OLIVE!!!!! I cannot believe I missed your birthday!!!!! I feel terrible terrible. I hope you had a wonderful day surrounded by your family and friends and got marvelous gifts. you are my favorite person on this website and even if I don't have the time to log onto tumblr anymore, I still stop by your blog occasionally to see what you're up to and what you're writing about. your radiant presence always lights up my days and I know I have a friend in you whenever I need it.
I'm so thankful for you and I wish you nothing but the best for this year! your talent, humor, kindness, and grace (and did I mention TALENT??) never fail to blow me away, like!!!! how can one (1) person possibly concentrate this many qualities? God did not came to play when he handed out the talents, but all in all I'm glad he gave them all to such a solar person. happy birthday again, love, and I hope we can talk more when I'm finally free from the hell of *shudders* 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 💜
the way i have missed you is......... indescribable (not a perfect match reference when the choices fandom is going up in flames,,,,,, asdfghgfddfg,,,,, i am mourning the days when the app was good, and i simply had to do it to 'em,,,,,). lol, but it's the truth!!!!! you are one of the first mutuals that i became Fully Fledged Friends with on tumblr, and for that you have always (and will always) hold one of the most special places in my heart. you deserve literally everything in the world. you are so talented and so unbelievably kind, and also so very valid in literally every way. your taste in music? superb. your taste in fictional characters? unmatched. your ability to bring a smile to my face without even trying? out of this world. even your compliments are impossible to beat, but that just makes you so much more amazing.
wow, i have missed professing my undying love for you.
and omggggggg,,,,, i totally feel you in being absolutely swamped with college work. this (final) year is going to be even more rough than all the others for me, and i am straight up 😔✌,,,,,, 😔✌ not having a good time 😔✌,,,,,, 😔✌ press f to pay respects to my sanity, pLEASE.
when we break free of the educational prison, i am going to rUN to my word processor and write every fic you've ever imagined just for you <3.
Steve’s crying on the porch of his parents' house, with a duffel bag and baseball bat, when Eddie pulls into the driveway.
“Jesus, Steve, what happened?” Eddie crouches down to get eye level with Steve. Despite being dark out, the sun set long ago, and the outdoor lights weren’t on. Steve turns to look at his parents' car in the driveway and thinks back to when the lock had distinctly turned shut on the front door. They were around to switch the lights on; they just didn’t care anymore to do so.
Steve is grateful for the moonlight, as he can see the pretty lines on Eddie’s face. Even if they currently curve into a frown.
“Hey Eds.” Steve’s voice cracks.
“Stevie…what happened?” Eddie asks again, this time it’s gently. It cradles Steve and holds him softly. He wishes Eddie’s hands would do the same.
“Did you know hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward?” Steve sniffles.
Eddie’s face scrunches in confusion, “What? Birds? You lost me.”
Steve pushes past Eddie’s confused face. “They are the only birds to fly backward. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Dustin to teach me that out of the munchkins. It was actually El. She’s apparently going through a bird phase. And I don’t think the others are very interested. So I try to pay attention when she talks about it. And she taught me about hummingbirds.”
Eddie settles on his knees, “That’s great, man and those little shits should listen to her more, but I’m not sure what that has to do with what’s wrong. You called me to come pick you up and hung up before I could even answer.”
Steve bites his lip, “Sorry, my dad clicked the phone off.” Eddie’s face shows surprise, but Steve keeps talking before he can interrupt. “And well, I guess hummingbirds have nothing to do with anything. It’s stupid, really.”
“No, no. It’s not stupid. Tell me about the birds, Stevie.” Eddie’s hand finally reaches out to Steve. He brushes the fallen hair out of his face, and something in Steve just sets him off.
“You see, they can fly backward. And well, no, I’m getting ahead of myself. You see, my cousin Tucker is here to visit. And let me tell you, he is the worst. Like Eddie, you would hate him. Conservative, capitalist enthusiast, real bootlicker kind of guy.”
“Sounds like the worst. Especially if he made you use the big words.” Eddie’s hand falls away, and Steve mourns the loss. Normally, when people make jokes about his intelligence, it stings. It makes him feel small. But when Eddie does it, it isn’t mean or a poke at how stupid Steve is. With Eddie, it’s almost like he’s reminding Steve that he is smart. That maybe Steve is the one making himself small.
“Anyway, he’s visiting, right? So my parents come home. And I haven’t seen them in months, since before spring break. It’s nearly October, and I haven’t seen them, and I can’t tell if I’m excited or dreading their arrival. It’s always a fight when they are around, how I’m not good enough, how I should be more. Their visits always end up being cut short, and me feeling like shit. But this stupid, stupid part of me was hoping it would be different this time. They haven’t seen me since the “earthquakes.” Surely they’ll be happy to see I’m okay, right?”
Eddie stays silent, his face revealing nothing.
“Of course, it’s not. They only came home because my cousin Tucker was in town. All the way from Indy cause it’s so far. And my mom ‘made’ dinner, as in she ordered it and pretended she made it. It wasn’t even that good, but we all pretended it was the best thing ever made. Cause that’s what they do, pretend. And the dinner is fine, boring. Most of it is just me staying silent while my dad and Tucker talk about the business. Tucker runs the Indy office while my dad is in New York. Ya see, Tucker has been gunning to take over for my dad when he retires, which is another word for dies—“ Steve let’s put a bitter laugh; he wonders if his parents are listening. He doubts it.
“—and they are going on for the whole meal, and I’m almost through the home stretch when my dad brings up me, coming to work for him.”
Eddie reacts finally, “You’re going to New York?” His voice is strained, like he is trying very hard not to yell, not at Steve, but at anyone who will listen. Steve is quick to correct.
“No, no, I’m not. This was news to me to Eds. I have no interest in my dad's business, and as far as I was concerned, he didn’t want me a part of it either. Guess that has changed. Has? Had? I don’t know…” Steve trails off.
“Don’t call me that. It makes me think you’re mad at me. Besides, it doesn’t fit me anymore.” Steve bites.
“Sorry, Steve. I’m not mad. I promise. Just, what do you mean?” Eddie’s head tilts to the side, his curls cascading down his shoulder. It reminds Steve of a river, dark water rippling in the moonlight.
“I was so shocked, Eds. When he said that. That I was quiet, I should have corrected him, maybe. Maybe I could have fixed it. But Tucker was so quick to act. He was pissed. He knows my working for my dad means me being set up to take over. And Tucker, he’s worked too hard to make sure he does get the business. But instead of yelling, he just gets this concerned look on his face. And he…”
Steve wrenches his eyes shut as he recalls the rest. As he recalls the way Tucker’s face faked worry as he struck. Like he has been waiting for the right moment to ruin Steve. He manages to open his eyes eventually, only to see Eddie’s face once again. The honest look on his face is enough to push Steve on.
“In the summer, Robin was feeling sad. This was before you guys knew about each other, and I was the only one who knew about her. And she was sad cause nothing had happened with Vicky and she felt so alone. And I hated seeing her like that. And so, so I took her to Indy. And, and—“ Steve starts to hyperventilate.
Eddie takes him by the shoulders. “Breathe for me, Steve. Come on, baby, match my breaths. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Steve matches Eddie’s breath. Ignores how the word baby calms him down instantly. “Tucker told my dad that he saw me in Indy. That he saw me come out of a gay club, Eddie. And he went on about how they should focus more on getting me help, than putting me in a power position, again Eds, which I don’t even want! And how I would be a bad look for the company. How would it look if a company whose whole image is family values, only successor, turned out to be gay.”
Eddie flinches a bit, but doesn’t let go of him. Steve feels instant regret. “That isn’t what I meant, Eddie.”
Eddie shushes him, “I know, sweetheart. You’re just upset. I know. Did you tell him that you weren’t there for you? Or maybe that Rick was mistaken; it was a regular club?”
Steve rubs a hand down his face, “And what? Tell him that my two best friends in the entire world are gay? So that I can be shipped off to New York and never see them again? Yeah right. I’d rather face the bats again than be removed from you two. And I’m not going to out you guys like that.”
Something warm crosses Eddie’s face, “So, you lied then?”
“Before I could say anything my dad reacted.”
Eddie freezes, a darkness swims in his eyes. “He put his hands on you?”
“No, no!” Steve panics, and he purposely leaves out the ‘not this time.’ Eddie isn’t necessarily a violent person. But he does have a protective streak. As admirable as it is, Steve doesn’t want him to get hurt.
Eddie relaxes but only slightly.
“He was actually pretty calm, which is even more terrifying. I expected him to yell, throw things. But instead he just turns and says, ‘Is this true, Steven?’. And what gets me is they didn’t even question why my cousin was anywhere near that club in the first place. Why did he see me there? Instead, he just asks me if it’s true. And it’s the first time in a long time, if ever, that my dad asks me this. He always just assumes I’ve fucked up. And this time, he really asked me about the truth. And I couldn’t, I couldn’t lie. I don’t know why, but it felt wrong to. So I didn’t. I just told him, ‘Yes. It’s true.’”
Steve throws out a bitter laugh, “And you know what? He still doesn’t freak out. He just tells me I have five minutes to get my shit and get out. That I needed to call a ride because the car was under the name Steve Harrington, and I was no longer a Harrington. And he was so calm. And my mom just sat there, and I just listened. I didn’t fight. I am so tired of fighting.”
“Steve, why not just tell them the truth? Tell them you were there for a friend?” Eddie’s tone isn’t scolding, only curious.
“See, that’s because I started thinking about hummingbirds, Eddie. I started thinking about how they fly forwards and backward and how they are the only ones that can do that. Isn’t that fascinating? These small birds are so strong and interesting, and can do something no one else can do. But no other birds understand; the rest of them just fly forwards Eds. And I—I feel like that sometimes. That I’m not flying in one direction, ya know?”
Steve feels like he isn’t making much sense, but then Eddie nods and looks at Steve. Like really looks at Steve, and sees him. And Steve feels raw, stripped of his skin, exposed, and it should hurt, but it feels so fucking good. And Eddie stares deep into Steve’s eyes and says, “Yea, I know.”
“I didn’t want to lie. Because even though Tucker was wrong, he was also right. I wasn’t there for me, but I think I needed to be there. To get it. And I think that I’m flying backward, Eds. And I’m worried it’s wrong of me, that it shouldn’t be allowed. And that there is no purpose to me flying backward if I can just go forwards. If I can just fly with the rest of them. But I don’t think, I don’t think I’ve ever really taken flight before. Not before I understood I could also go backward.”
It’s in this moment, where Steve is covered in tears and snot that Eddie finally takes his hands and cradles Steve’s face. Steve’s never felt safer.
“Listen to me, sweetheart; there is nothing wrong with you. Okay? Nothing wrong with you. Just because you can fly forwards doesn’t mean you have to, doesn’t mean you should. Sometimes you’re going to have to fly backward; you’re not going to have a choice. It’s just the direction you’re fast, huge, hummingbird heart takes you. And it might take you a bit to learn that. To understand that, but I will make sure that you do. Because you, Steve Harrington, are fucking fearless and fucking beautiful, and I am so goddamn proud of you.”
Steve finally reaches his breaking point and collapses in Eddie’s arms. Full body, ugly sobs wreck Steve. He is sure that he is soaking Eddie’s favorite Black Sabbath t-shirt to the bone, but he can’t find it himself to care. His fingers dig into Eddie’s back as he clutches tighter as his breathing picks up.
“Breathe, baby, breathe. Remember that. I got you. I got you.” Eddie whispers into Steve’s ear.
Steve picks his head up when he finally calms down, and looks at Eddie. “You.”
“What’s that?” Eddie says softly, rubbing circles through Steve’s polo.
“I called you. Because, I think—no, I know, that I’ve been flying backward, to you. For a while now. And I knew that, even if you weren’t too, you’d still show up. And I just—just need you to know that. I am so grateful you showed up.”
Steve knows he should feel nervous telling Eddie all this, but he isn’t. He strangely feels like his dad at this moment, calm and unmoving. Steve doesn’t understand many things in this world, but he understands that even if Eddie doesn’t love him like that, Eddie still loves Steve in plenty of other ways.
It’s still nice, though, when Eddie leans forward and kisses Steve’s forehead. Steve closes his eyes and releases a breath.
Eddie slides his head down slightly so their foreheads are pushed together affectionately. “Stevie, I’ll always fly backward to you.”
Although it’s awful how they got here, Steve can’t help but feel happy at this moment. He also can’t help the silly giggle that comes out of him, “I think we have just lost all meaning to this metaphor at this point.”
Eddie snorts, “Oh, have we? And here I thought we were having a nice moment, a poetic one at that, telling each other ‘I love you.’”
Steve blinks at him, “You love me?”
Eddie frown lines finally turn upwards, “Yea baby, I love you.”
Eddie cuts Steve off. “Tell me in the morning. When your tears have dried, and I’ve woken up with you in my arms. I want to hear it in the daylight. Okay? Let’s go home.” Eddie stands, offering a hand to Steve.
“Yea home, got to fly back to our nest.”
Steve can’t help the snort he releases, “Dork.”
Eddie just smiles, “Thought I told you to save the ‘I love you’ til the morning.”
Steve smiles back as he takes Eddie’s hand, “I didn’t…”
Eddie squeezes Steve’s fingers, “Yea, ya did.”
I’m back, not dead, and in my feelings. Thinking about expanding on this one. I hope you guys like it. 🧡🧡
toji doesn't understand the concept of personal space.
it was cute at first, he was big and thick and brutish and yet he clung to you like a magnet to steel. but the practicality of it was another story.
he'd keep you hugged to his chest through an entire movie despite you sweating from his stifling body heat, kiss you until you couldn't breathe while his hands lifted your hips to meet his thrusts, and despite your literal king sized bed, he chooses to fall asleep with his full weight on top of you, arms firmly wrapped around your waist making it impossible to wriggle from his grasp.
you groan as the rays of light peek through your blinds and illuminate the broad shoulders that block your line of sight.
"toji." you mutter, patting the familiar mass on top of you. he grunts and makes no effort to roll over to his side of the bed.
"toji, move i've gotta pee." you say, writhing against the mattress and attempting to shove him away. his sigh tickles the skin of your neck, but he relents and shifts to his side, allowing you to slide off of the bed and make a beeline to the bathroom.
after you've relieved yourself, you go through your skincare routine and load up your toothbrush with toothpaste. the flouride doesn't even get the chance to coat your enamel before the door’s opening and toji’s heavy footsteps hault behind you-- right behind you in fact, your back hitting his chest when you straighten up from rinsing your mouth. you don't acknowledge him as he rests his forehead on your shoulder, continuing to brush your teeth. he pokes at your ribs, making you jolt and swat him away with your free hand.
all of 30 seconds later his large hands are snaking under your-- his overiszed shirt and pawing at your chest, his hoarse voice telling you to "come back t' bed."
"oh my god you child, can you gimme a second?" you garble through the foam in your mouth. his hands have slithered down to your hips by the time you've put your toothbrush back and given your mouth a final swish of water.
"okay, c'mon, i'm do--" your words are replaced by a yelp as he throws you over his shoulder in one swift motion. kicking your legs proves useless as one of his arms covers the back of your knees to lock them in place. you can't help but laugh when he slaps your ass that's perched on his shoulder.
"put me down you barbarian!" you shriek as he carries you back to the bedroom like a ragdoll, smirking and turning his head to sink his teeth into the meat of your thigh.
you're still laughing when he collapses onto the bed and hovers over you, using his arms to cage you in and spattering your face with kisses. he only stops his attack when you pull him in by the neck to connect your lips. it's sweet and chaste and has you sighing against him. he pulls away a fraction to meet your eyes, lids heavy as his words fan over your lips.
"wanna go back to sleep." he mutters.
you raise a brow at him. "okay?"
you're met with silience, verdant eyes boring into yours as his unsung request hangs in the air.
a scoff escapes you and you roll your eyes, opening your arms and gesturing for him to embrace you. his low hum of satisfaction vibrates through his chest and sinks into your skin, passes through flesh and bone and nestles into the beating muscle in your chest. his head finds its rightful place in the crook of your neck and your fingers toy with the silky hair at his nape.
maybe it's because you're so used to it, but you can't imagine life without your little routine. the comforting pressure from his body pressed into you, the subtle scent of rosewood that seems to be embeded into his skin, and the shallow puffs of air that skim your pulse as his breathing evens out, easing you into peaceful sleep.
its far from perfect, but it's yours, and you wouldn't change a thing. <3
38. “stop, please don’t cry.” with Eddie Munson please and thank u bestie <33
a/n: EDDIE MY BELOVEDDDD i haven’t written for him in a little while, sad times. i miss him. thank you for sending a request!!! <3
Eddie messed up.
He didn’t need anyone to tell him, anyone to rub it in. He just knew he fucked up.
That night, while you had been waiting at the restaurant, patiently, dressed in Eddie’s favourite maroon dress, he had been busy with a spur of the moment campaign. Completely forgetting that the two of you had dinner plans.
When he got home that night and saw his uncle’s button up shirt ironed on the back of the couch, his heart dropped. So low he swore it was in his feet. He grabbed the phone with shaky hands, muttering shit, fuck, fuck, shit, even though he knew you wouldn’t pick up.
He’s messed up quite a few times before, but he’s never been this panicked. By messed up, it’s always been things along the lines of; he forgot there was an exam, he forgot to put gas in his uncle’s car. Never with you. Never to hurt you.
He felt like the biggest douchebag in the world, and Eddie knew a lot of douchebags.
“Please pick up, please pick up,” he muttered to himself, eyes squeezed shut as the dulcet tones rang through the phone. The longer they went on for, the more Eddie was certain you wouldn’t pick up. That you were sitting there in your bed, gorgeous hair splayed across your pillow in that dress that damn near brought Eddie to his knees.
“Fuck,” he cursed, slamming the phone and hanging up the call before he rushed to the bowl by the trailer door, scattering through everything to find his keys. He wasn’t even sure if he was wearing shoes or not as he rushed out the door, barely getting the car started before he was slamming his foot on the gas and reversing like hell out of the trailer park.
He probably wouldn’t admit this to you because he knew you’d scold him, but he was definitely speeding and definitely not stopping fully at his stop signs as he charged over to your place. Even though he arrived in record time, it felt like the longest drive of his fucking life.
As he pulled into your driveway, he realized how clammy his hands were. He was nervous. Utterly petrified. Because you — you were the best thing in his life and he fucked up.
He was shaking as he got out of the car and looked up to your bedroom window. Your light was on. You were up there.
Eddie was used to sneaking in and out of your bedroom, but never like this. His heart was beating so fast he was certain his ribs would be bruised. He was practically stumbling over to the lattice against the wall of your home, worried he’d fall off once he started climbing.
Once at the top, he peeked into your bedroom to make sure you were alone. And sure enough, you were. Sitting on your bed in a large hoodie with your legs under the blanket, you sat staring up the ceiling.
It crushed Eddie’s chest and he couldn’t help but knock on the window right away. He really had no time to waste.
You jumped, nearly falling off the bed as you clutched your hand to your chest, glaring over at the window with squinted eyes to see who was there. You relaxed a bit when you saw who it was, but your features turned into an expression of annoyance in less than a second.
“Come on, baby, please let me explain,” Eddie’s voice was soft, but it was easy to hear through the window of your quiet room.
You stood off the bed and walked over, arms crossed after you unlatched the window.
“I’m only letting you in so you don’t fall to your death. That would be awkward to explain.”
Eddie was grateful as he opened the window and hopped inside, out of the chilly Hawkins night air and into your bedroom. He had been here many times before and he knew it down to every last detail, but he couldn’t even be bothered to look around. His eyes were on you and only you.
His breath was snatched from his lungs as he noticed the slight redness around your eyes.
“Are you going to stand there and stare?” you flipped yourself back down on the bed and looked up at him, “Why didn’t you show up to dinner? I looked like an idiot, Eddie. I’m pretty sure the old couple next to me were talking about how sad it was the whole time. They wouldn’t stop giving me pity looks.”
Eddie’s hands were still shaking as he made his way over to your bed and sat on the opposite end, not trusting his own legs to keep him up at the moment. He was about to collapse.
“I’m so sorry,” his voice came out raspy as he tried not to blurt out a hundred apologies at once, “I’m so, so fucking sorry, baby. I don’t know what happened. I just got so distracted and the guys were pressing about this campaign and—,”
Your voice sounded so quiet that it stopped Eddie right in his tracks. He had planned a hundred things to say to you on the ride over, and each one had ended with him practically on the ground begging for your forgiveness. He didn’t expect this. For you to be brushing him aside and pretending like you weren’t hurt. Hiding your feelings from him because you were so upset.
That, he thought, hurt more than anything.
“No, it’s not,” he pressed on, wanting to lean across and hold you so close, “It’s not okay. I’m the world’s biggest idiot. I really am. I’m so sorry. I swear, I will make it up to you. A hundred dinners. I’ll take you out for a hundred dinner dates and… and I’ll even bring flowers each time.”
You let out a small laugh, and reached up to rub your eye so quickly, Eddie almost missed it.
“No,” his voice cracked as he lost all sense of restraint and leaned over, hand under your chin and scooping you close to him, “No, stop, please don’t cry, I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry, baby.”
“I’m mad,” you leaned into his touch, warming his heart, “But I’m not crying.”
He pulled away from you just a tad, raising his eyebrow in an I-don’t-believe-you kinda way.
“Not crying anymore.” You corrected.
That didn’t make it any better, but Eddie didn’t say that. He just pulled you against his chest and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
“You’re everything to me, you know that, right? You’re everything and I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you tonight. I really don’t know how it could have slipped my mind. You’re the only thing I’m ever thinking of, especially when we’re not together. I was thinking of you all day and I just… I really don’t know how I could have missed it.” He was talking to you, but most of these words were really just his internal thoughts. He still can’t believe he forgot date night.
“These things happen, Eds, it’s fine,” you fiddled with the hems of your sleeves, toes wiggling in your fuzzy socks. His heart did a little jolt at the nickname.
“Yeah, but I don’t want them to,” he spoke so quickly he thought you might not even understand him, “I want you forever. I really do. I can’t imagine my life without you and if this is the end, I get it. I don’t blame anyone but myself, but I just wanted to be good for y—,”
“The end?” your eyebrows were furrowed as you cocked your head to the wide, “End? I’m not going to break up with you.”
His reaction was visible. His shoulders slumped in relaxation and his chest let out a massive exhale like he had been holding his breath since he arrived. Even his eyes warmed up and colour returned to his previously pale cheeks.
“Oh, thank god,” he couldn’t stop the words from coming out, “I was so scared. I thought I had unforgivably fucked up.”
He reached out his hands to rub them along your legs, the sweatpants warm to the touch from being cocooned under the blanket for probably a good while. It was comforting. On the way over, he had a moment of worry that he might never get to feel your touch or your warmth again.
He almost crashed the car.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. You did fuck up,” you pointed a finger at him, but there was no hostility in your glare, “But it’s not a relationship-ending mistake.”
He nodded, “I know. I know. But all that matters to me is that I have the chance to redeem myself. To make it up to you.” His voice was still shaky with nerve, but the raspiness had faded away. He was calmer. Reassured.
“Better get started, Munson,” you leaned back into the bed and tucked your legs under the pillows, “I’m expecting a shower of affection and love for the next little while.”
He chuckled, taking off his shoes (that he did actually have on) and sliding into bed next to you, “I’m pretty sure that’s more thrilling for me than you. But I will gladly and willingly show you how I feel about you every second of the day.” He reached under the blankets and grabbed your hand, cold fingers linking with your warm ones, “Can’t have my princess forgetting my love for her.”
You grinned at his words and he felt kind of like the grinch in that scene where his heart grows three sizes larger.
Eddie would never get enough of you and he was going to spend his whole life proving it.
Oh GOD, a crazy idea came into my head. What would happen if each of these five men faced the problem of an unexpectedly broken bed during rough sex?? How would they react and what would they do? i'm terrible...
Literally laughed out loud at this one. Thank you🤣🤭 Hope this does your request justice!
PS: literally got second hand embarrassment writing this
141 + König Breaking their GN! Partners Bed
Warnings: This is trash, smut, cursing
Simon "Ghost" Riley-
You were bouncing up on down on Simon's cock, your hole swallowing his shaft entirely with each movement.
Simon could tell your body was starting to weaken, and decided he'd take the initiative to help you find your release.
He'd flipped you over, so that he was on top, trapping you in a missionary pose.
Lining himself up with your entrance, he began pounding into you with a brutal speed.
Evidently, the bed was not made to withstand the amount of force that Simon was emitting, as he was practically fucking you into the mattress.
Mid thrust, the beds legs had completely given out, causing your mattress to go tumbling to the ground in the middle of the bed frame.
The two of you grew very quiet as you both took in what just happened. You looked up at him and saw a small smile forming on his lips before letting out a fit of giggles.
"Think it's funny, do ya?" He asked, chuckling. He kissed your brow before returning his lips to your neck.
"Simon, its broken!" You managed to get out in between giggles. "We can't continue like this!"
"Say's who? 'S fine, needed a new one anyways. " He smirked as he continued his movements, still wholly intent on still having you each find your release. He sure wasn't about to let a broken bed prevent him from making you feel good.
"Johnny "Soap" MacTavish-
Johnny wasn't one to be rough in bed much. The two of you often having your rough sex in the shower.
He'd woken you late in the night one night, as he was beyond sexually frustrated, and his fist just wasn't enough.
With your legs wrapped around his waist, and his arms tightly gripping your headboard, Johnny was pounding into you at a brutal pace.
His grip on the headboard had tightened, and just as he had almost reached his high, the headboard had snapped in half underneath his grip.
Soap immediately stopped his movements, staring on in shock at the piece of broken wood in his hands.
"Jolly." He cursed, looking down to find you staring at him with wide eyes.
"Did you just break our bed...Johnny?" You asked, a hint of a smile forming on your face.
"I uh.. I think I did, lass." He slowly pulled himself out of you, and set the piece of wood on the floor. He was about to turn and mumble his apologies when he heard a loud cackle come from you. "Darlin?"
"YOU BROKE OUR BED!" You hollered, unable to control your laughter.
Johnny gave a sheepish glance to you, and rubbed his hand along his mohawk in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry, I'll get us a new one."
"Don't bother, this is a hilarious story to tell people when they come visit. Oh hey, why is half your headboard missing? Oh, yeah Johnny fucked me so hard he broke it!." You doubled over in laughter, causing a smile to form on Johnny's lip, as he too started to chuckle.
The bed did in fact remain there, and you and he never could get through telling the story to your friends without laughing.
Price was always one for rough sex. The man craved it. He loved seeing his marks littering your body, and hearing your desperate moans for him to go harder.
Tonight was no different, and you and John were in bed, his hand fisting your hair, while thrusting into you from behind.
"F-uuck. Feels so good, love." He'd groaned, feeling you clench around him
He'd put more pressure in his knees, so he was able to ground himself better, the movement causing a CRACK to come from your bed.
John's brows furrowed in concern, before the end of the bed collapsed on the floor, causing the mattress to fall at an angle.
John had fallen backward at the impact, losing his balance and landing on his ass with a thud.
"John!" You cried, turning yourself around to see your husband on the floor, laughing hysterically.
He threw his head back in laughter, causing you to laugh yourself. "I am so sorry about that love. Can't say that's ever happened to me before."
The two of you laughed together, as john moved to stand up, inspecting the damage that was done. The bed was destroyed, the foot board beyond repair.
"What do you say we go to Ikea, pick out a new one yeah?" He asked, helping you off the broken bed. You nodded your head eagerly, catching your breath from your laughter.
Later that night, once your new bed was put together, Price made damn sure to put it to the test.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick-
Kyle had a tough day at work, nothing was going his way. From spilling coffee on himself, to shutting his finger in the car door, he was convinced the world was out to get him.
He was in serious need of a stress reliever, and was over the moon when you'd taken him to the bedroom once he walked in the door.
Kyle had you in missionary, and was jutting into you in a frenzied pace, desperately seeking his release
He'd evidently put too much pressure on the one side of the bed, because a loud cracking noise filled the room.
The post on the right side of your bed had split, causing the bed to shift at an angle, sending the two of you tumbling off the side of the bed.
You'd landed on Kyle with a THUD, the two of you on the landing on the floor next to the now broken bed.
Kyle's eyes widened as he looked over to the bed, and looked back to you, about to mumble his apologies.
You bit your lip to stifle a laugh. You knew he had a really bad day, and presumed laughing at this would only make it worse.
Kyle sat in silence for a moment before a laugh escaped his lips. "Fuck this day, man. I can't even shag my partner without something going wrong."
The two of you erupted in laughter, as Kyle moved to lay on the ground next to you.
"Babe, what do you say we do a pillow fort in the living room tonight? Get some wine and pizza and have a movie night?" You asked, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "We'll worry about the bed tomorrow."
"God, you're so perfect for me. I love you." He declared, pressing a kiss to your lips.
Though the evening didn't go as Kyle had originally planned, he didn't regret a second of it.
Konig was going fucking ham on you in your shared bed.
He'd been away on deployment for nearly 3 months, and barely made it through the door before the two of you jumped each other
He had you in a mating press, and was punishing your hole at a brutal pace.
He'd barley fit on your bed as it was, so his feet were pressed firmly on the footboard of your bed as he was jutting into you.
"Harder, please." You'd begged him, causing his mind to go blank as he obeyed your commands.
He pushed just a bit harder against the foot board, allowing him to go deeper
The force from his feet had caused the wood to crack, and split open, the top half of the foot board falling off.
"Heilige Scheiße!" Konig cried out, turning to look at what he'd just done.
You sat up abruptly, and looked at the end of the bed, before howling with laughter.
"Maus?" He asked, brows furrowed in confusion. "Why are you laughing?"
You were unable to get a word out, from how hard you were laughing. Konig's cheeks burned from his embarrassment, and he muttered something incoherent in German under his breath.
"Baby, no! It's fine. I'm not laughing at you, I promise. You have to admit that was funny." You immediately went to console your boyfriend.
"But I broke your bed, you should be mad at me."
"I am not mad in the slightest, that just made my day." You chuckled. "Please, it's okay I promise."
He nodded his head and allowed the giggle bubbling in his chest to escape his lips.
He'd still felt terrible about breaking your bed though, and spent the rest of the afternoon gluing the piece back together.
König is sleeping beside you. The sun is just coming up so that low light is coming through the window shining on him ever so slightly. His wonderfully broad chest rises and falls with each breath. The sheets sit precariously at his hips. Whether you two have sex or not, König prefers to sleep nude.
Your mouth waters at the sight of the V that disappears under the sheet along with the happy trail that makes you more than happy. You slowly reach out to trace one side of the V. He sighs in his sleep and it makes you smile.
"König, my love," you whisper as you continue to trace the line. His eyes are still shut, but he shudders. "König..."
"Love..." he murmurs. He's awake. "What are you doing?"
"Waking you up," you giggle.
"I can...see that," he says, opening his eyes. "I can feel it, too."
"You know what that does to me," he tells you.
"What's that?" You move your hand and begin to kiss along the V. He inhales deeply and looks down at you.
"We are doing this so early?" he asks, touching your head gently. You stop and rest your head on his stomach.
"Doing what?" You ask innocently and he chuckles.
"You always tease me." He touches your cheek. You begin retracing his V, and he jerks away, holding back a laugh.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"Of course not," he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "It is nice to wake up this way."
"To me touching you?" you ask.
"Next to you," he says and you smile before sitting up on your knees between his legs, pulling the sheets further down his hips.
"Why are you so sensitive here?" you tease, dragging your fingers down both sides of his V. He groans quietly, his stomach muscles twitching.
"Why do you think, liebe?" he breathes.
You shrug. "No idea." You smile at him innocently.
"This...is exactly why...I call you a troublemaker." He moans then his body trembles. Suddenly, he grabs your hands and flips you onto your back easily. You squeal and giggle.
"No fair," you whine.
"And what you did to me was fair?" he asks. When you're quiet for too long, he chuckles. "Exactly. Now, let's see where you are most sensitive."
Summary: a sparring match between you and your best friend turns into something you’ve both been keeping under the surface when he refuses to let you lose the game
Flufffffff 💖 (with a squint towards a smuttier theme hehe)
"Holy fuck it's hot in here," Bucky wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and resumes the fighting stance he'd been occupying before exclaiming that he was sweating balls.
"Alright," you laugh and flip the makeshift knife in your hand, "just tell me if you need a break to regain your strength, old man."
"Oh doll, I don't need a break," he grins and threateningly takes a step towards you without blinking, "I can take you with both arms tied behind my back."
There it is again...
One of those ill-timed comments that you try and laugh away in a poor attempt at hiding just exactly how bad they make your stomach churn and the back of your neck prickle.
Pretending that you do not have a major crush on the man standing in front of you has become full of feeble attempts, and to avoid embarrassing yourself, you settle on an equally threatening "I'd like to see you try," accompanied by a playful smile that you cannot hold back no matter how much you try to.
He winks at you before he, without warning, lurches forwards, swinging his fake dagger mere inches from your chest.
He's quick, but you're quicker, and while he's focusing on touching one of the spots you in unison decided would be considered a kill-zone, you jump as high as you can while wrapping your legs around his hips.
Immediately thrown off balance, he falls backwards and lands on the white felt floor with a dull thud followed by a grunt as your weight lands on top of him.
Before he can even move, you've pinned him to the floor with a knee placed on each side of his torso.
"Surrender?" you grin and lean forwards as you press your wooden weapon to his bopping Adam's apple.
"Okay, you got me," he laughs and raises his hands above his head to capitulate.
You know that he can easily flip the two of you around and turn his fake demise to his own advantage; place his entire weight between your legs as his thick thighs glue your hips to the spot, ready to devour you as he sinks his teeth into your neck, filling up the empty hole inside you that's constantly begging for his touch.
God, he smells amazing!
"Sweetheart," he chuckles from far away and you realise you've done it again; become lost as you daydream about your best friend fucking you into oblivion.
"Not that I'm not enjoying this," he places both hands on your hips and gently pushes you back with a stomach-flipping grunt, "- but my back is killing me, and I really need to change out of this shirt."
Your gaze falls to the hand you have carefully placed on top of his sternum, suddenly aware of the wet stains of his t-shirt and the heavy heartbeat drumming below your fingers.
"Of course," you immediately pocket your fake knife and release the grip you have on him as you stand up. "Sorry," you mumble, embarrassed by yourself and your inability to play it cool whenever you're around him.
"No worries," he winks at you from the side of the ring and reaches behind his head, grabbing the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling it off with one swift movement.
You've seen him shirtless countless of times before, but it never ceases to amaze you just how good he looks. He has angry scars extending from his waistline, zig-zagging and digging into the skin lining his entire stomach and chest, reaching all the way up to the torn flesh of his shoulder and it makes him look so fucking beautiful. You know he hates the bare-chested sight of himself in the mirror, but you doubt there could ever be a single facet of Bucky Barnes that you would not love.
"You've been working on your takedown," he eyes you impressively, either ignoring your obvious stare, or choosing not to believe that you actually like him shirtless. "I can't wait to see you break Sam's back with that move," he chuckles, "I love when he's having his ass handed to him."
"I highly doubt that'll happen seeing as Sam doesn't let me win," you mock Bucky while adjusting the strip of cloth that is wrapped tightly around your knuckles. "He actually fights back when he's down."
"Come on, you had a knife pressed to my throat!" Bucky chuckles but you merely raise your eyebrow at him, well-aware that he stopped fighting for the sake of your keeping your confidence intact and not because you'd beat him.
"Okay, okay," he laughs at your dead-pan expression, "maybe I let you win a little. I want it to be fun for you too - so sue me."
"Buck, we're supposed to be training," you sigh, holding your hands out to the side, "how am I ever gonna get better if you won't give me a fair fight?"
"Sweetheart," he licks his lips and squints as he considers how to put his next words in the most delicate way possible. "I bench press more than you weigh... It's never gonna be a fair fight."
"Well if I don't get to practise on you, how do you reckon it'll go when I'm up against a guy your size for real?"
"A guy my size with seventy years of combat training and serum running through his veins? Sure, that's likely to happen..."
You ignore him. "Get down on your back and continue fighting me like you normally would."
He crosses his bulky arms over his chest while arching his eyebrow.
"I don’t care," he shakes his head, “I’m not doing it.”
"Well if you don't, you can consider this our last training session."
"Come on - this is ridiculous!"
"Lie down, same as before."
"You've got to be kidding me," he mumbles under his breath as he rolls his eyes but he still ends up doing as you say. "Happy?" He defiantly throws his arms out to the side when he's once again lying with his back against the white felt.
"Can't say that I'm not enjoying this more obedient side to you," you laugh and sink down on top of him, straddling his chest again, "didn’t think you had it in you - where do you normally keep it?"
"Then fight me."
"I'm not gonna fight you," he shakes his head.
"Bucky, do me like you normally would!"
His grin broadens in a boyish smile as his hand twitches near your thigh. "Really?" he laughs while licking his lips, mockingly slipping his eyes down to your chest and back up again. "You want me to do you like I normally would?" He winks.
Another stomach flip… You have to suppress a gulp.
"Shut up," you chuckle and lightly smack his arm to get his mind out of the gutter. "You know what I mean."
"Sweetheart," he sighs with serious eyes, his smile still perfectly in place, "- are you sure you really wanna do this?"
Now it's your turn to roll your eyes. "Yes, Barnes..."
"Alright - just remember that you asked for it," he shrugs before he quickly grabs your hips and shifts the position around.
You don't even get to yelp - you barely have time to register what the hell just happened before you're lying on your back with Bucky's lower half pressed to yours, trapping you in place.
His dog tags are dangling in the air between you and you can feel the heat radiating from off his bare chest that is panting enticingly right before your eyes.
"Now, are you happy?" He asks and makes a point of his statement by pressing himself closer to your body, so you're completely sandwiched between him and the floor with no means of escaping.
To further underline his superiority, he pins your wrists together and forces them above your head, holding you steady with one hand only.
"Surrender?" He asks in the same mocking tone of voice you used before, his plump and grinning lips suddenly mere inches from yours.
You can feel your entire body stretching below his, how he drives his hips into yours to keep you in place.
"Fuck," you mumble in frustration and start wriggling your hips to try and get free. "Bucky!" You groan to get him to release you, but even you can hear how your struggling sounds come out almost moan-like, and you see how the smile on his face is suddenly replaced with small, almost inaudible gasps.
Immediately, you stop moving, suddenly aware of the excitement growing tight in his pants while the rest of his body is completely frozen above you.
"Sorry..." you gulp as you slowly look up at him, finding the panicked blue that is half-hidden behind long chestnut strands falling sinfully over his eyes.
You've never been in this position before; on rare occasions you have cuddled long into the night, arms and legs entangled on his bedsheets to the tune of a long-forgotten movie playing in the background - but this? This is different. It's not cute and cuddly.
The look in Bucky's eyes has shifted in a heartbeat, and it's not teasing anymore. It's raw. It's passionate. And when he quickly shifts his gaze down to your mouth and up again, you give in to what you've been wanting to do for months now.
Without thinking, you strain your neck upwards touching the side of his nose with yours, placing a soft kiss on his lips for the first time ever.
He's perplexed - still completely frozen - but when you let go of his mouth shortly after, he wrinkles his brows in silent frustration.
He's panting hard, digging his lower half into you as he looks at you with a fire ignited in his eyes you've never seen before.
You put your hand on his neck, pulling him down towards you, throwing your pillow-soft kisses out the window by placing your thumb on his chin, slipping your tongue inside his open mouth while you move your pelvis rhythmically against his.
"Sweetheart," he whispers with swollen and wet lips as he slightly pulls away. He's breathing hard but his entire body is heavy and relaxed as he looks down at you with lust written all over his warm face - and you choose that exact moment to attack.
Quickly, you wrap your legs around his body as you flip the two of you around so you're finally sitting on top of him again.
"What are you doing?" he pants, confused about your sudden movements.
"Winning," you whisper back with a grin.
It takes him a minute to register your words and set them in connection with the conversation you'd had just before your friendship had passed the point of no return, but when he does, he throws his head back with a frustrating grunt at your dirty trick.
"Not cool," he shakes his head with a chuckle, half-amused, half-annoyed. "Not cool at all. You had me all excited," he groans and puts his hands on your hips, pressing you down on his hard erection.
"Tell me I'm winning," you chuckle as you run your fingers down his chest, suggestively arching your back while he's turning into a mess beneath you.
"Fuck," he groans and rubs circles over your thighs as his erection grows a little harder. "You better not be doing this to the guys you fight in the field."
You put your hand atop of his sternum and slowly start rocking your hips back and forth against him, arching your back while rubbing yourself along the tight bulge underneath you. "Tell me I'm winning."
"You win! You win!" he pants and traces his fingers down your throat and cleavage, laying his palms flat over your stomach as he angles his hips upwards. "Just... don't stop. Don't stop."
"Kiss me, Bucky," you whisper and pull on his dog tags so he can only inch closer to your craving lips.
"Oh doll, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this!" he groans sensually with pink cheeks as he finally reclaims your mouth.
summary: 5 times Aemond was in love with you + 1 time he finally confessed his feelings
warnings: friends to lovers (at the age of 9, 10, 15, 17, 19), a pinch of angst (Aemond healing after losing his eye), but overall so fluffy and sweet you may want to skip dessert
words: ~ 5500 (I got reeeally carried away with that love confession)
Aemond is weeks away from his tenth birthday and he feels as miserable as ever. That feeling is an iron weight upon his heart, his mood irritated and face features grim more often than not. He is still without a dragon — and it’s the only thing he can think of, day and night, steadfast and stubborn in his obsession that most of his family finds to be blown out of proportion. It might have stang him less if only it wasn’t for the constant teasing and pitiful jokes that added to his distress and the never-ending heartache. He learns to keep a straight face and act as if he doesn’t really care, but deep down he does, way more than he’ll ever admit.
His training sessions are a way to channel his anger, and he lashes out at a straw man, again and again, clinging to the thought that, at least in these moments, he is not entirely powerless. He keeps his focus on the target, attentive to Ser Criston’s advice — “Soften your knees”, “Keep your feet light, your hands heavy”, and for a couple of hours he forgets about his misery.
It’s when the training comes to an end, the dreaded realization sinks in again, and Aemond is lost in his thoughts, mindlessly twirling the wooden sword in one hand, his gaze wandering around the yard.
And then his eyes fall on a bright green spot — and all of a sudden, he sees you. A girl of his age, the hem of your green dress a bit dusty, boots covered in dirt, a few strands of hair fallen loose, a coy smile on your face. You meet his gaze and wave at him excitedly.
Aemond looks dumbfounded. A girl in the training yard. Waving at him. He blinks once, twice — and in the next moment, you're standing merely a few steps away, glancing curiously at his sword.
"It looks so hefty! Is it heavy? What is it made of?" a string of questions, your voice sweet and joyful.
There’s a brief pause and maybe you mistake his stiffness for arrogance as you are quick to add:
“Oh, my manners!” gasping but showing no actual regret. “Forgive me,” you curtsy, your smile growing even wider. A timid smile appears on his face in return and he finally comes to his senses.
“It’s made out of red oak. It’s not very heavy, you get used to it,” Aemond raises the sword, letting you take a closer look. Within another blink of an eye he finds himself talking to you, your questions endless and maybe a bit naive but he genuinely enjoys it.
That’s until you both hear a loud cry:
“Lady Y/N!” your nanny comes running in, out of breath and scowling. “I told you not to wander around...,” she chokes on her words at the sight of the young prince. She curtsies, too, but it isn’t nearly as cute as when you do it.
She sprints decisively in your direction:
“It wasn’t very polite of you to interrupt the prince’s training, you little menace!”
And then Aemond, to his own surprise, moves to stand in her way.
”Y/N didn’t interrupt a thing,“ he disagrees, lips thinned into a tight line.
The nanny stops and looks at Aemond dubiously, switching her gaze from him to you.
Ser Criston is the one to resolve the conflict — he comes from behind, with a polite smile plastered on his face.
”Young lady can watch from the balcony. The guests are very much welcomed,“ he calls for the maid to escort you and your nanny up there. While you’re away, he looks at Aemond with a grin:
”Already wooing the ladies, my prince? Let’s hope you are as good with your sword as she thinks you are.“
He does make Aemond work for it but the prince fights back, winning one bout after the other. He keeps glancing at you and you wave at him every single time.
Aemond is too young to know what love is, too shy and guarded to even entertain the thought of it. But when you look at him, with your childish grin and your eyes bright with mirth, he doesn't feel lonely anymore.
It's been two weeks since Aemond lost his eye and he hasn't left the bed once. The pain is still blinding, burning and constantly making his only eye water. But what hurts even more is the humiliating disability. The triumph of claiming Vhagar died down, and now the prince was faced with the harsh reality he needed to adjust to and the process wasn't an easy one. The fever has only recently gone down, leaving his body weak and freezing from the lack of movement, but he couldn't bare the thought of stepping out of the room.
His mother wouldn't leave his side and even Aegon often came to visit, clearly blaming himself for not being there for his little brother. Yet their presence barely brought Aemond any comfort and most of the time he would pretend to be asleep to avoid any conversations. He knew they only meant well and he was being cruel but he couldn't help it as his pride was shattered and he gave in to sadness.
That is until one night he wakes up to a weird sound. He's only half-awake when he hears a vigorous tapping that clearly comes from the outside. Except it's not from the other side of the door — but rather outside his window.
He's startled by this guess and suspiciously walks closer. It takes him a few seconds to focus his gaze and discern a human's silhouette — and then another few to realize that it's you standing on the window sill. He feels like his heart will jump out of his chest as he rushes to open the window.
You climb through and clumsily drop to the floor. But before he can get worried, you are on your feet again, eyeing him with concern.
“Oh, Aemond,” your gaze and voice are both so soft, it makes his lower lip quiver. You carefully approach him and put your hand on his shoulder, gently sliding it on his back in a soothing motion and then cuddling him. He welcomes your company with a sigh of relief. You smell of oranges and you give the best hugs.
"They told me no one was allowed into your chambers," your hushed whisper burns his ear. "The silliest thing I've ever heard!" you pull away from him, still lightly panting, cheeks flushed and hair messy. "I knew I had to find a way to come see you."
You examine his face, frowning at the scar that's still healing.
"Does it hurt?"
He only nods, afraid that if he opens his mouth, he won't be able to hold back a sob. You move closer, resuming the gentle motion of rubbing his back.
Ever since that day in the training yard, you kept in touch, regularly sending each other letters, chatting about everything and nothing, sharing your little secrets and observations. You recently mentioned that your parents allowed you to come see him again, but with the tragic change of events, Aemond completely forgot about the preplanned visit.
"I will take his eye," you say out of the blue, caressing the unharmed side of his face, your voice laced with anger. Aemond thinks he might've heard it wrong.
"Luke’s! I shall take his eye, as payment for yours," you tell him with zero hesitation. For a girl of your age, you’re way too eager to plan such a thing, yet he somehow has no doubts that you can actually do it.
Aemond shakes his head:
"You shouldn't," his voice quiet but firm. "The King was very adamant about that, no payment is needed."
"Well, maybe he is too old to think straight," you retort. "You are his son and you lost an eye! Justice must prevail," you tilt your head at him, clearly thinking that you’re in the right.
And he knows that you are but he also knows no justice will be served. It’s the last straw for Aemond — he looks away in shame as tears, hot and angry, start falling down his cheek. You waste no time hugging him again, letting him cry on your shoulder, and the two of you stay like that for what feels like an hour.
And then, in the comfortable silence of your embrace, he hears you asking, very seriously:
"Are you sure I can't take his eye?"
At that moment, he can't stop himself from letting out a laugh — a weak one and barely audible, but still, he laughs, for the first time in two weeks, and you are the sole reason for it.
Your cheek is pressed to his, your fingers running through his hair, and Aemond realizes he can't lose you.
He begrudgingly persuades you that taking Luke's eye isn't worth the trouble.
By the age of fifteen Aemond becomes quite accustomed to the eyepatch and it gives him a boost of confidence. Losing an eye only made him train harder and his persistence pays off when he’s the one to win, time after time, no matter who his opponent is. His hair grows longer, now silky smooth and with no sign of his boyish curled ends, his face features sharpen. He learns to walk with his head high and hands clasped behind his back, mastering the intimidating look that makes most people want to stay away from the one-eyed prince.
His tricks could’ve never worked on you, though.
You come to visit him a few times a year, and he eagerly awaits your arrival. All the days in between, you keep talking through letters, them getting longer as you get closer. He keeps those letters locked in a hidden compartment of his table. And sometimes, for no specific reason — or maybe for the reason he can’t yet formulate — he is drawn to reach for them, which always ends with him rereading the letters for hours. Some of them he knows by heart and yet it never stops him from having the pleasure of seeing your handwritten stories and little jokes that were only meant for him.
Today is no exception and Aemond is so enthralled by reading, he almost misses the knock on the door. The sound brings him to reality but he is in no hurry to react. The knocking comes again, and the prince groans, annoyed at the maid's persistence. He carefully puts the letters back and goes to the door, armed with his cold gaze.
And then he opens it — and it's you standing in front of him.
Aemond barely has time to register what's going on when you launch yourself at him, your arms immediately enveloping him in a tight hug, your laugh ringing in the air. He hugs you back and, while you can't see it, he's grinning from ear to ear.
“I swear you’re getting taller every time we meet!” you look up at him, beaming, and he lets you in. “I soon will need a ladder just to hug you properly".
"I’ll be sure to let my body know of your disapproval," he sneers and you stick out your tongue.
"While you are at it, shall you also work on your friendly face? I overheard the maids being frightened to go into your chambers," you try giving him a scolding look but end up giggling at his reddened cheeks.
"I am friendly enough!"
“Yes, nobody glowers quite like you,” you snicker and flop right on the floor, the move always making him smile. Aemond tried persuading you to sit on any other surface that’s actually meant for sitting but you insisted that his fluffy rug works just as well, so he eventually gave up, deciding to join you. He never complained since.
Before he knows it, he’s immersed in the conversation while you enthusiastically share the recent news and everything that’s happened to you on the road. Only about half an hour in, he notes a small bag you're clasping in your hands.
“You come bearing gifts?”
“Oh, I almost forgot I had it,” you laugh, abashed. “I decided I should bring you something to replace this crumpled-looking thing".
It takes Aemond a minute to realize that you're talking about his eyepatch. But he has no time to protest as you silence him with a gesture of your hand:
“I took it upon myself to count for how long you’ve been wearing this one already,” your tone gets serious. “I must say, that number is disturbing.”
There's a moment of silence and then he clears his throat, his voice unsure:
“Very kind of you to think of that, I shall replace it later on.”
He reaches his hand to take the bag but you quickly cover it with yours, fingers brushing over his, and he freezes.
“Are you still not convinced that I can take a look at it?” you try to make eye contact but he averts your gaze.
“Aemond, I was with you and I think I’ve seen enough back then — none of it scared me.”
“It is not a sight for the faint of heart,'” the prince mumbles, his bravado faltering.
“Well, I don’t remember fainting the first time. You should have more faith in me,” you try to reason, holding his hand.
Aemond ponders for another minute — or maybe ten, he isn't sure, and you patiently wait, not wanting to press him any further. Then he finally makes a decision and, after taking a long, sad sigh, he removes the eyepatch and looks at you, the sight of him is the very definition of insecurity.
You stay silent for about five seconds before concluding:
“Oh, it healed so nicely!” with no hint of uncertainty in your voice. Your smile reassures him a little as you peer at the sapphire, looking very pleased.
"The gem compliments your eye very well," you give him your verdict, taking the new eyepatch out.
"We might have a different understanding of what a compliment is."
"This is me trying to say that I really like the way it looks," you chide him lightly. "And I consider myself to be quite understanding, thank you very much. Will you stop pouting and let me put it on?"
At this point he surrenders, giving you permission, and you move closer, giggling with excitement. You gently fix his hair, making sure it’s all combed back, and then lean to put the eyepatch on. You have a habit of biting your lower lip when you're too concentrated on something, and Aemond can't help but gaze at that part of your face while your teeth graze over the pillowy surface.
He’s never let anyone this close — and not just in the sense of physical proximity. The moment is very intimate, and the softness of your movements tugs at his heart. He is suddenly very aware of the very short distance separating you two, and he holds his breath. You are oblivious to his stare and soon lean back, satisfied with the result and glaring at him with something akin to fondness.
He wishes he could paint a picture of you right at this moment, so tender and caring and sitting by his side.
He also wishes he could kiss you — and that thought scares him to death. And yet, once it appears, it never goes away.
Aemond is seventeen and his life has been pure torture since you stopped visiting him. He hasn't seen you in over half a year (seven months and eleven days, not that anyone's counting). It's not your fault as your father has unexpectedly fallen ill and you couldn't leave his side. The prince exhausted the maester with questions, asking for advice to write back to you, worried sick that your separation would be stretched for way longer than he could handle.
Luckily, the Gods took pity on him, and he was glad to learn that your father got better, and you will come to the King's Landing soon. Your visit coincided with Aegon's birthday, but Aemond didn't care about the feast, his mind only occupied with the thought of seeing you. He was both nervous and excited to the point of not even hiding it, which led to Aegon teasing him relentlessly. Helaena, on the other hand, wholeheartedly supported Aemond's sympathy for you.
“She will be delighted to see you, too, I am sure of it,” his sister tells him the day before the event.
“But the reason for it might be of a different nature,” Aemond remarks, and Helaena gives him a compassionate look.
“You will never know her true feelings unless you ask,” she encourages. “The two of you are so close, I consider Y/N part of the family.”
Aemond knows that he’s of age and his mother hinted that, despite him showing no interest in courting, some ladies still found him attractive. He dismisses the idea but then finds himself thinking of it from time to time. When the realization forms in his head, it’s nerve-wracking but oh so compelling — he thinks he would’ve really wanted to marry you. He just doesn’t know how to tell you about it.
The day of your arrival comes, and Aemond wakes up at dawn in anticipation, determined to confess his feelings. He tries to come up with a speech, but it feels wrong and sounds weird, and he decides it will be better to improvise. He all but runs to the courtyard to be the first one to greet you. However, when you step out of the carriage, smoothing your dress, and your eyes meet, Aemond stops dead in his tracks and the world around him stands still.
His confidence might’ve blossomed — but not nearly as much as your beauty did. Somehow in those recent months, you’ve matured into a woman that takes his breath away.
It’s not a drastic change, it's all in the details: the contours of your face are more defined, the cheekbones prominent, your hair knotted up high in a perfect style and even your pace is much slower and gracious. You walk towards one another, both suddenly cautious. But when you are a couple of meters apart, a well-known smile appears on your face and you hold your arms out to him and he finally hugs you again, after all this time. Aemond relaxes, inhaling the familiar scent of fruits that you undoubtedly munched on your way here.
“You look exactly as I remembered you,” you say as you slip from his embrace.
“And you are a sight to behold,” he breathes out, taking you in, and your cheeks heat up at the compliment. You’ve never been shy with him before, so this is also new. He wonders what might’ve caused this change.
As the two of you walk around the castle, it feels a bit awkward at first, and you keep glancing at him with emotion he can’t read. But Aemond is too happy to see you to give it much thought, and within an hour you ease into the conversation, too. By the time the evening comes, the tension disappears, and you are laughing at his sarcastic remarks again, and he savors every second of it.
The feast in honor of Aegon is lush and crowded, but you stay by Aemond’s side, enjoying each other’s company, and he only has eye for you. When the music gets too loud, you sneak out and soon find yourselves in his chambers, just like in the good old days. Aemond is in the middle of telling you about Aegon’s recent foray to the Flea Bottom, when you say:
“It’s just the two of us,” your fingers sink into the fluffy rug. “You don’t have to wear it with me. You know it, right?”
He wears the eyepatch with everyone, only taking it off before going to sleep. Moreover, he actually cherishes it because it’s a gift from you. Aemond hesitates:
“I thought you quite liked it.”
“I only gave it to you because yours started to look like it was pulled off a dead man’s body!” you laugh.
Before he can think of an answer, you lean closer — your shoulder brushing his, your hand touching his face, the same gentle warmth he remembers so well, — and remove the eyepatch yourself. The sight doesn’t bother you in the slightest as you confess:
“I accept you the way you are, Aemond,” and then, a moment away from him opening his mouth and saying the thing that’s been on the tip of his tongue for the duration of the day, you add: “That’s what friends are for — and you are my best friend.”
And just like that, with this word alone, his plan goes out the window.
A friend. Aemond can’t even be upset at the reveal, because, honestly, being your friend feels like a blessing in itself and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. How could he be so selfish and foolish to even think about risking it all, risk losing you?
So he keeps his feelings to himself, locking them away deep in his heart, and doesn't argue with you.
Maybe he should have.
By the age of nineteen Aemond reaches the conclusion that he wants to take the risk. Otherwise, he thinks he might actually die as his heart can not hold all his feelings anymore. In two years' time, there isn’t a single thing about you that he hasn’t come to love, and keeping it a secret becomes harder with each day.
Aemond is ridden with doubts to the point where he can't hide it any longer and he decides to seek advice — and the prince can't think of a better person to talk to than his mother. Unbeknownst to him, Alicent was the first one to notice. Years ago, when you were kids, she quickly sensed the effect you had on her son, and it brought her joy as she watched the two of you get closer with time.
So when Aemond bursts into her room, anxiety radiating off of him as he starts jabbering away, his pacing erratic and voice trembling, it takes her about a minute to realize what's going on.
“My dear, I think you must talk to Y/N,” she approaches him, an understanding look on her face.
Aemond cuts his speech short, eyeing her with wonder:
“You don't seem surprised.”
“Your affection for her is as bright as a fire blazing,” Alicent chuckles. “I believe Y/N is the only one who doesn’t see it.”
“Should I tell her...?” he doesn’t dare say it out loud, not yet.
Alicent briefly takes his hands in hers, squeezing them.
“You should tell her the truth.”
Her encouragement gives him a dash of hope, lifting a weight off his chest. Aemond knows in an instant that the letter won’t cut it, and you must have the conversation face-to-face. Fortunately, your next visit is in a month, so his suffering won’t last for much longer.
Aemond almost reaches the door but then sharply turns to his mother again, his cheeks flushed:
“Will you give me your approval?” and this time, he looks straight at her as he wants to see her genuine reaction.
Alicent smiles, quick to reassure him:
“Yes, Aemond. Your betrothal would only make me happy.”
The prince feels elated, almost euphoric, as he finally goes to meet you and runs the remaining distance from his chambers to the yard. But when he sees you, the smile disappears from his face because he notices that something is wrong.
You look visibly upset, your eyes watering and fingers fumbling with the dress, even though you try to force a smile in return. The hug you give him is weak and you keep looking at your feet.
“What is the matter?” he’s never seen you this sad, but you brush him off.
“It’s just a headache, no need to worry.”
Yet that’s exactly what he does, offering to call for the maester, or to prepare you a warm bath, or bring you some tea...
“A cup of water would be nice, thank you,” he leaves you in the hallway to go and get it himself, the task only takes a couple of minutes. When he returns, you stand with your back to him, your shoulders are shaking — and he hears quiet, muffled sobs. If it wasn’t for the nearby table, he would’ve thrown the cup away, his focus on you alone. As he rushes to envelop you in a hug, you don’t fight it, instead nestling your face against his chest, not hiding your tears anymore.
Aemond gives you some time before asking again:
“This doesn’t look like just a headache. What is the cause of your anguish?” now he’s the one running his fingers up and down your back.
You let out a sound that’s a mix between a groan and a whine.
“My father says I am to be betrothed soon. He says I am of age already and... and he wants me to meet some of my cousins,” you sniffle. “I told him I have no wish to get married but he refuses to listen,” you bite your lip, not wanting to cry again.
Surely, that’s not how Aemond wanted to ask you. But he decides to take his chance.
“Mayhaps there is another way out that could make you feel better.”
“Please don’t tell me Vhagar will burn them down,” you jest but the smile doesn’t reach your eyes. Aemond thinks your idea isn’t that bad — but he has to try his first.
“If he insists you should marry but doesn’t have a particular candidate, maybe you can pick one yourself?”
“I’ve met all my cousins — and half of them are imbeciles, the others are too old to survive a wedding,” you scoff.
“Then pick someone you are not related to,” Aemond suggests.
“Do you have a particular candidate in mind?” when you ask with a tinge of annoyance, you don’t think he will answer. And then you look at him — and see him grinning before he says:
You glare at Aemond with eyes wide and mouth agape, the expression frozen on your face for a good minute.
“Are you laughing at me?” you manage to say.
“I wouldn’t dare,” his nerves are as tight as a wound-up string.
In the blink of a moment, your face lights up. You're looking at him indecisively, searching for words, agitated. But Aemond mistakes your confusion for rejection.
“At the very least you will marry someone you know,” he tries to reason — but it backfires, wiping the joyfulness off your face. Taken aback, you inquire:
“You pity me?”
He doesn’t grasp the poor choice of his words yet.
“You pity me and that’s why you want to marry me?” you give him a look of disbelief, your eyes glossy, and he can't get his head around what just happened.
“Oh, it was so silly of me to think that...,” you choke back a sob, putting your hand over your mouth.
Never in his life he thought he would be the reason for you looking so heartbroken. Aemond covers your hand with his palm — and you let him, as he tries to gather his courage.
“Y/N, I only meant to say that I —”
And then you recoil, snapping your hand back.
“Aemond, don’t,” you take a step back from him, then another one. “You have said enough. Please, let me be,” you turn away and leave the hall in a hurry before he can utter another word.
He finds you at your usual spot, under the blossoming cherry tree. You’ve always said you liked the color of it, little white flowers reminding you of early spring, your favorite time of the year. You don’t know that Aemond insisted on planting that tree specifically for you. Just so he can sit nearby and, as you were basking in the sunlight with your eyes closed, he would get a chance to look at you with all his unconditional love and have those moments engraved in his memory.
Come to think of it, he had so many memories of you — and every single one of them was bliss, and he can recall them so easily like it was yesterday.
And so he does.
“When we first met, you wore a green dress,” his voice startles you, but you don’t turn to face him, sniffling with your arms folded. “It was the color of forest trees. Black lace around the hem of it, the matching hair ribbon that you kept losing,“ he keeps his distance, his hands shaking.
"Yes, I remember it pretty well," you sigh, avoiding his gaze, baffled by his sudden outburst.
"The second time was when you climbed through my window, almost gave me a heart attack," there’s a hint of a smile in his voice that you catch even without looking. "Blue dress, you tore a huge piece of it and couldn’t care less. You were the first person to make me laugh in two weeks even though it seemed impossible. But not with you."
He sees your eyebrows furrowing, hands sliding down to rest on your knees.
"Helaena’s name day came next, your dress was bright pink. Luke tried to make fun of it and you threw a cup full of water in his face. To this day, it’s one of my fondest memories."
You dare to look up at him, perplexed, your eyes wet from crying.
"Three months after was the light-blue dress, then the peach one and the brown one. Then the white one which didn’t survive the horse riding lesson, and Helaena gave you one of hers. Light green, too long for your liking, even though you pretended otherwise to please her," the corners of your lips tremble, your face softening.
"Then for a year you only wore violet, much to your nanny’s dismay as she thought it made you look ill. And I thought you were the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, no matter what dress you were in," he can’t take his eye off you.
Your face expression melts into a stunned one.
"I didn’t realize it back then. Or maybe I didn’t know how to call it. I just knew that your visits only brought me happiness," he takes a step toward you, uncertain, but you don’t move from your spot.
"When you were fourteen, you picked the autumn colors — orange, dark yellow, deep red. Your started braiding your hair, tried to braid mine," you can’t hold back a smile. He was fussy when you first voiced the idea but he ended up loving the process so much, he would allow it just to feel your fingers flowing through his hair.
"I think you actually enjoyed it", you mumble, and Aemond smiles, too.
"I did. I enjoyed every minute that I got to spend with you."
You stand up then, feeling your pulse quickening.
"The day you brought me the eyepatch, you wore emerald green. I was terrified to show you the scar," he pauses, catching his breath. "You assuaged my fears with your kindness. But then I was terrified to learn that I wanted to kiss you".
You think you are dreaming. Is it possible that you fell asleep under the tree? You don’t want to get your hopes too high, but when he looks at you like this, your own fears start melting away.
“Then was the black dress, the grey one, another white one. The golden one you wore to meet Vhagar,” when he saw you that day, he almost forgot how to breathe. You showed no sigh of apprehension as you fearlessly approached the dragon. He was absolutely besotted.
“And then came the agony of not seeing you for over seven months,” he closes his eye for a second, overwhelmed. He almost misses it when you speak:
“Seven months and twenty-five days. Not that I was counting,” his eye snaps open, instantly on you again.
You gravitate toward each other without even noticing. Aemond’s heart skips a beat when you’re at arm's length, your eyes shining and lips slightly parted. Even in the state you're in, you look so beautiful, it's mesmerizing, and the words are stuck in his throat. You are the one to break the silence:
"Aemond, please don't give me false hope," your heartbeat is too loud, you don't hear your own voice. He does.
"I do not wish to marry you out of pity," Aemond takes the last step. "I want you to be my wife because I'm in love with you," he wipes away the remaining tears off your face, his fingers linger, making you shiver. "I've been in love with you for quite some time. For a few years, actually," his voice gets low. "For what feels like an eternity," Aemond murmurs.
"Why haven't you told me?" you pout, nervously toying with the collar of his shirt.
"I was afraid you didn't feel the same. I still am but maybe... Maybe I am wrong?" his gaze is fixed on you, one of his hands following the contour of your waist, your body warming at the touch.
"Tell me that I am wrong," he whispers, begging.
You look at his lips, the soft curve of them that you’ve dreamt of for so long.
Aemond always thought yours were the most kissable he’s ever seen.
You don’t know who closes the distance first — but his mouth is suddenly on yours and the sensation leaves you disarmed. Kissing him is like being swept with a wave of tenderness, and you’re floating in it, his lips so fervid and supple — truly perfect — your head is spinning. The kiss is not awkward nor modest as you hastily cling to each other, his hands gripping your waist, your chest pressed into his.
Aemond feels like he’s drowning, and he wants more of you — all of you, and then your fingers tug at his locks, eliciting a groan from him, and it is simply a miracle that his heart doesn’t explode. You move in impeccable sync, in the passionate harmony that erupts from years worth of mutual pining. His lungs burn but he resists the urge to break the kiss and stretches it out the best he can until you are breathless, too.
"Never knew that you were so fascinated by my wardrobe choices," you tease, and his hum turns into a chuckle.
“You know what my favorite memory is?” you ask, your forehead resting against his.
“When we were thirteen, and you were teaching me how to hold a sword. I tackled you to the ground and scraped my knee,” you both smile at your then enthusiasm. “And you set everything aside to spend the rest of the day with me even though it was hardly a wound. And I remember thinking,” you hook your finger under his chin, “that there’s nowhere else I would rather be than with you, with this favorite boy of mine.”
The air around you tense, and you are enchanted by each other.
“Did that help to prove you wrong?”
“I may need some convincing,” his breath fanning over your lips.
“You can take your time,” you laugh — and then the sound of it is muffled by his athirst mouth.
His favorite memory will be this.
And every other moment with you that's to come.
author's note: I'm sorry if this came out messy and rushed. I tried my best to write a shorter fic (this is short for me lmao) and idk how I feel about it. I much rather prefer them longer because I'm a sucker for stories about two people getting to know each other and falling in love BUT I get it that others don't want to read long ass fics (which kinda breaks my heart but I'm being so very brave about it)
anyways, I hope this was bearable, thank you for reading!
💙 the longer version of this fic might have looked like this (yes, this is a shameless plug! because I adore this one to pieces!! bite me)
💞 my masterlist
🎵 the title is a quote from Elvis Presley's song (duh). there are quite a few covers of it but one of my favorites is by Twenty One Pilots. there's also a female version — by Ingrid Michaelson — and I think both of them fit the story really well.
P.S. I'm also on AO3 (lol, who isn't), in case you prefer to read fics there.
English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes!
Finding out you're a princess isn't half as intimidating as suddenly acquiring a full-time bodyguard. Especially when that bodyguard is disarmingly handsome, charming, and can't seem to stop flirting with you.
bodyguard!james, fem!reader, shy!reader, princess diaries au (sort of), all characters in their 20s or older, star-crossed lovers/ forbidden romance james isn't flirty this chapter i lied but he will be <3
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
You're in the process of ruining your pyjama bottoms with willow charcoal when your father dies.
The charcoal is fragile, unhoused, and it snaps with too much pressure. An uneven half falls between the sheets of your sketchbook, marring the artwork it rolls over indiscriminately.
You sigh without thinking and rub your tired eyes, spreading a line of smudgy black under your brow. Squinting, you peek at the portrait you'd been drawing. A young woman with deep, dark skin, her cheek shaded by the leaves of a sycamore tree. The branches arc over her skin in shadowed lines, sunlight dappling illustrated by sparse triangles of the white paper underneath.
It had been an okay sketch. The snapped charcoal distracts from what you'd originally set out to do — a dynamic, revealing portrait — and instead replaces it with a more abstract feel.
You sigh again, this time with a melodrama you'd only ever feel comfortable displaying alone. Thankfully, that's the case more often than not. You live by yourself, no partner, no pets, nobody around to see you drop your sketchbook onto the floor beside your bed, kick out your feet toward the rug, and moan. Your socks slide against the hardwood. You kick them like a child as you slip down the side of the bed, shirt caught behind you, soft middle exposed.
You swear to yourself quietly, pressing the backs of your hands to your eyes.
A sharp trilling sound chimes. On the nightstand, your phone vibrates hard, and the water in the glass next to it crests against the sides like tiny shockwaves.
You pull it into your lap and stare at the number. It goes to voicemail, and then it rings again. Again, again, and again.
You consider turning your phone off. Five phone calls and counting indicates an emergency, but every cell begs to avoid whatever it is on the other side.
You can't avoid everything, no matter how much you want to. You answer the phone.
"Hello," you greet.
The muffled echo of a cheerful voice responds.
"Yeah, that's me… Okay. Yeah, now is fine."
More chattering. Less cheerful, diplomatic.
"My father?" you ask.
You are told two impossible truths.
"Oh," you say. The walls spin. "Right."
"I hate flying," Sirius mutters.
James hums, noncommittal.
"You know, my good looks are wasted if we end up lost in the middle of the Atlantic ocean."
"It's not the middle of the Atlantic ocean," Remus says, sounding about as interested in Sirius' whining as James is currently. "It's an arm."
"It's the fucking English channel," James says. It's barely the ocean. "How much do you reckon a pair of in flight headphones will cost?"
Sirius, despite his anxiety, has the bandwidth to appreciate James' bad mood. "What crawled up your arse?"
James sinks down into his seat, knees immediately pressed into the hard plastic of the chair in front, back aching and head heavy from a lack of rest he won't make up anytime soon.
"He's agitated," Remus says.
"Helpful, Moony. Super helpful."
"Fuck yourself, then," Remus says, pulling his sleep mask over his eyes and plugging in his earbuds.
The tannoy dings. The seatbelt light flashes.
A flight attendant raises his voice from the start of the aisle. "If everybody could take their seats and buckle in, we'll be taking off in less than two minutes. Please turn all electronics to aeroplane mode. Thanks so much."
"Is your phone off?" Sirius asks.
"No, I actually want us to drown in the channel, but thanks for asking."
A dark shock of curls lands against his shoulder. Sirius drapes himself unabashedly across James lap, hand on his friend's thigh, ankle crossing over ankle. Genovian through and through, Sirius doles out affection wantonly, smelling ridiculously nice as he does: a heady smell like browned sugar and citrus blossoms coalescing tickles the inside of James' nose.
"Are you still cranky that you got demoted?" Sirius asks, smooth tones pitched into bubbly baby talk.
"I didn't get demoted," James argues.
James had, in fact, been demoted.
"No, of course not. You've fallen from third guard to the Royal Prince of Genovia, may he rest in peace, to glorified babysitter of said Prince's illegitimate, forgotten child. Sounds the same to me."
"Then we agree," James says, wanting to close his eyes.
He'd pretend to sleep if he thought Sirius would believe it. Growing up together erases any semblance of privacy. Sirius knows James as James knows Sirius, and as they know Remus. Remus likely knows them all better than he'd ever admit, the youngest of the trio and the smartest, most perceptive man James has ever met.
Sirius isn't perceptive, he's vigilant. He can read even the smallest signs of unrest, and it makes him uneasy. There will likely always be a shadow cast over him from a rough childhood, and while James is in a god awful mood, he reaches out to alleviate Sirius' anxiety.
"I'm fine," James assures him, "just tired." Not mad at you goes unsaid.
"It won't be as bad as you're thinking."
"I'm fine. I'm not worried. Didn't sleep last night, and," —he grins as Sirius clasps his arm, their seats shaking underneath them, the plane beginning its race across tarmac— "some scrawny git is squeezing fuck out of my arm."
Sirius flinches away from him. "You're annoying."
James presses his shoe up to the side of Sirius' and leans back in his chair, wincing at the rattling carriage as they take off, and again when he remembers where they're going. You wait in London, though nobody in the task force assigned to your assimilation or the advisement team could come to explain how you'd ended up there. Your Genovian citizenship is unacknowledged on your passport, your birth certificate, even, and as far as Lily had been able to suss, you have little understanding of who you are.
"She sounded tired, mostly," Lily had said when pressed for details about the new princess' personality. "In shock. Slightly disbelieving, but could you believe it?"
Lily, James'... friend, and work colleague at a stretch, is an ambassador for the UK and full-time genovian resident. Along with a handful of other representatives and officials, she’d been responsible for opening the talks between Genovia and yourself. That is to say, she'd broken the news.
Surprise! Your dad just died! Double surprise, you're a princess. And, no pressure or anything, but we kind of need you to come back to Genovia to maintain the royal lineage before your grandmother abdicates the throne (unwillingly).
"Did you mention the tiara?" he'd asked Lily. The Princess' diadem, a master craftsmanship of silver-gold with a diamond the size of an apple.
"Weirdly, Potter, I didn’t mention the jewellery."
He supposes there hadn't been time to weasel that tidbit in between condolences and recruitment.
You haven't promised anything in ways of returning to Genova or taking up the mantle. James understands. If he were in your shoes, he likely would've laughed down the line and blocked the number. You’d shown incredible promise as a future leader, agreeing to meet with Lily and her team at the Genovian embassy. Then, a day later, they'd modified the plan and asked if you'd be okay meeting somewhere more private.
You'd said yes.
As someone who may be very involved in your bodily safety in the near future, James thinks you're an idiot. Somebody calls you, claiming that you're a princess, though nobody has ever bothered telling you this before because you were never heir apparent, and that they'll tell you more should you deign to meet with them in a place with meagre surveillance, and you say yes to this?
How you've survived as long as you have is a mystery.
He hopes you won't make his job difficult. Isn't that what everyone hopes? He feels guilty for judging you without meeting you, promising in his head to be nicer to you in actuality. You're probably grieving and definitely confused. He shouldn't be worrying about his job.
Redetermined, James lets the anxiety of his new assignment water down.
Sirius is thinking along the same lines: how easy will you make his particular occupation. "Bets are on. Scruffy or sweet?"
"Huh?" James asks, pretending he doesn't understand in hopes of rectifying Sirius' attitude.
"Slovenly or love-nly?"
"I'm sure she's fine."
"You should hope so, you'll be looking at the back of her head for a while."
James rolls his eyes.
"I'll manage, pretty or not."
His confidence draws Sirius' curiosity. "How're you so sure?" Sirius asks, chin-lifted, light eyes narrowed in bemusement. His expression dances with the surety of somebody well-raised. He could wear a potato sack and his regal air would endeavour, deep-seeded and neat like the trim stitching of his expensive clothes.
"Look at my face right now. Do I seem affected?"
Sirius laughs much too loudly at the implication. "Don't act like I'm not handsome, Prongs."
"Years of practice." James schools his features into an unaffected mask. "Uggos have no effect on me."
"How else would you look in the mirror?" Sirius drawls.
When Remus wakes afterward, he finds they haven't quite killed each other, though James has threatened it twice. With one hand, Black.
"Far are we?" he asks.
Sleep has made little difference to him. He’s the kind of fatigued that can't be improved with an afternoon nap, and the kind of unwell that can't be fixed. Medicated, diminished, but never fully healed. He rolls his neck and makes three separate, unfortunate sounds, stretching his tight hands out flat over his thighs.
"Landing any minute now is my guess," Sirius answers. "How are you feeling?"
He waves his hand around, tired eyes locking onto James' lasting frown. "Sorry for leaving you alone with him."
Sirius gasps his indignation. The three of them all smile in tandem, James in a rush to add to the joke.
"You should be, fucker, I don't care how sick you are. You're sick in the mind if you think it's acceptable to-"
"You're sick for acting like I'm some misbehaved child you've been pandering to. You're bullies, and as soon as we're in the airport I'm ditching you both in favour of a Great British Burger King."
"One," James says, still smiling widely, "I have your per diem, so unless you brought your wallet, you're sunk." Sirius frowns. "Two, I'd love it if you would repeat that little moniker you gave me a minute before he woke up. Seriously. Shed some light on the real bully."
Sirius pulls his sunglasses from his jacket pocket and places them over the bridge of his nose delicately. "Unnecessary."
"I wouldn't mind Burger King," Remus says.
"We have to be quick," James says.
Sirius is so incensed he actually spits a bit as he scathes, "You fuckers. I want food and it's lorded over my head, but Moons wants something and your only limitation is how fast he can eat it?"
He's not truly as angry as he appears. He's joking, and he's fallen into a familiarity that can only come with years of ragging on one another relentlessly. Still Remus pats his tight shoulder and smiles.
"I'm a slow chewer."
"He's a slow chewer, Sirius. Have some compassion."
“How fast could he chew missing a few teeth, I wonder?” Sirius asks.
James gasps, delighted at his friend's casual threat. Remus does a better job at hiding his amusement, tamping back a smile as he reaches over the armrest between their seats and slapping a hand into Sirius’ seatbelt. The mechanism unlatches, the ‘Fasten Your Seatbelts’ sign flashes, and a shaming beeping sound rings overhead.
What do you wear to meet a British ambassador? A Genovian ambassador? Any sort of diplomat? You aren't too sure what an ambassador even is, only that every word Lily Evans has said to you sounds shockingly official.
"Your citizenship has been reinstated whether you choose to move forward or not. We want to stress that you have choices," Lily says. Call me Lily, please. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."
"We also want to stress," says Emmeline, the Genovian ambassador, "that your presence in Genovia is greatly desired. For the funeral."
"The funeral," you say softly.
"It will be a… very, very big event. We don't have to talk about all of the logistics now. Or ever, if you're not interested."
Emmeline clears her throat. "The family would appreciate it."
The family. The royal family. The Queen of Genovia, your grandmother, and her… unfortunate younger sister, who's behaviour (according to the Internet) has been less than ideal. Her sisters son, who might take the throne if you refuse it. Or, so you've come to understand.
All this lineage and politics has been hard to navigate by yourself, though rest assured, you've been assigned two personal assistants of a sort. One for appearances of the physical, and one for appearances of the mind.
A stylist and a tutor.
"And a bodyguard," Lily says, "your safety is the most important thing."
You grip the end of your dress in your hands and squeeze the skirts tightly. Safety? You'd rather not embarrass yourself by asking.
"We actually want you to meet them now," Emmeline says.
"Whenever they show up," Lily adds. She sounds embarrassed but unsurprised, like this has happened before.
There's a small silence. You pull your bag into your lap and squeeze it, hoping it hides the curve of your stomach. You aren't sure what you're supposed to wear to occasions like this, and so you'd worn the nicest thing you owned, a pretty, simplistic dress ruched under the chest, and a cardigan overtop.
You catch yourself frowning and quirk your lips up into a practised smile. Gentle, amicable, the kind you'd offer a passing stranger.
"Well," Lily says, filling the awkwardness, "I'm sure they'll come around soon. Maybe we should talk about inheritance."
"Legally, you're entitled to an inheritance. You could think of it like a pension, an allowance you'd be given from the age of eighteen. You've already passed that, and so you'll be given the years upto, and then the rest in annual increments," Emmeline says. "There's a team of people who can and will explain it better at a later date, or whenever you want to discuss it, once you've agreed to a paternity test."
"A paternity test?" you ask.
You feel rather useless. All you've done is ask for explanations since you sat down, your head a spinning mill. Information goes around and around with no time to sink in.
Emmeline opens her mouth to continue and is interrupted by three sharp knocks.
"Come in," Lily calls. She turns her gaze to you, orange hair moving over her shoulder in a silken sheet, and raises her eyebrows.
You don't know what it means.
First to enter the room is a modestly dressed man with straight, sandy hair. It's long enough to peek out from under his ears, where it curls. He steps into the light, illuminating a shock of shiny scars clawed over the bridge of his nose and teasing up into one thick eyebrow.
"Sorry," he says, not quietly but certainly not loudly. "We had trouble finding the room."
Behind him immediately stands a man with dark hair to his shoulders, white but tanned. He wears slacks, in which a shirt has been tucked on one side and not the other, a purposeful dishevelment.
"And the building," adds the second.
Last to enter is the biggest of the three. You'd hazard a guess that he's six foot or taller, not the tallest of his companions but the most imposing, with a monotone outfit of pristine blacks that he fills too well, his shirt clinging to the muscle underneath it. His skin is a warm brown that soaks up the big light overhead and shines golden, his hair black and thick, laying in mussed ringlets stroked back from his face.
He is the most handsome person you've ever seen in real life. It startles you. Worse, when he meets your eyes.
You smile carefully. He smiles back.
Lily stands to gesture toward each man in turn. The first, "Remus Lupin," she says, "your tutor on all things Genovia." The second, "Sirius Black, stylist and your guide on media presence."
"James Potter," Lily says, not looking at him. "Bodyguard. James will be with you for the foreseeable future, even if you decide on– Well. You should get to know one another, at any rate." You must wear your worries on your face, as she continues, "You're in safe hands. James was third in command in the protection of His Highness."
"Hello," you say.
Sirius' eyes widen in tandem with his smile. "Hello."
"It's nice to meet you. We're sorry for your loss," Remus says.
"No," you say, head tilted toward your shoulder as you frown at James sympathetically, "I should be sorry, you actually knew him. I can't imagine how this feels for you."
"Thank you. But don't be," James says. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Princess."
You look to Emmeline, almost like you're waiting for her to correct him.
She smiles at you hopefully. "Shall we talk arrangements for your departure?"
James is trying not to look at you too much, though if he is he can write it off as purely protective. You're sitting in your seat like you're worried about touching a seat mate who doesn't exist, arms wrapped around your middle and face pointed to the floor.
"I'll rent a car," he says.
You curl into yourself a little more. "What for?"
"It's much safer."
"I don't want you to– I mean, you aren't a chauffer."
"I'm not." He bends at the knees to speak directly to you. "There are seven other people on this bus. One is elderly. Three are younger than sixteen. All seven could potentially harm you."
You look to the left without turning your head, toward the sound of young laughter. He'd bet money on your thoughts. Even the children?
"The driver could have an aneurysm. He could be paid off. He could be carrying a concealed weapon." James smiles at you placatingly. "Understand? If I drive, the potential danger goes down to one."
"No. Me." He tries very hard not to wink and look like a dickhead. "But I'm not going to hurt you. Not really my perogative."
James recall what Lily had said, rightfully. You and James will be in each other's company for the foreseeable future, and while he has a job to do, there's room for friendliness. Sort of.
He splits his attention between you and the front of the bus, where a small family carts a pushchair.
"What do you do?" he asks.
He knows you attend classes for a degree equivalent at your local college. He knows you're a waitress. He knows you moved to central London when you were very young, and that your estranged mother had been the cause of all this confusion. He asks you because he wants to know how you'll frame it. In your own eyes, what is your life?
"I'm a waitress."
He nods. "Local?"
"Mm. At a pub called The Morgan."
"You have a shift today?"
"Not today. I took the day off." You stand up and click the STOP call button on the rail James is holding. Your arm brushes against his. "It's this stop."
James trails behind you, off of the bus and straight into a busy street.
"How far is it to your house?" he asks, loud to be heard over the hubbub and the roadworks.
"Not long. Are you okay to walk?"
James finds himself oddly charmed by your question. "I'm just fine."
You squeeze through the crowded pavements lining the street, folded in, keeping your arms close, and you apologise every time you touch someone, even if it's the other person's fault. James keeps close to your back, moving to your side when he worries you might sprain your neck trying to check that you're following. He had some height on you, which is a good thing for security purposes — he can see uninterrupted over the top of your head when he stands this close.
The day is cool, the last dregs of an end of summer heat lingering in the air and encouraged by so many bodies in one place. James wonders if you're too warm, dressed as you are in tights, but the thought fades when you trip.
James grabs the top of your arm, fingers sliding between your arm and your chest. Closer than he wants to be, crueller than he means to be as he keeps you steady.
To his surprise, you laugh. A really nice sound, sudden but sweet.
"Sorry, Princess," he says.
"You saved me," you say, a hint of breathlessness in your tone. "Thank you. My flat's in the next building over."
"Brilliant." His bag is fucking heavy, a weight between his shoulders that aches when he lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as it sets. You've got a long, long night ahead of doing nothing. "What's your address?"
You tell it to him. "Why?"
"For the rest of your security detail."
He slows as you come to the main door of your building. It's quieter here, the loudest sounds a symphony of barking dogs, car engines revving, and the jangle of your keys as you unlock the door and bump it with your hip.
"More people?" you ask. "Is that really necessary?"
"You always do that?"
"It gets stuck," you explain.
He hums. "It's necessary. The media's been paid handsomely to keep our operation to themselves for now, but there's always pressure to be the first to break a story."
"And I'm the story?" you ask, nodding toward the stairs in the centre of the room.
He steps over a bundle of scattered letters. The building is mostly clean, but mail bulges from cubbies, and an old mattress has been left propped against a wall.
"You're the story," he says, head up to analyse the atrium. There's a skylight spotted with green moss above.
You take the stairs up to the first floor, where your flat is the first he comes across. That increases your risk of a break in, rapists or robbers. He asks you to wait at the door while he clears each room, knowing it's an unecessary precaution but taking it anyway. It's not worth saving the half a minute it costs on the off-chance you've been infiltrated.
He snorts at his own train of thought and returns to you, where you're sliding a special locking mechanism between the door latch and the frame. You shake the lock.
"Did you get that recently?"
You look up at him and smile. "Since I moved in. I'm first on the floor. Don't want to get murdered in my sleep."
"Good girl," he says absentmindedly, crossing the room to secure your window.
He moves into your room again and secures the larger window over your bed. Then, because he's awful and curious, he catalogues your things.
"You're an artist," he says, head listed toward the doorway.
You stop by the dresser, hastily stuffing clothes left aside back into the top drawer. "Not– not really."
The room is a crammed collection of things. It's clear you've attempted to keep it clean. You were doomed to fail, an outpouring of your heart stuffed into a matchbox; books, sketchbooks, notebooks are stacked against the leftmost wall between your bed and your dresser, while paints and pencils take up two thirds of your desk. A small sketchbook rests closed in the mess of your unmade bed, dark bed sheets disrupted by a pair of white pyjamas discarded at the end. Soot or something similar stains the fabric.
He averts his gaze from your dirty hamper and faces you.
"At 8PM, one of my team will swap duty with me. His name is Frank, and I've worked with him before, but if you aren't comfortable with anything he does while I'm not working, you can tell me. If I do something that makes you uncomfortable, you can tell Lily. You can tell me, of course," he amends. "I can take the couch."
"You sleep at eight?"
"I sleep at nine."
"You don't mind sleeping on the couch?"
"Not at all."
You walk to your dresser and pull open the bottom drawer. Inside is a layer of linens, and you pull them out neatly.
"You don't have to, uh, put on a show for me," you say with a wince.
"I'm not a princess. I'm not the princess."
"You don't think so?"
You look sweet, kneeling on the floor, hair in pretty disarray from the walk home. You move it out of your face and offer a folded square to him with both hands.
"It's a misunderstanding. But…" You take a pillowcase into your hand and stand up, closing the drawer with your ankle. "Even if I were, I don't think you need to be so formal, you know?"
You move past him, a wave of nice smells.
"It's my job."
Again, you surprise him by laughing, climbing on top of your unmade sheets to grab one of your pillows. "Right," you say, stripping it of its pillowcase and shaking it into a new one. The tip of your tongue makes a brief appearance as you plump up the corners.
You climb off of the bed. "Here," you say, taking the sheet he's holding to press the pillow into his hands.
"Oh," he says, looking down at the pillowcase. It's covered in small pink flowers. "I don't need this."
"My settee isn't comfortable."
"Half of my job is being able to sleep anywhere."
You smile at him. His words don't discourage you, and he stands in the doorway between your bedroom and your living room as you lay down an old quilt over the settee and tuck a sheet around it and under the sofa cushions.
"I know it's strange, but you could take my bed, if you wanted to. You're so tall, I don't think-"
James cuts you off, not unkindly. "Thank you, but I couldn't." He lets the side of his chest rest against the doorway, arms crossed. Your back is straight, tense with anxiety. "I have something for you."
You blink at him. "For me?"
He grins, his first proper smile all day, and pulls his bag onto the freshly made settee to unzip the front compartment. He pulls out a small jewellery box, pulling the lid off to hold between his arm and chest.
The tennis bracelet inside is thin but strong, made up of gold-silver links with sapphire-coloured gemstone. He assumes them to be real sapphire or something similar, like blue-hued ruby.
"This is a panic button."
You seem more anxious than when he'd pulled out the box.
"Don't worry about losing it. I'm sure the Genovian coffers will recover."
"It's not that. Do you think it will fit?" you ask.
He hadn't thought about it. Luckily, Mary had.
"There are spare links hidden under the velvet."
James puts the box on your coffee table and clicks the links into place, handling the bracelet with less care than he ought to. Firmly snapped into place, he offers the lengthened bracelet to you unlatched.
"Here," he says, pointing toward one link in particular. "If you squeeze this tightly, the heat sensor will alert me."
"It won't feel the heat of my wrist?"
"It will. It's sophisticated, it'll disregard anything that isn't a sudden spike. That's your panic button. You squeeze that–" He pinches it in demonstration. The small radio clipped discreetly to his shoulder starts to beep, a circling alarm. He removes his fingers from the bracelet and it stops. "Okay?"
"I haven't even passed the paternity test yet."
"My being here indicates that you're of special interest. We don't know if you're the Princess for certain, and neither do the newspapers. You're still in danger either way."
You press your lips together and hold out your wrist.
James steps close to you, enough to see details and lines he's missed. The longer he stays in your company, the more endeared he is to your shy smile, and your kindness, and he thinks you're the type of person who's outsides reflect the insides. You smile.
Either side of your wrist glows with heat as he drapes the bracelet over your skin and clicks it closed, wary of pinching you.
The room is quiet. The clock over your small kitchen table ticks.
"There," James murmurs, taking back his hands.
He disregards it completely. "No worries."
His informality gets you, and you smile, your own first and proper smile since you'd been introduced.
By the time Frank arrives for turnover, James is confident that his assignment to your protection won't be nearly as awful as he'd thought. You'd insisted on making him something to eat, which he'd been sincerely grateful for, as a man can't run on Burger King alone, and then you'd practically showered him in an awkward but entirely genuine hospitality, offering your bathroom and all its contents, every blanket you owned, the TV remote, and a tin of biscuits.
He introduces you to Frank, and for an hour you make yourself busy in the kitchen, cleaning dishes you'd refused his help with and wiping down the counters.
He senses your unease at being outnumbered in your own home. Unfortunately, there isn't much he can do to make you feel better, besides appoint Frank to door duty and try to offer some words of comfort.
James tries not to look as imposing as he feels, clearing his throat to draw your attention as you leave the kitchenette.
"Listen," he says softly, a mirror of you now that you're both changed into lounge clothes and damp-haired from the shower, "I want to reassure you— I'm here to protect you from any and every threat. I know this is unconventional, but I promise to do my best to make this easy for you."
You look down at your trainer socks. "Sorry."
"Can you do me a favour?"
"Yeah, of course," you say, raising your chin.
"No more apologies. This is hard, and I know that, you don't have to say sorry for anything. I'll promise you whatever you need me to if that will make you feel more comfortable."
Princess or no princess, you're confused, and you're unhappy in your own home. James wouldn't want that for anybody.
"Do you think someone's going to kill me?" you ask.
James softens. "No. Nobody is going to kill you." His smile melds slowly to mischief, dark lashes kissing in the corners of his eyes as he squints. "I'm a brilliant bodyguard, okay? Don't doubt my skills. And Frank's alright."
You laugh under your breath, relieved. "I'm not doubting your skills."
"Good. I'm not just a pretty face, Princess."
You sober at the title. The flicker of camaraderie between you fizzles, and you shake it off.
"Can I get you anything?" you ask.
He hopes that in a month, or a year, when you're living the high life in Genovia with a hundred serfs and lavish goods beyond your wildest dreams, you'll keep your earnest smile, and your good heart. He's seen exactly what court politics can do to timid young women like you.
"No," he says, matching your volume, "nothing."
"Okay. You can wake me if you need anything."
He absolutely won't. "Thank you... Goodnight."
You disappear behind your bedroom door. James lays down over the small sofa, alarm set for a dry-eyed 4:30AM, and listens to your flat as it cools. You close the blinds, sharpen a pencil, and for a period of time, he's lulled by the mild shushing of a pencil over paper.
He falls asleep. He must. A silence settles, thick and uninterrupted as poured molasses.
A splintering crash pulls him back to consciousness, and every nerve-ending sings as a weight falls to the floor. A thump sounds from behind your closed door. James practically leaps over the settee's arm to your door, Frank hot on his heels.
He throws open the door, braced for impact.
You aren't anywhere to be seen.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
thanks for reading!! i hope you enjoyed this first part, and if you did and you have the time please consider reblogging, it makes a difference! plus i'd love to know what u think or what you'd love to see in future<3
the fics title is adapted from a line in piedra del sol by octavio paz
how adorable you looked, legs splayed out exposing your pretty dripping cunt with a mini vibrator set to the highest setting against your swollen bud.
“awe, you don’t wann cum just yet angel.” he warned, intensively watching the way your soaked hole clenched around nothing, almost tempted to fuck you right then and there. he’s been had this for hours, giving you only so many times to cum before being punished. it’s a little game which amuses him— bringing a bit too much pleasure for his sake.
your limp legs began to shake, feeling another wave of provoking pleasure wash through your lower core. “poor baby, she looks so ready to explode.” his lips curved downward revealing that condensing frown.
“a-ah I can’t hold.. for much longer.” whining as the intense pleasure continued washing through your body. “fu-ckk, m’sorry.” biting your lower lip to muffle the strained moan.
“that’s no good, you had up to 5 times and couldn’t comply?” he mocked, reaching to grab under your knee— spreading you wider, how the spreader-beam locked all movement from retracting close. “m’sorry, please.” you pleaded, being a moaning mess knowing he’s no nice man.
“what a fuckin’ slut.” he spat with a harsh tone, pressing his thumb against the vibrator.
“mmmph.” you cried, only being able to suffer in pleasure. your poor clit couldn’t handle another approaching orgasm, so numb and sensitive. he lowered the settings before grabbing your thin throat, lining himself along your entrance.
“bad girls who don’t follow as they’re told, gets punished as selfish little sluts.” forcing your tiny pussy to swallow all his length, inch by inch. drool seeping past your swollen-bitten lips, “s-so sorry.” eyes rolling near the back of your head as he grinned against your sweet spot.
“sorry isn’t enough, pretty baby.” thrusting deeper inside you as he watched his length disappear within your tummy. making you into an incoherent mess as he fucked your sensitive pussy into the mattress.
toes curled trying to hold off an approaching orgasm. “wanna cum sweet girl?” his thrust sped up, angling at your g-spot. “y-yes.” your already tight cunt tightened around him as his large hand flew across your face.
“sluts don’t get privileges to cum.” his large hand squeezed your throat as your core tightened. tears streaming down your cheeks with shut eyes. “look at me y/n.” his slender fingers cupped your jaw, facing your face towards him.
“look at me.” his tone sterner than before as your eyes opened, looking at him with wet lashes. his strokes begin to get deeper and faster, making your mouth fall into an o-shape.
strained moans leaving your throat as the waving pleasure began to take over. “cum on my cock.” his eyes never leaving contact with yours, pounding into your creamy cunt as you gushed all over him, crying out his name.
“see, now good girls cum when daddy tells them to.” he displayed a grin of satisfaction.
summary: in which moving in together is a herculean task and jungkook teaches you how to fold his underwear.
> est. relationship, fluff, angst lowkey / wc: 3.2k
> warnings: mention of h!ckeys and or/l s/x (f. receiving), allusion to c*ckwarming and s/x
> in which masterlist!
note: who else will drunkenly research about men’s underwear and scroll through calvin klein’s website at 2am to write this for shit and giggles and self-indulgence if not art <3 as always i love hearing your thoughts thru reblogs/comments/asks !! 🥺
jungkook looks up to find you standing by the doorframe of the walk-in closet, and the view instantly weaves a stupidly whipped grin on his handsome face. your hair is messy from sleep; your eyes are still half-lidded; and your lips are wrapped around the straw of the red water tumbler you’re clutching in your hands.
“baby! you scared me! what are you doing out of bed?”
“my bed escaped from me.” you mumble, padding across the wooden floor until you reach him. he watches in bewilderment as you fall to your knees and pull his arms out of your way. muscular body pliant underneath your dainty touches, he allows you to move him as you like.
“ahhh-” he produces a noise of enlightenment as you find a comfortable position between his legs, lying down across his lap. he’s forced to support the weight of your torso with his arm beneath your upper back, hand curled around your shoulder. “am i the bed?”
“mhmm, boo! i caught you. you’re stuck with me forever.” you go limp in his arms and dramatically press the back of your hand on your forehead like a damsel in distress, which elicits a chuckle from your boyfriend.
he bends down to pepper kisses along your jaw and exposed neck, plush lips brushing against the traces of love bites that blossomed on your skin this afternoon, courtesy of his friskiness. having always been extra sensitive there, the ticklish sensation makes you squirm. “that’s exactly what i signed up for.”
“oh?” you raise an eyebrow challengingly. “sure. let’s see if you can still say the same thing… three months from now.”
your fingers comb through his silky locks, taking a fistful and lightly yanking to pull him off you.
“as you were.”
a grunt tumbles out of his mouth when you change positions carelessly. in the end, you settle with straddling him, legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his neck, where you nuzzle your face and almost purr like a kitten due to the warmth that you’ve missed in his absence.
the process of transforming an apartment to a home together has been… exhausting, to say the least. you’ve had most of the furniture installed before you started bringing in your personal belongings, but how can a space feel so empty and so crowded at the same time? too many boxes, too many bags, too many things left to buy. the line between what’s yours and what’s his is blurring in your eyes, and this is only the beginning.
you thought dealing with jungkook’s self-admitted laziness would frustrate you at some point, well… which it did. however, it turns out that it is precisely what you need in this type of situation. yesterday morning, he successfully seduced you into letting him eat you out on the kitchen island. you reached the height of your pleasure twice in a row, nearly delirious as he was lost in untamed lust and moaned about how you taste, distracting you from planning out what goes in which kitchen cabinet based on dimensions and convenience. last night, he had to drag you back to bed at 5am because you ended up organizing your bookshelf for two hours instead of only getting a refill of water like you claimed.
“what are you even looking for?!” jungkook exclaims with a hand over his naked waist, clad only in his boxers, as he watches you rummage through four boxes in search for something.
“the easel!” you whimper, your calves breaking your fall as you slump back on the floor in despair.
“easel?” he squats down infront of a box beside you, scratching his cheek as his puffy and sleepy eyes scan the other boxes. “i don’t think an easel would’ve fit in here, baby.”
“it’s a mini one. the one i use to display my favorite book.” you pout to point at it standing in the second level of the shelf. he recognizes it as the limited edition book he bought you last year, and the flashbacks of him standing in line for hours to get it signed by the author are inescapable.
if hearing you say that it’s your favorite makes jungkook so ecstatic that he wants to break down into tears, he doesn’t show it. instead, he nonchalantly throws you over his shoulder, making a beeline to the bedroom. he yelps when you angrily pound at his back with balled fists.
“ugh, i hate you! put me down!”
he clicks his tongue. “bad!” he lightheartedly chides you, smacking your ass. “i’m cuffing you to myself! do you have any idea what time it is? you have class in three hours!”
“but, babe, i don’t want to attend!” you cry out, slumping as you grudgingly yield. “why do you have to be so strong?! stop lifting weights for fuck’s sake!”
at the time, you meant it when you said that you want to take the moving duties slowly since you have all the time in the world but… you can’t stand the clutter and disorganization for the life of you. at the same time, it pumps your veins with thrill, having an empty space and being responsible to breathe life into it with jungkook. out of all the life-altering decisions you had to make with your still developing brain, this is the biggest gamble yet.
you don’t know if you’re blinded by love, putting your trust in jungkook when he said that he wanted to build a life with you; or if it’s arrogance, having the trust in your ability to stand on your own feet again incase a match is thrown in a puddle of fuel on the floor. the latter is more painful to think about, quite frankly. just because you can, doesn’t mean that you want to. you have to. you have to. with bruised knees from praying for a little more time, you have to. the earth doesn’t stop orbiting the sun when your house burns down.
either way, it’s too late to succumb to your inner monologue. the stuffed toys you own, including ones you’ve dearly loved since childhood, are scattered across the living room. the journal you’ve been sadly neglecting for the past two weeks is just freely lying on your personal study space. you’re here, safe in his arms, and if there’s one thing you’ll always believe in, it’s this. and you intend to make the most out of each day the universe allows you the right to be here.
“you can fall asleep like this? while i keep moving?” he whispers, wide palm soothingly running up and down the expanse of your back.
only if it’s you, you say in the back of your mind. “you can see for yourself.”
“psh. always gotta keep me on my toes, don’t you?” he smooches your cheek, and then once more, lingering and refusing to part away. you feel his lips curling up against your skin.
jungkook reaches for the tumbler you left behind on the floor, capturing the straw between his lips and plentily sipping until he deems his thirst quenched. he sets it aside afterwards, returning his attention to the laundry basket he purposely laid on the floor so he can easily reach inside. he’s been happily working hard on the laundry after you both agreed to wash the clothes you haven’t worn in quite some time to keep your closet clean and fresh.
a little hiccup though.
quickly and unsurprisingly, you ran out of hangers between his long-sleeves and yours alone. therefore, he’s solely focusing on the to-be-folded for tonight, which mostly consists of shorts, casual pants, underwear, and socks.
he inserts his arm in the laundry basket to push out the articles of clothing closer to the edge, grabbing the nearest thing and proceeding to neatly fold it over his outstretched legs. his white sweatpants lands on top of its designated pile, and then the same goes for your tennis skirt, as well as his ripped jeans, and everything else after that.
jungkook being jungkook, singing comes naturally to him after breathing and more than blinking. he hums, chest vibrating against yours as he does so, occasionally singing the lyrics in between because he means them. a tattooed arm protectively wraps around you to keep you glued to his body each time he leans forward. his careful movements, along with his mellifluous voice, fool your senses into believing that you’re being carried out by the ocean waves to the shore of dreamland.
your boyfriend freezes when one of your arm slides down his shoulder, an irrefutable evidence that you’ve fallen asleep again. you finally tired yourself out, he breathes out a sigh of relief. he cups the back of your head as support, eyes shaping into crescent moons as he giggles as quietly as he can after seeing your face.
“so fucking cute.” he muses, rewarding your cheek with another kiss before securely tucking you back into his embrace.
he carries on with his task to allow you to dive further into unconsciousness. he spends the next fifteen minutes folding the boxers that were still stuck inside one of his suitcases, patiently operating with only an arm. his tattooed one is still preoccupied with maintaining a protective embrace around you. shortly after, he decides that it’s time for you to go back to bed.
“there we go.” he says quietly to himself as he succeeds to stand on his feet, carrying you with his hands hooked around your bare thighs. you unconsciously tighten your hold around his neck and release a deep sigh of contentment in your sleep.
he kicks the door open, walking with light, deliberate steps across the wooden floor. he climbs on the bed, knees sinking in the mattress as he gently lays you down. and there’s an inexplicable emotion stirring in his chest as he covers you with the blanket, accompanied by the epiphany that he is doing this at 2am not because time has arrived to daunt him and he needs to leave your bed to go home. not anymore. whatever this is, it feels so fucking good. oh my god, he looks forward to spending the rest of his life feeling you breathe next to him, getting lost in how peaceful you look asleep when he randomly wakes up in the middle of the night.
he tenderly squeezes your arms as he leans down to plant a goodnight kiss on your velvet lips, sweet and loving. slowly, and with the smallest movements possible, he gets out of the bed to return to the closet.
“love, you’re not sleeping yet?” your tiny voice barely reaches his ears but it pinches his heart, even more painfully when he sees that your hand only managed to seize three of his longest fingers to stop him from walking away.
he sits down beside you, intertwining his fingers with yours. “i will in a bit, baby. i only have the rest of my underwear left to put away.”
you blink at him hazily, silent as you digest his words in your clouded mind. “you’re folding them, too?”
and with that confirmation, you eagerly inch closer to him. “teach me.”
“huh?” his forehead creases, eyebrows knitting in a state of confusion.
“teach me.” you repeat yourself, bordering on a whine.
“how to fold my underwear?”
you innocently nod your head as a reply.
“why?” he asks, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth because of your unusual request. but then again, he can’t say he’s much that surprised. it’s such a you thing to do.
“i can’t?” your lips form an adorably small pout, and you sniffle as your eyes water with unshed tears of drowsiness. “but you’re my boyfriend.”
fuck fuck fuck, he curses inside his head. his heart flips and drops to his stomach. holy shit, yes he is. it’s infuriating, how it requires you little to no effort to have him wrapped around your finger. the endearing sight automatically tugs at his heartstrings, urging him to cradle your soft cheeks in between his large palms.
“i’m just curious.” he reassures you with a chuckle, leaning down to press one more sweet kiss to your lips.
“we do chores together…” you trail off, nose scrunching when his brushes yours. you smile sheepishly. you’re relishing in the mere inches between you — how you can see that his pupils are evidently dilated, his brown doe eyes appearing rounder and bigger than they already are. “so i just want to learn how to do it right.”
you swiftly throw aside the blanket enveloping you when he voices out his permission with an “it’s so easy!”, cheerfully jumping off the bed. captivated by your unique charm, jungkook allows himself to be dragged away as a breathing, walking picture of pure adoration.
he finds himself sitting on the same spot on the floor, back comfortably resting on the cabinets now that you’re beside him instead of on him. your drooping eyes follow the every movement of his dexterous hands as he folds a calvin klein trunk on his lap, black with a white waistband. wearing an orange beanie of his you found stuck underneath the laundry basket, you obediently bounce your head as he earnestly demonstrates it with instructions.
“so you take this side and fold it over to the middle, and then! you do the same with the other one, so they’re folded equally like this.”
he briefly picks it up to show it to you from rim of the waistband, the two parts stacked and perfectly aligned.
“after that, you take the bottom and roll it over like… halfway? whatever, i just kind of do it by feel- and the final step… so you also fold the waistband here so you can tuck the rolled up part inside. it ends up looking this neat and compact, see?”
your gaze only flickers at the finished product, having seen what it looks like about a thousand times in his backpacks and luggages. “so these are called trunks… and those are called boxers?”
your boyfriend follows the direction your index finger is pointing at, revealing a pile of folded boxers sitting inside of his opened suitcase. he winces with his full set of teeth before he cracks up in laughter, the genuine curiosity you radiate is making his brain overflow with love and happy chemicals.
“right! those are more comfortable and breathable so i wear them at home, while trunks provide more support for when i need it, you know?”
“snug fit or loose fit this, boxers or boxer briefs that. you strip them off all the time to put your dick in me anyway.” you scoff, picking up another calvin klein creation from the laundry basket immediately afterwards.
a string of ditzy giggles slip past your lips. the light blue trunk was standing out among the neutral colors like a firefly in the forest, practically begging to be chosen as your first piece of work.
“i’ll do this one! you wore it yesterday. i love the color.”
his lips part open in surprise at your lewd and unfiltered response, a hand flying to his face to conceal the rosy shade that has begun to tint his flushed honey skin, many earrings collectively swinging and belly aching as he chortles. it’s embarrassing, really, how he still blushes despite having done countless sinful things with you. can you really blame him for being incapable of keeping his hands to himself when he’s so helplessly and hopelessly attracted to you?
he clears his throat, crossing his legs and moving to his side so he’s facing you. “go on then.”
you flap it against the air to straighten out the fabric, placing it over your thighs and meticulously following your boyfriend’s instructions step-by-step. you’re quiet as you commit yourself to the chore, floating in your little bubble of tranquility and concentration.
and jungkook is intently watching you with as much self-control he can muster. the urge to grab your face and kiss you senselessly is palpable, wrapping itself around his limbs like vines that have a life of their own, desperate to dip into the sun for a taste. they say distance makes the heart grow fonder, and he can attest to that to a certain degree… but dear god, its lack thereof?
there’s no sensible reason why the both of you should be spending your late nights in your new apartment doing stuff like this when you have an entire 55-inch television set up on the floor because you haven’t found the time and energy to attach it to the bedroom wall yet… and not to mention that jungkook had to write more batteries all types of batteries, tongs, and curtains as CURTAINS!!! in your little notebook of to-buy checklists because somehow, they never crossed either of your minds the last two times you went shopping for your remaining home essentials. his new gaming chair arrived this afternoon and he has zero clue where he will insert assembly time into his busy schedule. one of these days, you’re also bound to discover the plant namjoon left as a gift three days ago. he placed it at the balcony, and it’s only surviving due to the fact that it’s been a relatively rainy month.
although, that’s precisely what makes this moment so priceless and so grounding. you smoothly finish the challenge and sing “ta-da!” with a beam that causes your eyes to twinkle with a tiny sense of achievement despite your apparent exhaustion.
“oh?! looks perfect. good job, baby. goob job.” he praises you with a grin, affectionately stroking your hair. “let’s work together so we can go to sleep.”
his thoughtful words and action make you keen, coaxing the giddiness in you to bubble over. you playfully nudge his side as you haul the laundry basket closer. “i want to play. let’s see who can fold the most in a minute!”
“play?” his shoulders deflate as he sighs, battery running low.
“no?” your lips pucker up in dismay. “too tired, love?”
his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he gives it some consideration. he shrugs. “what’s in it for me?”
oh, damn it.
“the winner also automatically wins the light fixture debate?”
in which you’re referring to your month-long dispute over which color of the cloud light you should purchase for your shared bedroom. he insists on the white cloud that has the white light because it looks like a thundercloud, and on the other hand, you’re fighting for the pink cloud with the yellow light because it looks like the sunrise or the sunset depending on its saturation and brightness.
“alright!” he blurts out, a surge of energy kickstarting his system. he snatches his phone, which he left in one of the empty shelves near him. “baby wants to play a dangerous game, huh? the stakes are incredibly high! too high! are you ready? to lose?”
your mood sours when he begins using his variety show hosting voice, confidence dwindling but determination fueled and burning brighter now that he’s in higher spirits.
you roll your eyes. “yeah, sure. ready to lose the white variation in my cart, bro.”
he smirks mischievously, his childish and devilish laughter echoing in the closet. “we’ll start the timer! in three…! one- go!”
“freeze, you cheater! i wasn’t ready! put that shit down!”
note: soooo, are you team oc or team jungkook? i will be keeping score 👩💻
taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm to be added or removed :D
Maaaaaaybe not too feral but there’s definitely something that makes my mind go brrrr about jealous/possessive Ghost - maybe she gets too much attention one time at the bar or there’s a comment made that really gets under his skin and sets him off. Then claiming or marking his territory as soon as he gets the opportunity. 🔥
okay so I got a few reqs for jealous ghost so I'm just gonna combine them here
The team had arrived back on base in the early morning, spending the day doing paperwork and running around.
Soap was a flirt, you knew that, Ghost knew that, but it always got under his skin.
"Great job out there today lass, might need you to give me a few tips" And he winks at you, Ghost sees the interaction, from afar, staying out of it as his blood boils.
He hates that you let them flirt with you but he knows it's practically harmless, they'd never actually do anything to get with you, everyone too afraid of him.
Still, he can't help the way his stomach churns at the sight of you laughing at another man's jokes, your hand touching gently against his shoulder as you giggle with him.
He especially hates that it's Soap, the man knows he has no shot with you and flirts anyway, Ghost swears he does it just to get under his skin.
He's already in a bad mood when the team goes to the pub later, and you get up from your seat to order more drinks.
Usually, he loves how friendly you are, outgoing and warm, the complete opposite of him, he likes watching you interact with people, what he doesn't like is when people take advantage of your kind nature, pushing past the line of allowance.
He's awful with his words, keeping to his seat otherwise he'll end up getting the team kicked out of another pub, he just watches as you laugh at the stranger, nodding your head along with the conversation as you wait for your drinks.
He almost jumps from his seat when the man puts his hand on your arm as you try to walk away, grabbing your attention.
He watches you say something to him, the man's eyes shooting towards Ghost, sitting unimpressed in his chair, his mask-clad face doing its job of scaring the hell out of the stranger.
He's in a sour mood the rest of the night, uninterested in conversation, simply nodding along as the team talks.
When you decide to leave he's quick, his arm snaking around your waist and tugging you into his side as you walk home.
Once you're through the door he wastes no time, caging your frame against the wall as his stare pins you down.
"What are you doing?" You're slightly nervous, you can't tell what's going through his mind.
He doesn't say a word, simply tears his mask off and kisses you, it's all teeth and tongue as he pushes the muscle past your lips, devouring you
His hand slides down your body, moving under the hem of your pants to circle your clit, you're panting into his ear, your body flushes with his as he works your bud.
His fingers move lower, pushing into you as his thumb circles your clit
Within minutes he has your knees weak, you're panting beside him, inching towards your orgasm, he feels you clench down on him and removes his fingers, bringing them to his lips.
You're in a state of confusion, words escaping your lips as you fall down from your peak, clenching around nothing.
"Think you can just flirt with other men in front of me?" He grits his teeth, his eyes dark
"Don't act stupid, Johnny, the guy at the bar, am I not good enough for you?"
"Si, no, you're everything to me" Your hands cup his jaw but his face stays stoic, his hands grip your waist with a bruising strength, lifting your frame and carrying you to the bed.
He tears off your clothes, leaving his own on as his lips travel down your chest, his teeth biting lightly at your raised nipple.
He licks the skin down to your core, biting lightly at the skin of your thighs and you elicit a yelp, his breath fanning over your dripping core.
"You want my tongue? Want me to eat your pussy you little slut?"
You whimper at his words, a small grin growing on his lips as he attacks your clit, licking and sucking the bud, his hands holding your thighs down to keep you from moving.
His fingers make their way back to your core, pushing in and arching as they pump into you, it's all too much, too fast, your vision blurs with a blinding light as you approach your peak.
You let out a string of curses and moans as he works you closer, only to remove his touch at the feeling of you clenching.
You sob at the loss of contact, your muscles growing weak as he pulls from you.
"Not yet, you cum on my cock or not at all"
He leans over your form, biting a mark into the skin of your neck as you gasp, his hands roaming your chest, fingers pinching over your nipples.
He leans back and lines himself up, bottoming out with his first thrust as your limbs cling to him.
He sets a brutal pace, your mind barely functioning at the feeling of his large cock dragging against your soaked walls, his tip prodding at your cervix with every thrust.
He grabs your legs, throwing them over his shoulders as he pounds into you,
"Fuck, who's pussy is this?"
You turn to him, struggling to form words, his hand moves to rest against your throat, his fingers pressing against your pulse point.
"I said who does this pussy belong to"
"You, fuck, only you" You sob around him, your chest arching into him
"That's right, my pussy, gonna fucking fill you, make sure everyone knows who you belong to"
You moan at his words, his threats going straight to your core as you clench around him,
"Don't cum, not yet"
Your brain is fuzzy, your nerves feel like they're on fire as his thumb makes contact with your clit, rubbing circles into the bud as he drives his cock into you.
"You cum when I tell you to, got it?"
You nod, unable to form words
"Use your words" He tightens his grip on your throat
"I cum when you say so" You struggle to speak
He pulls out from you, his hands grabbing your waist to flip you over, his arm snaking around your stomach to hold you up at your cheek presses into the mattress.
Without warning he thrusts back in, forcing you to take every inch as his weight pushes you further into the bed.
"My fucking pussy, no one else" He emphasizes his words with a thrust, his hand making contact with your ass, slapping hard enough that it was sure to leave a red mark, "Fucking say it you little slut"
"Your pussy, fuck, only yours" You manage through broken moans, his fingers moving back to your clit and you squeeze down on him.
"Who else can fuck you like this?"
"That's right, you belong to me" He grunts, his thrusts becoming sloppier.
"Si please" Tears prick your eyes as you beg
"M'gonna fill you, fuck, make sure you feel me all the time"
You clench your pussy around him, the sensation becoming too much as your body seizes under his touch,
"Shit, not yet, don't you dare fucking cum"
You hold out for a few seconds loner, feeling his balls tighten as he buries himself in you.
"Cum for me, cum around my cock you little slut"
Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, your entire body igniting as you writhe under him, squeezing him as he grunts, he cums with you, his spend flooding your pussy as you ride out your high, the warmth eliciting a sob from you.
"Fuck, that's it, baby, gonna take it all"
He makes sure you milk him of every drop, keeping his cock inside you till he's soft, letting you come down before pulling out.
His fingers push his spend back into you and you clench around them, your hips twitching from the stimulation as you fall against the mattress.
He presses kisses over your ass, moving his way up your spine before slotting himself beside you, his arms wrapping around your frame to tug you close.
You lay in silence for a few minutes, both of you catching your breath.
His chin sits against your shoulder, his lips pressing tender kisses to your neck,
"Mine" He repeats the word in between kisses, you sigh at his touch, turning your neck to face him, his eyes are softer now, full of love as you lean in to kiss him,