of college students were loathing their frigid trek to whatever night classes they had been forced into signing up for the semester before. It was an assumption; though I had been there, done that. I knew what they were feeling on that first night of spring semester classes. As an adult, my feelings had transformed. I was eager.

The seventy-thirty class began right on time and I could still taste the dinner on my breath that I had hurried to inhale in the car on my ride in. The thought exited my mind as quickly as it had entered when the professor walked in, promptly shutting the oversized mahogany door behind him and locking it.

The click echoed off the walls of the stadium-style auditorium and everyone appeared to freeze where they sat. No professor in all of my graduate or undergraduate studies had ever locked the door.

What if there's a fire? That was my first, anxious thought. Again, it swiftly floated away when the finely-dressed stranger before us began to speak. His voice was deep; a bit scratchy. It felt like his vocal chords were made to narrate one of those Planet Earth shows.

"I'm sure you all know by now my name is Dr. Miller. If you didn't know at least that much by now.." He paused as he sat down on the edge of an oversized, wooden desk centered perfectly at the head of the room and removed a pair of glasses. ".. I'd have to wonder how the fuck you made it this far in your education."

My eyebrows lifted at his casual use of profanity in the first introductory sentence. I looked to my left and right, as most of the others in the class did, and amongst the silence there were a few stray chuckles that tested out the room's acoustics.

When I looked back, Dr. Miller was smirking. "Well that woke you up, didn't it?" He rose to his feet again and put his hands out to the sides. "Look.. I know you're all working. Maybe some of you have families. Maybe not. It's seven-thirty at night and you'd probably rather be getting ready to watch The Bachelor with a glass of wine."

There was more collective laughter now and his eyes scanned the room, both amused and almost as if they were searching to see who was smiling and who was still cautious. There was a genuine, curious nature to the way his eyes danced over the crowd.

"This class will be worth your while," he went on. "You're here for a reason and I intend to pump those big brains of yours with all the information I can." Dr. Miller smiled wider now, highlighting a pair of boyish dimples beneath a trim, salt and pepper beard, "Welcome to Abnormal Psychology."

He sure knew how to captivate an audience. The delivery of the first bout of information had me laughing, pondering answers to questions I never would have thought of and desperately scribbling notes down in my yellow, ninety-eight cent notebook as the class progressed.

I was so interested and so intrigued that I hadn't realized that class was on the verge of concluding until Dr. Miller uttered his words of departure. "I'll see you next class."

And just like that, the first Abnormal Psychology class had ended. I sat there for several seconds before rising to my feet, slinging my backpack over one shoulder and then gave a generous stretch toward the ceiling before beginning my slow climb down the wide, oversized steps.

Half of the class had piled out by the time I reached the ground level. I passed by Dr. Miller and, for some reason, didn't have the confidence to look in his direction.

"So, what'd you think? Hooked yet?" His voice cut through the air and more or less grabbed me and spun me around in his direction. I didn't even know if he was speaking to me until our eyes locked.

"Me?" I glanced over my shoulder - another habit that highlighted my inner insecurities. When I saw his smirk, an expression that I knew held all kinds of unspoken wit behind it, I decided to respond. "Yeah."

Say something else. I couldn't think. I never did well with being put on the spot. Still, I was eager to maintain a conversation.

"I'm really interested in Abnormal Psych. I've been looking forward to this class since I started my Master's."

"The delivery.." he went on, "What did you think? Too much?"

"Just right," I responded too coolly. I almost impressed myself. A red blush filtered into my cheeks and the nervous laugh I let out killed any type of confidence I appeared to have going for me.

Dr. Miller smiled and right then I decided that I thought he was handsome. Crimson filled my cheeks a little deeper and I glanced up toward the few stragglers who were still getting their things together halfway up into the seating area. It was my only means of a quick distraction before I turned back to face my new, slightly unorthodox professor.

He hadn't looked away, and I swallowed hard. "Thanks.." It was all I could manage and I gave a fleeting wave before heading out into the hallway.

It was as if I was reentering the world after being put in a trance for two hours.

On the drive home I wondered if anyone else had felt the same effects that I had. Were the other students in my class still thinking about the class like I was? Did they find Dr. Miller to be the perfect combination of intelligent and.. cool? Was cool even the right word?

Smooth, I corrected the description in my mind and then immediately shook my head. What was I even thinking about? I had known the man for two hours.. two.. and here I was passing judgment as if he we had been in each other's company for an appropriate amount of time to match my opinion.

In my final conscious, cognitive thoughts of the night I, again, reflected back on the fascinating opener of Abnormal Psychology and the riveting professor that taught it. No class I had ever taken was ever interesting enough to consume my final thoughts of the day.

Even less, they never made it into my nightly dreamscapes or nightmares. That night, the images that danced their way into the multiple cortexes of my brain where dreams were concocted were a troubling combination of both.

I heard Dr. Miller's indistinguishable voice narrating the ordeal as I was lost in a forest. A sea of fog swallowed me whole though somehow I knew I was visible to something that was out there. It was haunting. I could not pinpoint what my professor’s role actually entailed. Was he trying to guide me? Hurt me? Lead me away from whatever dangers lurked?

It felt all-too-real when his hands clamped down on my shoulders, finally revealing his presence. I couldn't see his face, though I knew the pair of hands belonged to Dr. Miller.

My overemphasized gasp bridged the realms of dream and reality, and I sat up in bed, a cold sweat coating my body as my mind struggled to recognize my immediate surroundings.

“What the fuck..” I whispered to myself, eyeing the red numbers on the digital clock on my nightstand.

3:37. I sighed and laid back down eying the ceiling fan that swirled in circles around me. Yes, I was one of those people who still needed a fan to sleep in the middle of winter.

I closed my eyes again and it was like coming down off a high. Adrenaline made the thud of my pulse pound in my ears, as if actual quarter-sized drums had been implanted there. In that early morning hour my heart palpitated. Half of it was what I could only interpret as misplaced desire. The other half was outright fear. I never fell back asleep.

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