for the glory of smut

a/n: big disclaimer → I wanted to set this in a time with no technology but with certain comforts, like running water 🥲 so don’t look too much into it pls. in general, I took as reference the middle ages in europe but I don't think there are many references/details about the reader's fashion and the general aesthetic of the story, so feel free to imagine whatever you want! also, the language is not accurate because I only speak present-day english. I tried to embellish it but I’m not sure, especially in the smutty parts. I’m also sorry if some parts feel a little rushed, but I was very tired.

hope you’ll enjoy!

The town is quieter than it should have been. The market stalls stand half-empty, their awnings flapping like broken wings in the wind. Smoke curls from chimneys, thin and bitter, carrying the smell of boiled roots and old grain. You walk slowly, your cloak drawn tight, counting the steps so you would not seem lost.

You needed to see it for yourself. The damage done by Father’s foolish delusions of grandeur. The heavy taxes levied to fund a recent failed campaign were destroying your kingdom. The court spoke of victory delayed, of honor salvaged from defeat, but the streets tell a different story. Grain sacks are gone. Meat is a memory. Even the dogs are thin.

The people bow to your image in the tapestries, yet curse your shadow in the streets, and never once saw your face. 

Your parents never let you be anything but a symbol. At the palace, hands guide your steps; voices decide when you sleep, what you eat, whom you might speak to. They dress you in silk and call it protection, as though walls and guards could keep the truth from you forever.

But a symbol does not ache when it sees a child with hollow eyes. A symbol does not feel shame.

You slow near an alley, your breath fogging the air. Once, this place was loud with haggling and laughter. Now, it is only acrid smells and hunger.

If you stayed inside, you could pretend this is necessary. You could pretend Father was right. That's why you are here. Not to be brave. Not to be reckless. But because if you did not look, if you did not know, then you would be complicit in the lie.

Your heart thuds painfully as you pass a man crouched beside a wall, hands wrapped in rags. He does not look up. 

The sound of footsteps behind you come too fast, too close. And for the first time since leaving the palace, you feel afraid. A shout breaks the stillness.

“Oi! You.”

You turn.

Three men stand near a shuttered stall. Their clothes are patched, boots worn to the sole. One holds a cudgel, another a knife more suited for bread than flesh.

“You lost?” One asks. “Or just brave?”

You swallow, trying to appear confident but not provoking. “I’m going home.” 

“Not with a cloak like that.” The one with the knife says, pointing at you with the utensil. “Not when my children haven’t eaten in three days.”

He dives for you. But he never reaches you.

The air moves.

Someone strikes him from the side, hard enough that he stumbles into the stall, sending rotten apples rolling across the stones. The second man swings blindly and misses as a hand seizes his wrist and twists until the cudgel clatters to the ground.

The third fleds immediately.

The man before you sways dangerously, breath coming in sharp bursts. He is so much taller than you, yet terribly thin. His coat is threadbare, his boots rimed with frost. Dried blood darkens his knuckles.

“You should not walk here.” The stranger utters, still giving you his back. “People are hungry. Angry. They don't see faces anymore.”

“You saved, you were watching.” You marvel, still shocked.

He shrugs faintly. “Someone should.” Then he takes a step forward, possibly to leave, and falters, but you catch his arm.

“Careful.”

He stiffens instantly, pulling away as though your touch hurt.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Please.”

You notice then how badly he is shaking. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m used to it.”

You study him properly now: the way he carries himself despite his weakness, the scars on his hands, the instinctive way he had placed himself between you and danger. Your lips part to ask more, but within moments, you are flanked by several men in armor, men he immediately recognizes as royal knights. 

“Princess! Oh Gods! Please return to the castle. The King and Queen are worried sick.” Your Father’s trusted man throw a disgusted glance at the shivering man, who had carefully moved to the side when he saw them arrive. “It is not wise to interact with… Beings such as this one.”

You shoot the knight a look that quickly makes him cower in shame. “If I were to ignore a dying man when I am able to help, who am I to call myself a princess of the people?”

The man attempts to pull his head away, but is both too weak and too mesmerized by your beauty to do anything. He lets you feed and nurture him as he is taken back to the palace.

Over the next few days, James is taken care of thoroughly by the palace staff, his every need tended to. As he recovers, you visit him as much as your “duties” allow, chatting with him and making sure he is being treated well. He feels strange when he starts looking forward to your visits, even wanting to recover faster so he can stay by your side at all times.

And he is able to achieve that wish: his old rank is restored and eventually, you convince your Father to appoint James as your personal guard. It is not easy to get back in the field, although the training is deeply ingrained into his mind and muscles, James still has to get back in shape.

And almost six months later, he kneels before you as your personal knight. He pushes his limits and regains his strength… Only for you. 

Gaining your trust, well, that is not difficult at all. After all, you are a kind and fair princess. You do not judge him for being a dishonored knight.  And now he is your knight, and you believe in his strength. 

James learns the palace the way a starving man learns the sound of bread breaking. Not by comfort, but by need.

He stands at the edges of rooms, where tapestries dull sound and shadows gather like confessionals, and he observes. Observing had once saved his life. Observing had saved yours. 

He tells himself his actions are righteous. He repeats it until it feels carved into his bones. Devotion is not desire, it is vigilance. It is the willingness to be unthanked and unseen. It is standing between cruelty and gentleness even when the cruelty wears lace and smiles.

You move through the halls like something unspoiled by them. Kindness clings to your form— not the rehearsed sort, but the quiet habit of it. You thank servants by name, you listen too long. You assume goodness where there is only spite and envy. It makes you radiant, yet vulnerable.

And it makes something inside him tighten until it hurts.

James hates that tightening. He names it sin. He names it presumption. He reminds himself nightly of the distance between what he is and what you represent. A dishonored knight with cracked hands and a body that still remembers cold; a man who has slept beside rotting food and rats. He does not deserve to look at you longer than duty required.

So he watches the others instead.

He sees how the maids soften their voices when you walk by, how admiration blooms briefly on their faces before souring into calculation once your back is turned. Compliments become comparisons. Gratitude twists into grievance. They speak of your gowns while scraping plates clean; of your gentleness as if it is ignorance. As if you are not the only reason some of them still eat.

He catalogues it all.

Names. Times. Corridors. Patterns of malice that hide behind familiarity. He notes which butlers linger near doors, which knights laugh too quickly when your name is mentioned; the younger, loud, good-for-nothing knights and squires following your curves with nothing more than lechery in their eyes. And then the servants who pass rumors like currency. 

He listens for repetition and invention.

At first, he convinces himself this is still duty. Then he begins waking already angry. The palace guards trust him, he has bled with them after all. The servants fear him, though they could not understand why. James does not threaten, nor accuse without proof. He simply knows too much, and he remembers everything. Evidence gathers itself naturally around a man who knows how to move in the shadows.

Reports are made and dismissals follow. A maid vanishes from service. A butler is reassigned, then imprisoned when the lies unravel under scrutiny. A knight is stripped of rank for words spoken in what he believed was privacy.

And James feels no guilt.

Each removal feels like clearing rot from a wound, and each punishment is proportionate, necessary. Mercy toward wolves is cruelty toward lambs. He tells himself he is protecting the realm by protecting you.

However, it is not enough.

James watches you too closely— not out of distrust, but reverence. He memorizes your routines, the way you tire in the evenings after hours spent studying foreign languages and basic accounting. The moments when the weight of your crown bends your posture just slightly. He learns the cadence of your footsteps, notices how often you smile when you should have hardened.

Love creeps in not like fire, but like frost: silent, consuming, undeniable.

He loathes himself for it.

James has never been a religious man, yet he kneels in the chapel, though his prayers do not ask for forgiveness for desire. They ask for eradication of it. He begs to be made smaller. Less wanting. Less aware. But the gods are silent, too indifferent, and leave him with a heart that would gladly stop beating if it meant you never learned how ugly the world could be.

He does not imagine you loving him. That would have been blasphemy.

What he imagines, what terrifies him, is a future in which you are hurt by someone he has failed to notice in time.

That thought hollows him. So he tightens his watch, narrows the circle. Recommends replacements chosen for loyalty rather than charm. He shapes your household into something cleaner, quieter, safer. A controlled environment.

James refuses to acknowledge this is no longer just devotion. However, he does not stop. Because if love is a sin, then he would commit it fully— wordlessly, invisibly, with his hands forever stained so yours could remain clean.

For most of your life, safety has been a public thing. Guards at doors, walls thick with stone, rules spoken in your name but never to you. You have been protected like an untouched object preserved behind glass. Your parents love the idea of you. The symbol. The promise. They raised you to be admired from a distance, not known. Needs were anticipated only in the broadest sense; no one noticed the small ones. No one ever asked what frightened you when the halls went quiet at night.

James noticed.

He does not overwhelm you with affection. He does not flatter, nor treats you as something delicate that might shatter if handled honestly. His care is deliberate, almost severe, as if your well-being is a task that demands his full attention and exacting standards.

And somehow, this makes you breathe easier.

You feel it in the subtle shifts of the palace; the way certain voices are now a distant memory, the way the air around you grows less sharp. Malice retreats without spectacle, removed so quietly that you never have to confront it directly. You simply wake each morning feeling less braced for disappointment.

Of course, this did not happen by accident.

James stands closer now. Not intrusively, but constantly. His presence is like a held breath— steady, grounding. He watches your surroundings with an intensity that makes you feel chosen, worth the effort. Worth the vigilance.

And no one had ever guarded your mind before.

You realize one evening that you no longer replay conversations in your head, searching for hidden meanings or mockery. You no longer wonder who smiles at you out of obligation or resentment. The burden of discernment, of emotional defense, has been lifted from your shoulders and placed, willingly, on his. And you trust him with it.

Perhaps you should have questioned the depth of his seriousness, the way his attention never truly strays. But you have grown up invisible in rooms full of people. To be the center of someone’s unwavering focus feels less like danger and more like coming home.

The cost of his devotion is engraved in the lines of his restraint. In how little he asks for himself. James looks at you not as something to possess, but as something to preserve, even from the uglier truths of the world.

And you begin to love him for that. Quietly. Fiercely. With the kind of love born not from fantasy, but from relief.

With James, you do not have to perform kindness or strength. You are allowed to rest. To be uncertain, human. His protection extends beyond blades and walls— it wraps around your thoughts, your fears, your softest hesitations, and holds them without judgment.

If others might have called it excessive, you do not. Because for the first time in your life, someone decided that your peace was worth defending at any cost.

And you have never felt safer than you do in the care of a man who watches the world so closely, so that you do not have to.

What James did not anticipate, is how his quiet work would come back to hunt him in the sweetest of ways.

It is late at night when he first sees your bare back. You are bathing, him standing by the door, facing it to guard you, standing stiffly as his eyes squeeze shut at the sounds of fabric falling on the floor and water rippling as your body slowly lowers into the tub. 

Having been pampered your entire life, you do not exactly know how to properly bathe yourself. Now that all your maids have been removed, you do not know what to do with yourself. Your knight has yet to find new ones.

“James?” Your voice is soft, hesitant, carrying the faintest edge of embarrassment. “Could you… Help me, please?”

A sharp pang of panic runs through him. He had never imagined he would be entrusted with such an intimate task— not in all his years of service, not in any scenario he had ever faced. The thought of seeing you bare, of grazing the delicate flesh of your skin, makes his stomach twist and his heart race.

He swallows hard, forcing his voice steady. “Yes, Your Highness. I can help.” 

The tips of his ear turn red when he finally turns, seeing your naked back turned to him. It is enough to have his cock straining in his pants.

“I cannot wash my back by myself. The new arrangements… I don’t know how to manage without you.”

He nods once, stiffly, and approaches, careful to avert his eyes for a moment before lifting his gaze reluctantly to meet your body. Every motion is deliberate, measured, his mind screaming with the need to maintain propriety while the reality of the task presses on him.

Moving the washcloth against your soft flesh feels almost sinful. You are his Princess, and yet he is touching forbidden territory. Your skin is warm, and with his gloves meticulously removed to move freely, his rough pads end up accidentally brushing it. His pulse spikes violently. James clenches his jaw to keep from faltering, focusing only on the sponge. His hands are surprisingly steady, but every fiber of his body is aware, painfully aware, of the proximity, of the trust, of the vulnerability you display with him.

“I–I didn’t expect–” James starts, but stops himself. Words fail him. Did he create this? By clearing out the staff? He only wanted to protect you, and now… His chest tightens. The room seems unbearably small, every breath too loud, every heartbeat a reminder of the delicate balance between duty and desire.

You glance over your shoulder, expression collected, and entirely unaware of the storm inside him. “I’m glad you’re here.” The softness in your voice tears him apart, both from relief and a quiet shame flooding his veins.

James swallows again, simply nodding and forcing his composure. This is his responsibility, at least until he finds the perfect staff for you. He must remain a knight first, a protector. Nothing more. No misstep. No lapse.

But as he finishes lathering your skin in soap, your back straight but not tense, he realizes something unsettling: he had not planned for this— never imagined that by protecting you, he would also be drawn into this intimate, fragile space where obligation and lust intertwine.

And yet, he would not flinch. He would not let his internal struggle interfere with your well-being.

“Better?” He asks quietly, stepping back.

You smile faintly and serene, almost turning completely to face him. “Much better. Thank you, James. Truly.”

He nods, breath hitching and eyes inevitably falling on your arm, pressed against your soft breast, the supple flesh squished up for him to admire. 

His thoughts are a tumult of guilt and restrained longing as he quickly turns back to the door, ashamed of the painful pressure of his cock against the armor.

Days pass quietly, but with an undercurrent James cannot shake. The palace staff has been pruned, but their absence left gaps he had not anticipated. Small tasks, once invisible, now fall squarely on him: arranging your dresses, ensuring your meals are properly presented, checking that your chambers are warm and secure.

He moves through these duties with the precision of a knight, but each time you summon him closer, he feels that old, familiar ache— the impossible combination of desire and guilt. You never demand more than you need, never tease or provoke him, yet the intimacy of your blind trust weighs on him as heavily as any sword in battle.

“James.” His name falls softly from your lips, too familiar, and he curses the day he insisted you dropped the 'Sir'.

He appears instantly, seeing you standing by the window, struggling with a necklace clasp, and he approaches carefully, trying to quell the familiar heat in his belly.

“Allow me.” He simply answers, taking your hands gently. The slight tremble of your fingers makes him swallow hard. You offering him a space he should never enter digs a hole in his chest.

When the clasp clicks into place, he steps back for you to turn with a faint smile. “Thank you. I do not know what I would do without you.”

James’s jaw tightens. By removing those who were unkind, he made you rely on him in ways he never anticipated. And now, he must remain constant, always vigilant, always near.

The day continues, and small tasks repeat: adjusting your gowns, fetching books, preparing for audiences, making sure you have what you need. Each time he approaches, his mind wages war between propriety and the intimate closeness that both terrifies and captivates him.

At night, when he checks on your chambers before taking his own rest, he finds himself lingering, hesitant to leave your side. Sometimes you are already asleep; sometimes you are sitting quietly, reading by candlelight, and he would stand nearby, silently present, the steady beat of your life a tether to his own restraint.

He had sworn to protect you, and he would. But this proximity, the trust you place in him for even the smallest details, tests him in ways he had never expected. James cannot act on his longing; to do so would mean betray your trust and his honor. Yet every quiet glance, every small touch he offers in service, carries a weight he cannot escape.

The problem is, he does not wish for this closeness to end. He could not imagine a life where he is not your shield, your constant, your quiet presence.

James exhales softly, closing the door behind him, his hand lingering on the frame for a moment as if to reinforce the promise he has made to himself— and to you. He would serve you in all ways, endure the tension, and keep his heart restrained, no matter how excruciatingly close they become.

The afternoon sunlight gently spills through the glass as James kneels by a small stack of books, organizing them for you. You sit in the window alcove, your skirts pooled neatly around you, idly alternating between admiring the palace gardens and watching him.

“James.” A playful lilt to your voice. “You do take your duties quite seriously, don’t you?”

He glances up, austere as always. “A knight must be thorough. Carelessness invites danger.”

Your lips slightly curve up, eyes sparkling. “But must you hover so close even when I am perfectly capable?”

His chest tightens, and he swallows, aware of the weight of your gaze and the subtle challenge in your tone. “I… Cannot risk your well-being, Your Highness. It is my responsibility to remain near.”

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hands, teasing now. “You act as if I am made of glass.”

James’ lips press into a thin line, his jaw tight. Every word reminds him of your vulnerability, your trust in him, and the ache in his chest intensifies. “Glass can be shattered, after all.” He admits quietly.

You chuckle softly, and the sound is like the first rays of sun touching his face after a long, rigid winter. “Then I suppose I must rely on you to remain unbroken.”

He freezes, heart hammering against his ribs. You trust him and lean on him, and yet you tease, lightly, as if to test the boundaries he cannot cross.

For a long moment, you simply look at each other, the unspoken tension stretching taut between you. Then you smile faintly, the way you do when you feel safe enough to let your amusement peek out. 

The silence lingers until James clears his throat. “There is… Another matter we should discuss.” His voice is quiet, tinged with hesitation.

You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Oh?”

“I cannot always be within reach.” His eyes set on your skirts. “And if you ever are in danger, you must have some means to defend yourself.”

Your eyes widen slightly, the mischievous curve of your lips dims a little. “Are you suggesting I— learn to fight?”

James nods. A knot in is throat forms at the sole thought of you facing danger alone, however theoretical. “I will talk with the King and the Queen and then teach you. It is prudent.”

Your eyes soften, warmth threading through your gaze. “James, you are quite serious, aren’t you?”

“I am always serious about your safety.” He frowns. But beneath the calm, his heart lurches at the mental image of him guiding your hands on a sword, of being close enough to correct your stance, to instruct you, and watch your strength grow.

You lean back against the window frame, a faint laugh escaping your lips. “Very well, then. I trust you, of course. But I suspect this will be more entertaining for you than it should be.”

Your trust is a tether, your teasing a challenge. And for the first time in days, he allows himself a small, private acknowledgment of the truth: he would do anything, risk anything, to see you safe, to see you grow strong, and to remain by your side.

You meet before dawn four days after that conversation.

The practice yard lays half-swallowed by mist, the stones damp beneath your feet. James has chosen the hour carefully after your parents’ affronted reaction to his proposal— no servants awake, no guards lingering. Even the birds seem reluctant to speak.

He places the sword in your hands with reverence that borders on fear.

“It’s heavier than it looks.” He warns, already adjusting your grip before you could answer. His fingers barely touch yours, as if even that contact might betray him.

“I’ve held heavier expectations.” The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, then his expression sobers.

“This isn’t play. If you ever draw a blade, it will be because something has already gone wrong.”

You glance at him. “You are very cheerful this morning.”

James does not smile. He steps back, eyes scanning the empty yard out of habit before settling on you again. When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher.

“There may come a moment when I am too far from you.”

The words lodge in his throat. He swallows once, hard, as if forcing down something bitter and choking.

“Too far.” He continues, slower now. “To place myself between you and someone who means you harm.”

His eyes change. They always do when he imagines it— darkened, unfocused, as though he is seeing something layered over the present. A corridor too long. A door too slow to open. Your voice cut off mid-breath.

His hand curls unconsciously at his side.

“You look as though you’re facing an execution.” You try to lighten the spirit.

Yet he drags his gaze back to you, haunted. “I am.”

You laugh then, a soft, unguarded sound that mists in the cold air. “James, if danger ever finds me, I’m certain you will find a way to reach it first.”

He stares at you. That, more than anything, terrifies him. Certainty is fragile. It breaks.

“I would rather you never need to rely on that.” He utters. “Not even once.”

You lower your chin, solemn. “You tried to convince my parents of this.”

“Yes.”

“And they said no.”

“They said,” he starts tightly. “That no daughter of theirs will learn to wield a weapon like a common soldier.”

You hum, lips pressed together. “As if harm recognizes breeding.”

“Exactly.”

He steps closer behind you, correcting your stance, positioning your shoulders. This time he does not flinch from the contact, his hands are steady. Controlled.

“Feet apart,” he instructs. “Balance is survival. Strength is secondary.”

You follow his guidance easily, too easily, as if you were always meant to stand this way.

The warmth of your body seeps through his armor. “Promise me something.” His eyes fix on the side of your face.

“That sounds ominous.”

“If I say run,” he quietly continues. “You run. Not toward guards. Not toward courtiers. Away. Distance is defense.”

“And if you say fight?”

His jaw tightened. “Then you fight like your life depends on it. Because it does.”

Having your back pressed against his front as his hands engulf yours on the hilt of the sword, watching as you get flustered as he inevitably breathes against your neck, makes something warm stir in his belly. 

“Again.” James exclaims, this time leaving your softness to face you, lifting his own blade. “From the guard position.”

Steel meets steel, and though he keeps repeating to himself this is preparation for a future he prays would never come, James could not stop the thought that haunts him most.

If the world ever reached for you, it would have to go through him— or leave you armed enough to survive without him.

Both possibilities terrify him equally.

James does not follow you back to the palace. He waits until your footsteps fade, until the mist thins and the yard feels abandoned again, before allowing his hands to tremble.

The sword lays where he has placed it, resting against the stone as if nothing sacred had just passed between them. He stares at it for a long time, breathing through his nose, counting each breath the way he once did in battle to keep himself from vomiting fear.

He has imagined you bleeding before.

The thought arrived unbidden, vivid as memory: your silky sleeves darkened, your breath catching in that small, shocked way bodies do when they realize they are wounded. The image makes his vision blur.

James bends sharply at the waist, palms braced on his knees.

This is what devotion does when it goes too far. It punishes imagination and weaponizes love.

He presses his thumb into the old scar on his left wrist, grounding himself in pain that was once real, not hypothetical. He reminds himself you had laughed, trusted him enough to point the blade meant to slay for you, at you. And you are confident in his ability to reach you no matter the distance.

That belief is heavier than armor.

“I will not fail you.” He whispers into the empty yard, the words torn from him before he could stop them.

The vow settles into his bones, ancient and irrevocable. He straightens slowly, forcing his breathing to steady. Control is the difference between protection and possession. He repeats that like doctrine, though he no longer knows where the line lies.

As he walks the perimeter of the yard, habit takes over. He checks sidelines, counts exits, measures distances between walls. How long would it take to cross them at a sprint? How much time would he lose if the ground were slick with rain? If the halls were crowded?

James sinks onto the cold stone bench near the wall and finally allows himself to sit with the truth he has been refusing to name.

He loves you.

Not as a knight loves a liege. Not as a man loves an idea. James loves you in the way starved things love warmth, with desperation and fear, and the knowledge that one day it might be taken away.

He abhors himself for it.

Love made him want to narrow your world until nothing could reach you. It made him want to decide for you, shield you from pain. Your laughter vibrates through the inside of his ribs, waking his numb, reluctant heart.

Although he would give his life to protect you, he hopes he never has to. Not for fear of dying– no death could be more honorable than the one in your name– but because every moment at your side is a blessing he is not worthy of, yet needs more than oxygen itself.

He stands at your door every day, longing for the moment when the sun rises and he is the first person you see when you open your pretty eyes. And then you smile at him, a lowly knight. And it feels as though the Gods have knelt before him.

And you have chosen him. Not with declarations or promises, but with trust. With your presence in a forbidden yard at dawn. With your willingness to place a blade in your hands because he asked you to.

That trust is sacred.

James bows his head, forearms resting on his thighs, and closes his eyes.

He prays then, for restraint. For the strength to guard without caging. To love without claiming. To be sharp enough to cut down threats and gentle enough not to become one.

If the Gods are listening, he does not know, but when he finally rises, the trembling has stopped.

The world remains dangerous, and the distance between him and you would never truly disappear. But he would bear it. He would bear everything. Because if his fear is the price of your safety, James would pay it every morning, in silence, long before the sun rises.

The city smells different now.

Bread, for one. Fresh, yeasted, unmistakable. Smoke comes from hearths instead of ruins. Laughters resound through the streets— still thin, cautious, but real. James walks beside you, who are hidden in a plain cloak with the hood thrown back despite his earlier insistence. Your head turns slowly as you walk, eyes bright taking everything in as if afraid it might vanish if you blink.

He hates crowds.

Not because of noise, but because of angles. Too many hands. Too many blind spots. Too many ways to lose you in the space of a single breath.

He stays close enough that his shoulder brushes yours when the street narrows. His hand hovers near the hilt beneath his cloak, fingers flexing, measuring distance with every step.

You notice, of course.

“Look.” You say, stopping suddenly. James nearly collides with you.

You gesture toward a baker’s stall where a line has formed— not orderly, or desperate, just waiting. A woman chuckles when flour dusts her nose. A child clutches a warm loaf like treasure.

“They are smiling.” You exhale, as if a boulder was removed from your chest. “They are not in despair.”

James scans the faces automatically. Hope does not erase resentment.

“They do not know who you are.” He answers under his breath.

“That’s the point.”

Then, it happens. A man brushes past you, jostled by the crowd. James’ hand snaps out before he can stop himself, fingers closing around the stranger’s wrist with bruising force.

The man yelps, and the street goes still.

James realizes what he has done a heartbeat too late.

The stranger stares at him, wide-eyed, more startled than angry, and the knight releases the man at once and steps back, forcing his hands to unclench.

“My apologies.” He utters stiffly.

The man nods quickly and hurries away, rubbing his wrist amongst the whispers rippling through the nearby crowd. Curious glances linger but the crowd resumes its organized chaos.

James feels it then, the familiar heat behind his eyes, the rush of imagined outcomes. A blade hidden in a sleeve. A knife meant for your ribs. Blood on stone. 

Always blood.

He shifts, placing himself between you and the others without thinking.

Your hand touches his arm. Light. Steady.

“James.” You call quietly. “I’m here.”

The words anchor him more firmly than any command.

He draws in a slow breath. Then another. The city does not erupt. No one rushes them. The moment passes like a storm that decided, at the last instant, not to break.

“I apologize, Your Highness.” His cheeks heat up, unable to look at you. “Crowds make me… Vigilant. I did not mean to frighten you.”

You study his face, the tight control, the faint tremor he could not quite banish.

“You did not frighten me. You frightened yourself.”

He says nothing, but his back tenses at your simple yet smart answer.

After that, you move on more slowly. You linger at stalls, speak with vendors, listen to stories of loss and cautious recovery. James stays close, but he forces his hands to remain still, his posture relaxed. At one point, you laugh— openly, brightly— at something a cloth merchant said. The sound turns heads and the urge to pull you back, to protect your smile from the world’s hunger is torturing.

Yet James swallows it down.

When you finally reach a quieter square, you stop and turn to face him.

“You do not need to carry all of this alone.” Your voice is gentle, like a man coaxing a scared, hungry mutt. “I know the world is dangerous. But it is healing.”

His gaze drops to the stones between you.

“I cannot unsee what it has done to you.” He confesses. “Or what it could still do.”

You step closer, lowering your voice. “And I cannot pretend I do not feel safer because you see it.”

Your eyes meet. Something passes between you, something unspoken and fragile, broken by James straightening, discipline reasserting itself like armor locking into place.

“Shall we continue?” He asks.

You smile at him, soft and certain. “Yes. Together.”

And as you walk on, James keeps his control, telling himself that this, too, is protection: allowing you to stand in the light, even while he remains watchful in the shadow.

The Great Hall is blazing with light tonight. Gold and crystal catch the music and scatter it back across the polished floor. The banner of the Stark kingdom hangs side by side with yours, stitched together in forced harmony. Peace celebrated loudly, insistently.

James stands where he always does in these occasions: near enough to reach you in three strides, far enough to pretend that is all he wants.

You move from partner to partner with practiced grace. Hands offered. Bows exchanged. Smiles given.

Not the ones reserved for him. Never. 

These are the polite ones, when your mouth curves careful and symmetrical, but your eyes remain distant. The smiles you wear the way one wears gloves: necessary, correct, impersonal.

The real ones reach your eyes first, soften your shoulders. Steal a fraction of your breath, as if joy surprises you every time it arrives. 

Men try their luck anyway.

One laughs too loudly, leaning in too close. Another lets his hand linger at your waist longer than custom allowed. James feels each trespass like a blade dragged slowly across his ribs.

He catalogues them. Faces. Names. Countries. How their fingers press. How your shoulders tense by degrees so small no one else would notice.

No one else would know that your tension is the price of politeness.

James’ jaw aches halfway through the night. Thus, when the chance comes, he takes it without hesitation.

The knight steps forward during the brief chaos of a song’s end and inclines his head toward your current partner. “Your Highness,” he turns to you evenly. “There is a matter requiring your attention.”

Relief flickers across your face before you can mask it. “Of course.” You exclaim, already withdrawing your hand. “If you’ll excuse me.”

The man bows, disappointed but powerless.

James does not look back at him.

You move through the crowd and out into the night. The gardens greet you with cool air and darkness scented with flowers; the loud roar of chattering replaced by the crickets singing. 

And that’s when your shoulders drop at once.

“You saved me.” A touch of laughter in your voice. “I was beginning to think I’d danced with half the room.”

The corners of his mouth lift slightly but it is too late to hide it. You smile at him, not the careful one.

Your steps are unhurried as your heels carefully hit the pebbled path. Lanterns cast warm pools of light across hedges and marble statues. You speak of the foreign dignitaries, the strained conversations, the effort of celebrating peace with people who had once cheered for blood.

“They’re trying to ignore what happened.” You sigh. “Some of them, at least.”

“They are too busy trying to impress you.” James corrects.

You glance at him, lips thin to hide your amused grin. “You say that as if it is a crime.”

“It is when they forget themselves.”

Your lips curve in betrayal. “I knew you were watching.”

“I always watch.”

You reach a bench half-hidden by ivy, and you sit with a tired sigh, tipping your head back to look at the stars.

“I love it out here.” You hum. “No expectations. No hands I have to pretend not to notice.”

“You should not have to pretend.” He grits out. Your head twists toward him, your eyes bright— too bright. Wine, he realizes. Not enough to dull your mind, but enough to soften your edges.

You raise suddenly and hold out your hand.

“Dance with me.”

The words hit him like a physical blow.

“No.” 

You blink, taken aback. “That was very fast.”

“I won’t.” He corrects, suddenly recognizing how it came out. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” You tilt your head to the side and James wants to avert his eyes at the adorable action.

Because I want to tear apart every man who touched you.

Because if I hold you like that, I will forget who I am.

Because I will never want to let go.

“Because I am on duty.” He opts to say instead.

But you do not give up, stepping closer, close enough that he could smell wine and flowers and something uniquely yours. Your fingers rest lightly against his breastplate.

“You are always protecting me.” You whisper. “So tonight protect me from the memory of that room, James.”

Your smile, gentle, coaxing, unbearably sure of him, undoes the last of his defenses.

He closes his eyes once, then takes your hand.

The music drifts faintly through the open doors, lutes and harps weaving a melody too light for the weight it carries. He leads you closer, aware of every point of contact: your palm warm in his, your other hand on his shoulder, his arm around your waist where no one could see.

James forgets to breathe.

Your gown catches the moonlight like something living, fancy silk and threads of gold shifting with every measured step. It is not extravagance that makes you radiant, but the way you hold yourself— chin lifted, shoulders straight, your movements deliberate and calm. They lend you a gravity no jewel could grant.

Noblemen came to you one by one, offering hands heavy with rings, and bows practiced to perfection. They touched your hands, turned you beneath raised arms. Drew too close, lingered too long. He told himself he had no right, no title, no place in this bright circle of silk and music. He is only a knight, standing guard as he has been taught, watching as others enjoy what duty denies him.

And yet you fit here best, in his arms.

To them, you are beauty and alliance, grace wrapped in soft gowns. To him, you are the woman who has looked at a freezing stranger with tenderness and who spoke his name as if it mattered.

For a moment, James forgets the armor, the crown. The distance that should have stood between you two. Your bodies move harmoniously at once, laughter ghosting across your lips as he spins you once, twice, your head tipped toward his chest.

“This,” You murmur. “is much better.”

His heart thunders.

James feels the echo of fury still coiled inside him, the memory of other hands where his now rest. It flares, and then dissolves, replaced by something dangerously tender.

He is not your guard now. He is just a man holding the woman he loves, under the stars, while the world pretends to be at peace.

And when the song ends, James knows— terrifyingly— that forgetting would be far harder than remembering.

Reality hits like cold water.

It rushes in the moment the music fades, the gardens fall quiet, and the distance between you, social, moral, irrevocable, reasserts itself with cruel clarity. He releases you at once, stepping back as if you burned him, bowing his head to hide the flush that creeps up his neck.

You do not look offended, too busy to unsuccessfully try to stifle a yawn. 

“Let me accompany you back to your chamber, Your Highness.” He jumps immediately, softer than intended.

The palace corridors are dimmer now, most guests still linger in the Great Hall, their laughter echoing faintly through marble. Your steps are slow as you walk, the tipsiness you had shrugged off in the garden making itself known.

You sway once and James catches you without thought, his hand firm at your elbow, his other steadying your waist. Your body leans into his for a fraction of a second, unguarded.

Every muscle in his body locks.

“I’ve got you.” He murmurs.

“I know.” You sigh content, and let him guide you the rest of the way.

He focuses on the path. On the cadence of your steps. On anything but the warmth of you through the thin silk of your gown, the way the fabric shifts beneath his fingers when you move. He keeps his hold precise, innocent, as though he were escorting you across ice.

Your chambers door open onto quiet and candlelight, the familiar scent of parchment and flowers settling around you. You slip from his grasp reluctantly, sinking onto the edge of the bed with a sigh that speaks of utter exhaustion.

“James.” You start, rubbing your eyes. “Would you help me?”

He freezes.

“With… ?” He asks carefully.

“My dress.” You whine softly, gesturing vaguely over your shoulder. “It’s late, and Natalia is already asleep. I do not want to bother her.”

His mind stutters, then reels.

“I— Your Highness—” He stops, recalibrates. “If you are certain.”

You smile at him, small and drowsy. “You already helped me before Natalia and Wanda's arrival. I trust you.”

That is the problem.

He approaches as one might approach a sacred thing: reverently, and acutely aware of the consequences of a misstep. His fingers find the laces at the back of your gown, knotted more tightly than he expected.

“Tell me if I pull too hard.” He warns with a voice steadier than he thought.

“I will.” You promise.

He works with painstaking care, eyes fixed on the task, not the person wearing it. Still, when the laces loosen, the fabric parts just enough to reveal a sliver of bare skin, warm and undeniably real.

His breath hitches.

The sight alone is enough to make his heartbeat quicken. He turns his head slightly, giving you what privacy he could while finishing the last tie by touch alone.

“There.” He replies hoarsely. “You should be able to manage the rest.”

You nod, already shrugging the gown from your shoulders with a tired clumsiness that makes his chest seize.

“I’ll wait outside.” He steps back quickly. “Just beyond the door. In case you—” He stops himself. “In case you need more help.”

You look at him over your shoulder then, something soft and grateful in your expression.

“Thank you.”

He bows once and steps out, closing the door gently behind him. The corridor feels colder without you. James rests his forehead briefly against the marble wall, breathing slowly, deliberately, until the world steadies. He told himself this is composure. That restraint is not weakness. That love, real love, is proven by what one refuses to take.

He straightens as footsteps echo inside the room, alert again, every sense attuned.

“I’m in bed.” You call softly.

Only then does he allows himself to exhale.

He remains there until he is certain your breathing has deepened into sleep, standing watch in silence, guarding not just your door, but that fragile line, held together by nothing more than his will.

And tonight, he holds it.

Barely.

James returns to his quarters, shutting the door behind him with deliberate care. For a long time, he simply stands there.

The image of you— drowsy, unguarded; the warmth of your back beneath his fingers. The silk sliding away. The way his name had sounded on your lips, softened by weariness and wine.

James closes his eyes.

That was the moment.

Not the dance. Not the jealousy. Not the fury at men who had touched you carelessly. Those things are familiar, almost manageable. He knows how to master violence, how to endure hunger and cold and rage.

But that— standing behind you in the quiet of your chamber, entrusted with your vulnerability— has nearly undone him.

He wanted to stay.

James crosses the room and kneels at the foot of his bed, not in comfort but in discipline, as he had once done when vows still felt unbreakable. He presses his palms flat against the floor and bows his head.

He does not pray for forgiveness. Never. Forgiveness implies he intends to repeat the transgression. Instead, he takes account.

He measures the distance between who he is and who he is supposed to be. He acknowledges the truth without embellishment or mercy: his love has crossed into longing; his devotion is no longer pure. The line he guarded so fiercely has thinned to a thread.

He would not touch you in ways you had not asked for. He would not take advantage of trust offered in exhaustion or wine. He would not mistake your need for safety as permission for closeness.

These are not the rules imposed by rank or law. They are the last pieces of himself he still respects.

James raises and paces the room, restless. He imagines futures he must refuse: a kiss stolen in weakness, a night allowed to blur into something irreparable, a moment where you wake and see not your protector, but a man who has taken what he wanted.

The thought makes him sick.

He presses his fist to his chest, grounding himself in the steady, unyielding beat of his heart. You deserve better than his hunger. And yet, James acknowledges this too: he would not stop loving you.

Love, unlike desire, does not ask permission. It does not retreat simply because it is inconvenient, or forbidden. It settles in and demands responsibility.

If this is his burden, he would carry it. Because devotion, if it is to mean anything at all, has to be proven not in what he takes—but in what he denies himself, again and again, for your sake.

James tosses in his bed, cursing himself for having such good senses. He woke up in the quietest hour of the night and with his headboard against the wall his quarters share with yours, the small, breathy noises from behind your room travel to his ears so easily.

It is evident what you are doing, and James stares at the ceiling, his jaw tight and his cock erect in his pants.

Logically, you are a grown woman with needs. No man would be allowed to satisfy you, James would not let that happen, yet it is the first time he witnesses you pleasuring yourself. A knight should have a better hold on himself in this kind of situation, there is no reason to care for it, for a proper knight's feelings would have been that of indifference beyond protecting and serving their Princess.

But James’ situation is entirely different since he holds more fondness for you than is perhaps wise. More fondness than what is reasonably allowed. 

He flexes his hand around the soft pillow. Your soft moans keep filtering through the wall and James finds himself slowly kneading it, trying to find distraction. It works momentarily, until the smooth, cool fabric turns into your thighs in his imagination.

The knight knows that even when you are lost in the throes of passion, you must look so elegant, for you possess endless grace. And your eyes– those gentle, sparkling eyes of yours, could pin a man to the floor better than any spear. They could heal a wound better than any herb and read a man’s soul like a book.

Realizing what he is doing with the pillow, James goes rigid. To show his greed so clearly, selfish and unfair as he indulges in your intimate moment, makes his stomach churn with uneasiness. You must be unaware of the volume of your the breathing, the noises, the soft creaking of the bed as you shift. As a matter of fact, the moans and whimpers grow. Unknowingly, James’ breath matches yours. Shakily in, shakily out. And then… 

His hand squeezes his throbbing dick over his pants.

James gasps loudly, withdrawing his palm as if it burned. He wants so badly to remove the thin layer of clothing that bounds him, limbs trembling with the need to connect his lips to yours. He yearns to hear his name on your lips, whether whispered or cried out.

His fingers hesitantly trace his lips, imagining it is your hand tenderly stroking his face. His eyes close as his palm runs down his chest, stopping just above the hem of his underwear. Maybe with a little bit of saliva on his finger he could pretend it is your tongue grazing him, making sure to outline the still covered head.

Perhaps, if James could release some of the pressure, he would be able to face you with much less strain. Or maybe it is just a "reasonable" explanation in order to feel less guilty about jerking off to his Princess’ own pleasure. Shame curls hot in his belly as he finally removes his pants with a single, strong motion. Painfully hard, his body buzzes with lust and the risk of being heard by you. Maybe the sound of his desperation would carry through the paper thin walls and you would hear how crazy you make him.

Oh, to even entertain the thought that you could desire an older man as rough, hairy, and battle scarred as him. 

His hand wraps around his leaking cock, hips thrusting up and mind conjuring the softness of your palm, instead of the rough callus on his. He shakes his head as if to condemn himself in real time. A part of him feels dirty, manifesting in the way his wrist stops for a moment, the temporary loss of contact almost bringing tears to his eyes. 

In this dark, cold room, James accepts what he has become: a slave to his own pleasure.

“James.” Your soft whines of his name almost make him come on the spot. He squeezes his eyes close, too desperate to analyze the situation. Did you really call for him while plunging your fingers into your sweet core, or was it just a figment of his pathetic imagination? What he wouldn’t give to be in that room with you. To get lost in the tangle of your sheets, sweat, and arousal. To sink deep into you and mark you as his, and feel your hands on his chest as his fingers abuse your clit. The idea of absorbing every sound you make into his mouth makes James shiver, drooling as his hand squeezes once his cock, pretending it is your pussy clenching around him as you come.

He can hear how wet you are, your quiet whimpers overshadowed by your palm slapping against your slick skin. James fights to stay quiet, jaw tight as his thumb swipes over his tip. His hand shoots over his mouth, moaning through his fingers as you finally reach your climax, again whimpering his name. He keeps thrusting into his hand, his thumb focused on the tip and his chest heaving, bucking desperately into his own fingers. Almost close, James momentarily uncovers his mouth to reach onto his side table and retrieve the object of one of his biggest sins. One of your expensive cloaks, the one you accidentally dropped during one of your aimless strolls around the capital. A kind woman had brought it to him, yet he could not find it in himself to give it back. James presses his face deeply into the fabric, just like he did that same night in the privacy of his own room, his cheeks red and his chest aching with shame.

Draping the cloak over his face, he lets his lips fall open, coating the fabric in his spit to let your scent bless his tongue. Saliva slides down his chin, yet he does not care about the mess, too hopeful to retrieve any trace of you. Taking a deep breath, your scent penetrates deep into his nostrils, touching his soul. 

With a cry of your name, his chest is splattered with cum. The heavy fabric of the cloak did nothing to muffle the sound of his own orgasm.

James has been waiting for you close to the throne room when the doors burst open with a sudden and loud noise. Your skirts tremble with every hurried step as you storm in the corridors. Tears glisten on your cheeks, yet you do not stop, sprinting with your shoulders hunched, as if trying to make yourself smaller.

“Your Highness!” He shouts, but you do not stop. You vanish around the corner and James follows after you, heart thundering against his ribs, until he reaches your chambers door.

It slams shut with finality.

The soft click of the lock reverberates like a hammer blow to his chest. He bangs on the door, voice breaking. “Your Highness! Please— open the door!”

Inside, he could hear your sobs— shattering, forlorn. His stomach knots. The world feels suddenly dark and hollow. Every instinct screams at him to break the door down, but he restrains himself, knowing you need your space, even if it tears him apart to hear you in such misery and being forced to stand powerless outside.

Natalia appears silently at his side, eyes wide with concern. “Sir James… I—I think I should tell you,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “They– the King and Queen… They—”

James’s heart drops to his stomach, anticipation tightening like a vise around his neck. He clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms. “What?”

Natalia swallows, then speaks. “They want the Princess to marry. They have arranged a ball, invitations are already being written for nobles of the neighboring kingdom. Lords, dukes…” Her gaze lowers. “Their Majesties believe it will strengthen the peace treaty.”

He faced famine, war, betrayal, and the harsh streets of the city, but nothing has ever made him feel so helpless. They’re trading your happiness, your freedom… For mere politics.

“They are already choosing gowns,” Natalia continues quietly. “The Queen wants her presented properly. Radiant. Approachable.” She hesitates. “Desirable.”

The words strike him like poisoned arrows.

James stares at the marble wall behind the maid, suddenly aware of how small the corridor feels, how thin the air is. He pictures you standing beneath chandeliers, surrounded by strangers who would smile at you and think they have a right to your body, and your future.

“How soon?” He exhales harshly.

“Very soon.” Natalia replies. “Within the fortnight.”

A fortnight.

Two weeks until men would touch your hands, guide you through dances, lean close enough that you would smell the wine on their tongues and their entitlement. Two weeks until you would be appraised, discussed, and measured like a prize horse.

“And she?” He asks, though he already fears the answer.

Natalia looks away. “She said nothing. She just… Went very still.”

James nods once, sharply. “Thank you for telling me.”

Worry etches into the maid’s face. “You’ll be there, right? With her?”

James’ answer is immediate. 

“Always.”

Once Natalia steps away to return to her duties, James sinks on one knee outside the door, hands pressed against the cool wood. He cannot allow this. And yet, you have chosen to lock yourself away from him.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of agonizing waiting. He stations himself outside your door, silent and resolute. Natalia tries to coax you to eat, her voice soft and patient, but you did not respond. Eventually, the maid placed a small plate near James’ side and slipped away quietly, leaving him as your silent, immovable guard.

Finally, when the castle is engulfed by the silence of the night and the torches flicker low, the door clicks.

James’ breath hitches. He surges forward, heart hammering, and pushes the door open gently.

You are there– hair loose, cheeks wet, eyes red and swollen from crying, your gown wrinkled and clinging awkwardly to your frame. Yet still so beautiful. Your hands tremble as you tear up again at the sight of him.

James moves swiftly, closing the door behind you and wrapping an arm around your frame, pressing you to him with gentle insistence. “It’s over.” He murmurs, voice low and steady, though his chest aches. “I’m here. Nothing will touch you now.”

You try to speak, to explain, but he silences you softly. “No words. Not now. Just rest.”

Guiding you carefully to your big bed, he lets you sit on the soft sheets, trembling, before your faint whisper causes his body to go rigid. “Please, remove the armor. Stay–stay with me.”

His instincts scream against it, he has always been the protector, always armored and vigilant. But he cannot refuse. Not now. Not after seeing you like this.

Slowly, he removes the straps and plates, letting the weight of his armor fall away piece by piece. When he finally sits on the edge of the bed beside you, you tug his hand gently, drawing him closer. Your arms wrap around him, desperate, and James finally allows himself to uncoil, to give in to the moment.

He hugs you tightly, letting every ounce of fear, fury, and relief flow into the embrace. Sobbing quietly against his chest, he holds you firmly, breathing in the flowery scent of your hair, the warmth of your body, the unmistakable, unshakable presence of you.

For the first time that day, James is simply there— nothing to protect, nothing to fight, nothing to plan. Just you and him. He would move Heaven and Earth to stand by you always, no matter the cost.

He does not know how long you stay like that, surrounded by the stillness of the room and the flickering candlelight casting gentle shadows across your face. You still tremble slightly, exhausted from the day’s grief, yet his hold is firm but gentle around you, letting you lean against him.

Your heartbeat is irregular and fast, and it mirrors the tension he has carried all day. You are safe now, here with him. And yet… He feels himself choke under the weight of everything he has tried to protect you from.

Finally, your voice comes, barely above the hush of the night. “James… I—” Your eyes close. “I–I don’t know what I would do without you. You always… Always know what to do, even when there seems to be no way out. You saved me more times than I can count, and… I–”

Your words falter. James’ heart throbs painfully in his chest. 

“I love you.” The words are soft, vulnerable, almost a whisper, as if saying them louder might shatter the fragile quiet surrounding you. To James… Well, they feel like a cannon ball falling directly on his chest.

For a moment, he cannot speak, nor move. He should retreat and let the door shut close behind his back, a physical wall that symbolizes his final desperate attempt to distance himself from you.

Now, faced with the impending threat of someone taking you away from him, James refuses to be the umpteenth reason for your suffering.

He leans closer, letting his forehead rest on yours. “I have for so long–” His voice breaks, hoarse. “I have for so long loved you from afar. You are everything I am not worthy of, and yet…”

Your fingers trace lightly along his jaw, and his blue eyes close gently, finally slackening against your touch like an abandoned dog looking for affection. “And yet?” You prompt softly, breathless.

“And yet,” he whispers. “I cannot imagine letting anyone or anything take you from me. I have sworn to protect you, but… I also swear to be here, with you, for you, in every way I can. If you’ll let me.”

Your smile is small through the tears, a mixture of exhaustion and relief, but James has never seen you so radiant before. “I will.” You exhale. “Of course I will. I trust you. Always.”

He hugs you tightly, not needing to speak, letting the shared confession linger in the silent space between you. No threats, no attacks– only the truth of your hearts, spoken softly, held carefully, and received fully.

Your noses brush against each other when your face emerges from the slope of his neck. Your chest heaves when you finally let out your confession. 

“I have never laid with anyone before.” James swallows, shaky fingers tracing the line of your jaw.

“I have done things by myself, but…”

“I know.” He confesses. “I heard you.”

“I know. I hoped you would.” Your smile is mischievous when you timidly utter that, and James’ breath hitches.

“Your Highness—”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” Your lips purse in a small pout. 

He flinches, momentarily taken aback. “I am your knight–” 

“Not only my knight now.” You whisper, slowly lifting one of your legs. James waits with bated breath as your body positions itself on his lap, tentatively yet cunningly. 

“We cannot move any further.” His voice breaks, wheezing when your hands cradle his stubbled face. 

“I just want to hold you, James.” It is such a simple request, yet he feels like someone has just poured a bucket of icy water on his bare body. Because that’s how he feels, bare, not only emotionally but especially physically; his armor, the symbol of everything he should be, lies carelessly on your rug, because no princess should be forced to be pressed against hard, uncomfortable metal. 

His hands lie weak by his sides. Sitting like this, with a pretty woman such as yourself on his lap, James might get untoward ideas and touch you in places he is not allowed to reach. 

And now you are tugging down his pants, and James is sputtering to stop you, no real heat in his voice as his hard cock springs out. You swallow, watching it with parted lips.

“It’s… Big.” You mutter, hips unconsciously making a little thrusting movement.  

“Is it– alright?” James swallows, blushing.

“Yes.” You smile and he manages to reciprocate, a deep rosy blush sitting on the apples of his cheeks. 

You like him, you are accepting him.

Your sparkling eyes lift to look at his damp face, one of your hands placing itself on his pec. “Can I… ?” 

And James is only a man.

He nods eagerly, gasping when your soft finger ghosts over his tip. It glides down the veins as you lean in close to get a better look, curious.

“I have never seen one before.” You admit abashed, using two fingers to rub the vein on the underside. James moans, hips jumping into your soft caresses. When you hold his sac, soft and pliable, in your hand he gasps hotly, before finally wrapping your hand around his cock, stroking it to full erection while his head rolls back. His lips part when he sighs, feeling himself grow impossibly harder and thicker in your hand.

“How does it feel?” You ask and twist your wrist, pulling a long guttural moan from him.

“So good, my princess.” He bites his bottom lip, then dares to open his eyes, flitting them down between his legs. “You made me so hard.”

You press a kiss on the side of his neck that sends his eyes back into oblivion, quickening your strokes, twisting a little harder, smearing the dew drops of precum over the smooth head. 

“Gods!” James growls, thrusting his hips up into your hand, his breath caught in his lungs. You smirk at his reaction, nipping at his neck yet not enough to leave a lasting mark but one he would certainly feel tomorrow. Your tongue soothes it over while your free hand traces down the expanse of his hard chest to gently hold his balls. His whines are the sweetest of melodies to your ears. 

“Let go for me, darling?” You purr and James cries out, a sob echoes in the dim-lit room as a familiar shudder rolls over his body. The hair on his neck raises and his belly contracts when he finally growls out a curse that would make even the rudest of soldiers balk, coming all over your fingers.

James' body shakes as he lets himself fall back against the bed, taking you with him. You let out a elated sigh as you give him a softer squeeze before you regard your soiled hand with innocent interest, and under his stunned gaze, your tongue peeks out enough to taste his seed.

“Gods above, sweetheart.”

You do not answer right away.

The word lingers between you, unfamiliar and precious. Warmth spreads slowly throughout your body, traitorously.

“You—” you stop, smiling despite yourself. “You have never called me that before.”

He looks almost uncertain. “I won’t again, if you do not want me to.”

You swallow, tightening your hold on his shirt. “Say it again.”

James' real smile is not dazzling, but real. It softens his face, strips years from him, something boyish and unexpectedly gentle breaking through the severity he usually wears. It is not as bright as the sun, but it carries his happiness all the same. And when his lips close around another term of endearment, you know you would remember the sound of it for the rest of her life.

Your arms wrap around his torso in a warm hug, squeezing him once as your whisper presses against his chest, so timidly. “Will you… Stay until morning?”

James swallows hard. Every instinct screams at him that he should, that he must, that the world outside could wait. “Yes.” He does not hesitate, his voice barely audible. “I am not going anywhere, my heart.”

You squirm slightly, hugging him tighter. James exhales slowly, letting himself slacken on the comfortable mattress. No threats, no guards, no political maneuvering— just you and this quiet moment of pure, unadulterated love.

For once, James allows himself to simply be the man who loves you and would not let you go.

The Great Hall is shimmering in opulence once again, but James barely notices. His eyes are fixed on you, tracking every turn, every step, every laugh that feels forced.

The King’s announcement had come before the music even began: you are to entertain suitors, men from the other kingdom, all chosen to cement the fragile peace.

James’ chest had tightened the moment the words left his mouth. He had protected you through enemies both known and hidden, and now your own parents are auctioning you like a prize.

He moves alongside the sidelines, keeping close, as you greet the nobles with careful courtesy. He can clearly see the subtle curl of your lips, polite but empty, and the tension in your shoulders. You hate this. He wants to tear the chandeliers down, strike every man who dares step too close. But James remains quiet. Restrained. Observing. Always observing.

At some point in the night, inevitably, the crowd shifts: laughter and music and drink colliding, and you are gone.

James has always prided himself on having a strategic mind, on being a reliable soldier that always knows what to do, how to act. Now, he darts through expensive gowns and glasses that cost more than his salary, asking anyone who would look at him.

“Have you seen the Princess?”

Finally, a round man says. “She went toward the balcony.” 

James sprints to the other end of the room, his boots hitting the marble in harsh, irregular beats. The balcony doors open to the cool night air. And there you are.

You, cowering against the stone wall as a man's hand presses firmly around your forearm. A duke, the knight immediately recognizes him. The sharp tang of alcohol reaches James before he even sees the cocky man’s face. It takes one glance at your wide, terrified eyes for the knight to launch himself at the slimy man, fury and steel all wrapped into one.

The duke yelps as James grabs him, relentless. Some knights had noticed the chaos, their faces turning from curiosity to alarm as they saw the ferocity in James’ eyes and his agitated movements. They followed, apprehending the nobleman and restraining him immediately. 

“You know not who you address! You know not who I am! How dare you turds—”

His useless words dispel in the crisp darkness as James kneels quickly beside your hunched form, lifting you gently but firmly into his arms. Your shivering body loses all its tension, falling into his, as your own arms go around his torso instinctively.

“Shh.” He murmurs. “It’s over. You are safe.”

Your forehead rests against his chest, letting the tremors pass slowly.

“I can’t believe— He—” Your voice breaks.

“I know.” James closes his eyes, voice raw with anger. “I know. But I came. I will never let anyone do this to you.”

Your arms tighten around him. “James.”

He lifts his head slightly, letting his eyes meet your. They are wide, glistening with tears, but gone is the fear.

“I—” His voice falters. “I cannot stand to lose you. Not to them, not to anyone.”

Your hand pressed to his chest grounds his racing thoughts. “You won’t. You won’t lose me.”

He shakes his head slightly, disbelief and relief mingling. 

“You are my protector, my strength… And my heart.”

He swallows hard, before delicately pressing his trembling lips on the top of your head— a kiss not of passion, but of surrender.

You sigh happily at the contact, trembling less now, yet refusing to ease your hold around him. 

“I love you.” You whisper.

James exhales harshly, his hold desperate around you. “And I love you. Always. Even when I hate myself for it.”

James’ boots thump on the marble with a rhythm that matches the pounding in his chest. He has been summoned to the King and Queen’s presence, and he already knows the reason— they want to reprimand him.

They do not understand. They never will, not fully. 

The King’s booming voice ripples the silence like a thunder the moment the knight enters. “You assaulted the Duke of Eastpier! Explain yourself!”

James keeps his posture straight, eyes unwavering. “I did not assault him. I restrained a man who was threatening the Princess. He had no right, no claim. He was putting her in danger. My duty is to her safety.”

The Queen’s sharp gaze slices across him. “Your violence was unseemly, sir James. Reckless. A knight is not above law or courtly protocol!”

James grits his teeth. Of course they would be more worried about appearances. The thought burns in his mind. Not that a man had cornered their daughter on a balcony, pressed his hand against her arm, intoxicated and convinced he could have his way with her? Not that she could have been hurt?

They are fretting over gossip, scandal. And James is expected to care more about their fragile reputation than the fact that their daughter had been assaulted.

The rage coils in his chest like a viper. He fought frost and famine for you. He made sure that whoever tried to speak ill of you was apprehended accordingly; he kept you safe. And now, the people who brought you into this world care only about what others think over your own well-being?

He forces himself to breathe evenly, to reply not out of disregard of their words, because that could lead them to strip him of this position and banish him from the palace, far from you.

“I am her knight. It is my duty to protect her. The court’s whispers mean nothing when her life is at stake.”

The King and Queen exchange glances, unease flickering behind their anger. “We… Appreciate your work, sir James.” The Queen admits, quieter though detached. “You have done a lot for our daughter. But you must temper your actions. Be more subtle, for the sake of the court.”

Subtle.

That word makes James’ blood boil. Subtle? After what you endured? After what that scumbag tried to do to you? Subtle will not save you from men like him. Subtle will not shield you from danger. And yet that is what they care about. Their daughter’s safety, apparently, is secondary to the court's opinion.

He holds himself rigid, forcing his jaw to relax, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the Queen. Behind his back, his fists clench until little crescent marks bloom onto his palms. “I will act with discretion. But let it be clear: my priority is the Princess. Always. Nothing else matters.”

The Queen’s expression softens just slightly, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “We are relieved she has such a devoted knight by her side. But discretion, sir James. Please.”

Discretion. Their voices grate against his brain like steel. He leaves without another word, fury still simmering under his skin and heart hammering with indignation.

He finds you pacing in your chambers shortly after, a frown on your pretty features. Your eyes land on the door as he enters, relief flickering in your eyes as you see him.

“They were angry.” You claim softly, stopping mid-step. “I did not know what they’d do to you.”

James crosses the room quickly and holds out his hands for you to take. “Nothing will happen to me. I am your knight. I swore an oath to protect you, and I will never break it.”

You hesitate in his embrace, your shoulders lowering as a fraction of the tension leaves your muscles. “I was so afraid they would punish you. Or force you away. You did nothing wrong.”

“And yet I must be careful.” He admits bitterly. “For appearances. But that does not change the truth: no one, nothing, will harm you while I stand here.”

Exhaling slowly, your chin lifts up, wishing to behold his face. “I know.” Your voice quiet but certain. “I trust you. You have kept me safe all this time. I don’t want to imagine what would happen if you weren’t here.”

James’ gaze softens, allowing his hand to hesitantly cup your cheek. “You need not to imagine it. I am always here, by your side.”

The court could fume. Nobles could whisper. But the threat is gone, and for the first time since that unpleasant event, both of you can breathe.

The infirmary is still when you open its door: no hearth lit, no servants bustling through, only the faint smell of iron and dried herbs clinging to the stone. 

James sits on the edge of one of the narrow cots, his back straight despite the blood seeping through the torn linen of his shirt. He has not noticed you yet, his focus is inward, jaw clenched, one hand braced against the mattress as if holding himself in place.

You close the door softly behind you.

“James.”

At the sound of your voice, he stiffens. He turns too quickly, and pain flickers across his face before he can mask it.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He says at once, not wanting for you to see him like this, pathetic, in pain. 

“I know.” Your mouth curves a little, stepping closer. 

He stands, as if to put distance between you, and sways. You catch his arm without thinking. For a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. His skin is hot beneath your fingers, fevered from exertion and blood loss. His eyes drop to where you are touching him, and his shoulders go rigid.

“I’m fine,” he clears his throat, too quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“You are bleeding through your shirt.” You refuse to let it go. “Sit down.”

He searches your face, as if gauging how far he could push this before you yielded. You do not, on the contrary, you meet his gaze steadily, princess or not.

Finally, he exhales and lowers himself back onto the cot. After gathering what you need, you dip one of the edges of a white cloth in the bowl of water, before glancing at James and halting in your movements as if seeing him for the first time that afternoon.

“I believe you will have to take off your shirt.”

James’ lips press together as if to hide an amused grin at your sudden modesty. Despite that, he feels a slight pull at his nerves at the realization. You have never seen his upper body. He does not fear your judgement, not after what you had done that night. But perhaps he does feel a bit anxious to fulfill your expectations, considering the signs of battles he brings with himself like a sore reminder of his past.

The moment he slips his shirt off, gritting his teeth at the pull at his cut, you are left staring at him, suddenly mute, lips parted with a soft sigh that speaks of everything but disappointment.

James would have been a liar if he denied how your silent wonder stroked his ego. He worked for the muscles in his upper body his whole life, particularly after he decided to gain back his strength to become your protector, when his bones were too exhausted from the cold to collaborate, and his tongue could not remember the taste of bread. Now muscles adorn his torso again, alongside various scars, a souvenir of his reckless days as a Knight Banneret. 

“I would never use my strength to hurt you, my heart.” You swallow, the sides of your neck heating up as he finally lets his walls crumble. 

“I know.” You fret, before clearing your throat and composing yourself. “I was merely… Assessing the damage.” You wait, letting him indulge in smugness a little more. “Darling.”

James is certain his ears are on fire now.

“May I?” You whisper, already moving forward and reaching out your hand. 

Your knight gulps. By all means, he longs for you to touch him, trace every line with your fingers, with your lips, your tongue–

“Of course.” He rasps instead, frowning at himself.

Your dominant hand dutifully wipes around the wound first, tender but thorough. The cut is clean but deep, an angry red line across his torso where the blade had slipped past guard and armor alike during practice.

Your other hand rests on his shoulder for balance as you stand between his legs, crouched and a little twisted, your position slightly awkward and no doubt uncomfortable.

“You were careless.” You start quietly, more relief than scolding in your tone. “You could have been killed.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried.”

“That’s not what I meant.” You dampen the cloth again. “You do not get to throw yourself away anymore.”

His gaze flicks up to your face. “And why is that?”

Your hand pauses.

“Because I—” You swallow, your eyes landing on his lap before looking him straight in the eyes. “Because you are mine now.”

His expression shifts, something raw breaking through the discipline.

“And I am yours.” 

You let the words hang between you two as you go back to clean the cut. James hopes you cannot feel the way his heart is trying to crawl out of his rib cage from how quick it is beating. He decides to focus on something else, such as your beauty. It is rather unusual for him to see you from this angle, normally he towers several inches above you, having you have to tip your head back to simply look at him. 

“When did you learn to dress a wound, my sweetheart?”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes the flesh once, a way for you to free yourself of the dizziness taking over you each time he lets himself indulge in your love for each other, releasing himself from duty and etiquette. 

“I was a wild child.” You muse, a little smile brightening your features. “And there was a maid who would take care of me. She taught me a lot.” The fondness in your voice is evident as your eyes grow hazy, remembering a happiness long gone. “She was more of a mother than my own.” 

A frown clouds your soft features with disappointment, quickly dissipating as James’ hand moves gently on the curve of your waist in comfort. You give him a small smile, before using a bit of wine to disinfect the wound.

He really did not want to show you how the sting affected him, yet he finds out that letting you, out of all people, see him vulnerable is not the worst thing to happen. When a hiss falls from his lips at the burn, your eyes raise to his with an unspoken apology; and his pain is soothed by the softest of kisses. James proceeds to steal several more, squeezing your hips, toying with the hem of your bodice before he lets you continue, demanding such compensation every time you make his jaw clench; and with each kiss, his hunger grows.

The moment you need to take a fresh cloth to bandage his torso, a squeal escapes your throat as strong arms circle your waist, dragging your body to sit on his thighs. Leaning onto his shoulders to not to fall, your breath fans his face as you shift in an attempt to find a comfortable position, inevitably brushing his most sensitive part. 

Your knight claims your mouth, a hand reaching to cradle your face while his thumb gently strokes your cheek. Your body melts into his, pliant, and your lips succumb to his advances. His arm pulls you firmly chest to chest, your gasp of surprise swallowed by his mouth as your hands grab his arms. His pants are too tight all of sudden and he has no doubt it does not escape your attention.

“My dear heart…” He whispers, tasting the skin of your neck. How sweet you are, so effortlessly, unconsciously alluring to all his senses. The scent of your skin, the taste of your lips, the tender heat of your touch. Your eyes are blown with lust and wide as you feel his arousal, he cannot help himself with an angel like you resting on his lap. Your trembling hands settle on his shoulder for support, only to start grinding against him and Gods, he is so close to throw you on the cot and have his wicked way with you.

James had women in the tavern please him for money when he was younger and irresponsible, and his hand temporarily eased his lust thinking of how sweet your heat would be. Yet nothing could compare to your touch on his bare skin, and your palm around his cock.

Your lips part with a shaky exhale when his hands travel up your waist, teasing the underside of your breasts. He craves to taste them since the moment he helped you wash your back and your arm pressed against your sinful curves out of decency. 

“James–” You whimper as your thighs tremble when his hips thrust up. He can feel the pressure in him building, his hands burning to untie your bodice, ruck up your skirts and pull his pants down to remove all barriers between you. Just him, you and absolute bliss.

“My heart, my sweetheart, how you tempt me.” He pants into your skin. A small pitiful sound which almost breaks his resolve has his blood boiling when his mouth meets your neck, heavy breaths expanding his chest as much as they do yours, every inhale causing your breasts to brush against his naked chest. 

He dares to look up at your glistening face, instantly regretting it when his cock throbs at the sight of your own desire written all over your features. “This the most difficult and yet the sweetest trial I have ever faced. You are beautiful, so beautiful.”

James grabs your hips, forcing his own to cease the instinctive motions, preventing your own as well. 

The corners of your lips lift in a shy smile. “And you are so handsome, darling.” You admit. “It is hard to not give in to sin.” You timidly mumble, caressing the hair on his chest.

His beautiful, kind, bashful minx of a Princess. How could he not fall for you?

“I feel the same, sweetheart. I love you.” Your eyes shine with affection as you cup his face and plant a soft kiss on his forehead.

“I love you too, James.” You swallow, squirming. “Promise me you will be more careful.” Your eyes flit to the wound you had not finished cleaning, but James tips your chin up gently so you can look at him.

“I promise, my sweetness.”

You clear your throat, slowly standing up from his lap under his confused gaze.

“Perhaps,” your knees land on the wooden floorboards, the discomfort unmistakable and immediate, yet your soft skirts alleviate it a little. “You need a stronger… Encouragement.”

James towers over you, still and bewildered. His Princess, kneeling before him, a lowly knight. How blasphemous!

Your hands work nimbly on the opening of his pants, finally freeing his erection from its confines.

The world slips out of focus until all that’s left is James’ shaft, leaking and proud against his abdomen. Your mouth waters at the sight– his tip is flushed red, swollen; the length throbs under your misty eyes, undeniably starved for him. 

“Sweetheart–” 

“Let me do it, please.” You mumble, forcing yourself to look up at his parted lips. “Let me make you feel good.” You mewl, reveling in his gasp when your hand wraps around his shaft, the head nudging your mouth, smearing his precum across your lips, now shining with him and oh, your tongue finally peeks out to taste it, and Gods above… The sight alone could have him coming untouched.

His hips rut forward automatically, pushing his tip in and out of your mouth. “Sorry my love.” He rushes out, unable to stop himself from feeling your velvety warmth around him. His musky scent fills your nose, and your thighs clench against each other.

“Oh Gods.” He moans, finally working his way into your mouth. You relax your throat, just like Natalia told you to do. It was quite embarrassing to ask her for this kind of advice, but your trusted maid revealed herself to be very knowledgeable, and happy to help you. She has extensive knowledge on your special relationship with your knight. 

James’ head falls back, his hand involuntarily fisting your hair, before soothing your head with gentle apologies and soft caresses.

“No.” You wheeze, tightening his hold on your hair with your own hand. “Let me take care of you.” You lean forward, pressing a kiss on his hip bone. “I want you to use me, James. You deserve it.”

He stifles a groan at your eagerness as you engulf his cock as far in as you could, his balls nudging your chin. His blue eyes darken, now locked with yours as his jaw unclenches. He is utterly in love with you. Everyone else was completely ruined for him the moment you took a look at him when he was still homeless, and decided to nurse him back to health. Despite the fact that James spent the first months in denial, he knew he was truly, irreversibly gone for you.

His hand shakily smooths your hair back as your tongue licks a long stripe along the underside of his length, base to tip. Your palms slide up his thighs, feeling his taut muscles beneath your fingertips, then your right hand gently cups his balls.

“Oh princess.” His head falls forward, and you take him into your mouth again, rolling his sack in your hand, gently suckling at his tender head.

His soft whimpers blend with the warmth of your bodies.

“Sweetheart, your mouth–” His praise is cut off by a whine when his tip kisses the back of your throat deliciously; your hand continues to work on his balls, the other anchoring yourself to his thigh.

He forces his hips still, groaning brokenly as your cheeks hollow around him. “Where did you learn– oh Gods!” His jaw clenches, finally willing his eyes open to enjoy the show.

Small tears gather at the corners of your eyes as you gag around his cock, the sight alone makes his knees tremble, his breath stalling in his chest. He is so close, you can feel it. 

Seeing your devoted, hard-working knight reduced to a moaning mess makes your hole clench around nothing. What a mess you are making in your undergarments!

Saliva pools around his length, slicking down his balls. His teeth hurt by the way he is clenching his jaw, trying to keep his hips firmly on the cot, until your hand squeezes around his thigh. He looks down hurriedly, scared to have hurt you, yet he only sees your wide eyes, before you nod at him. That’s when his hips snap forward, both his hands flying on your hair to help you bob your throat up and down his cock. 

A wet gulp, a slap of his balls against your skin, your mouth slurping with every thrust.

Before you can realize what is happening, James bursts into your throat with a needy groan, hot ropes of cum painting your insides as your eyes close, forcing yourself to swallow around him to ensure not a single drop goes to waste.

Your skin is hot and sticky with sweat as the sound of heavy breathing fills the dimly lit room. Finally pulling out, James slowly loosens his grip on your hair, instantly going for your waist to help you up and on his laps. With eyes half-lidded, you regard him, quiet yet hopeful for some sign of approval.

“You are going to kill me one day, sweetheart.” His fingers brush your cheek with gentleness, searching your face for any sign of discomfort; his shoulders lower only when you giggle at his dejected voice. Then, your eyes widen.

“Oh Gods, your wound!”

This day feels like a gift. Sunlight spills freely across the gardens, warming the stone paths and waking the scent of flowers that have slept through the colder weeks. The air is gentle on your face, carrying the soft hum of insects and the distant splash of fountains scattered across the grass. For once, nothing presses at your chest. No expectations, no lessons, no whispered plans made without your consent.

You lead the way to the pond with a skip in your steps that makes James barely contain his satisfied smile. It lies tucked behind a curtain of willows, their branches trailing low enough to brush the crystalline water’s surface. The world seems to end there– the sounds are muffled, and the palace is reduced to something imagined rather than real. It has been your favorite spot since childhood, a place where you could pretend to belong only to yourself and nature.

James steps in front of you, instinctively scrutinising the surroundings before setting an old, big cloak on the trimmed grass for you to rest on. The tension eases from his shoulders when he sees no one else is near.

“There is no one around.” You smile, settling onto the makeshift cover at the water’s edge and kicking off your shoes. 

James immediately understands what you mean. That's what you say to imply your wish of having him closer, out of his duties. Sitting beside you, close enough that your arms brush against each other, James closes his eyes for a moment, simply listening— to the water, the wind, the fragile peace neither of you trust to last.

Yet, it is enough for now.

Then, you lean into him. He stiffens for half a heartbeat, habit more than hesitation, before his arm comes around your shoulders. His touch is still careful, always careful— at least when his blood stays away from his loins, for he fears the world might punish him for touching you too freely.

You tilt your head up, the tip of your nose grazing his jaw. “No one can see us.”

“I know.” He murmurs, his gaze flicking once more to the trees before landing on you. He observes you with anticipation as you rise onto your knees, only to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him.

It is unhurried, freeing, nothing like the stolen, breathless moments you usually manage. His hand slides to your waist, tentative at first, then surer when you lean into him more. When you part, James rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I wish I could give you this every day.” He confesses like a prayer.

“You already do.” Your hands cradle his cheeks, thumbs caressing his stubble. Your head turns then, brushing your lips along his jaw, his cheek, smiling when he finally chuckles, a low, unguarded sound.

You lie back together, your head on his chest as his arm wrap around your shoulders, keeping you close to his muscled body while his fingers trace absent lines along your arm. You tell him about the lessons you skipped yesterday, about a ridiculous myth you had read in one of Father's books that morning, and then you comment the swans freely playing in the water, marveling at their graceful beauty.

And James listens, because your every word matters.

Your voice dwindles into silence eventually, and when your eyes raise, they find his already admiring you with a soft, rare smile on his lips. Before long, your little haven comes alive with heavy breathes, heated gazes and wandering hands.

James draws you to him, mouth still pressed on your delicious lips, barely holding back from sinking his teeth into the supple flesh. You respond with a small, pleased noise, soft and warm against his taut body, and your tongues much more daring than the previous times you indulged in such moments of forbidden closeness. 

With a grunt, James gently guides you back until you lay completely on the cloak, bracing himself with an arm above you. With growing confidence, your arms circle around James’ head, hands fisted into his hair and curiously roaming his body.

You open up like a flower under his fingers. Slowly, he kneads your chest, then your hips, your thighs, all to be rewarded with gasps and whimpers leaping from your mouth into his. You keep pulling him against you, as if you wish to melt into one. It is easy for your knight to explore what's hidden under your dress, for you chose a lighter, simpler gown today– were you hoping for something indecent to happen? Have you been luring him in all morning, only for his control to finally slip?

The skin of your inner thigh is soft when he presses his big palm to your core, causing you to buck into it clumsily.

“Gods.” James sighs, dipping his face into the inviting curve of your neck. “You are divine, sweetness.”

Your answer dissolves into sighs and whimpers as James kisses the skin of your neck and grounds his palm into you. The way you are coming apart underneath him, how your hands caress up his back, how your thighs keep trying to shut close around his arm, and most of all the soft, desperate sounds falling from your lips… It is driving James crazy. With a practiced hand, his fingers reach for the hem of your undergarments and pull down. Then, his hand finally touches the warm spot between your legs, wet and slick from pure desire. Your every breath and twitch are delightful as he slowly trails his fingers over and between your folds, lightly rubbing your hidden nub.

“James.” You whine against his lips. It is not enough. Thus James pulls the cups of your dress down, breath hitching at the sight of your beautiful breasts, and kneads the flesh with his other hand, kissing between your tits; your gasps are loud and your chest pushes insistently against his mouth as he finally tastes your turgid nipples. The hands in his hair tightens once the knight gathers some of your wetness to spread it on your sensitive peaks; sucking and moaning around them, his eyes roll back when your tangy nectar quenches his thirst for you. You whimper and arch into his touch, and James smiles satisfied with his face nestled on the soft cushion of your breasts. He is wholly and entirely endeared, you are so beautifully receptive to even the most minuscule of movements on your pussy. 

“W–What…?” Your neck cranes confused when you cannot feel his warmth against your bare chest anymore. With a soothing caress on your thigh, James grips it, guiding you until you spread your legs apart, as wide as your skirt allows. And then, you squeal.

His tongue darts out to lick at your core, sending thrilling jolts throughout your body.

You quickly hike up your dress, finally catching sight of him as his mouth attaches to you. You watch transfixed, exhilarated as James sucks on your clit, swirling his tongue around it circularly, dipping between your folds with every shudder of your thighs.

His eyes are closed in peaceful bliss, and his tongue shakes back and forth, nose nuzzling in closer to your core like you are seeping nectar instead of arousal. His voice escapes in little grunts and gasps as you preen and moan above him; your thighs attempt to close around his head, yet he welcomes the sudden pressure with a loud moan, before he forces them open again. 

“James!” You moan, head thrown back against the old cloak. “I feel— I think I’m–” 

Besides your voice and his, you have never heard a noise so crude as the result of him fucking you with his mouth. Your hole clenches around nothing, and James decides to close the remaining distance, pressing a finger inside. It is the perfect pace and pressure that makes you grip his hair, finally humping his face as your wanton sounds resound through the willow fronds, the most melodious song that James has ever heard. 

“James!” You come hard, ignoring his grin against your core as your insides tightened around his finger. He drinks your orgasm up with his cock straining in his pants, loving the way you clutch around his head like a vice, to the point where he stops thrusting his finger and instead focuses entirely on nursing on your clit until you are trembling and sobbing for him to stop.

When your mind does not feel so foggy anymore, the first thing you notice is a heavy weight on your chest: content, your knight rests on your warm breasts. You simply cradle his cheek, placing a thankful kiss on his forehead.

It is not difficult to convince him to let you help him with his own arousal. His cock slides back and forth but it passes over your clit each time. Your nails dig into the skin of his forearm as your back is pressed securely against his chest, one of his hands resting firmly on your hips to pull you back and forth in perfect rhythm with his thrusts.

“Sweetness, I know–” James gasps. “I know it feels good but you need to stay put or it will end inside you.”

You whimper, it is so wet and warm and the way your intimate parts sound together is so perverse, yet the fear of being caught faded once your swollen clit started rubbing against his thick cock, every single vein deliciously teasing your wet folds.

Lightly grabbing your jaw, James lifts it up enough so he can press a loving kiss on your lips, his free hand groping your still naked chest. “So soft and so lovely for me, my princess.”

He shakes and clutches your skin hard enough to toy with the line between pleasure and pain, grunting prayers for forgiveness in your ear until he tarnishes your pussy with his seed. Your name has never sounded so tender on someone's lips.

He is in the practice yard when he hears your steps. Not the measured ones you usually take when you come to find him, nor the careful quiet of your secret meetings in his room. This is ragged, uneven. Your skirts are hitched too high, and your breath breaks. He turns just as you burst through the archway, cheeks wet with fat tears and eyes shining red.

“James!” You scream, to hell with good manners. And the way his name fractures in your mouth makes his blood go cold.

He crosses the yard in three strides and catches you before you could say anything else. Not an embrace— he never dares that where stone and shadow could betray you— but his hands close around your forearms, steady. He forces his voice into the calm he uses on frightened horses and wounded men.

“What is it?” He frowns. “You are safe now. Slow your breathing.”

You shake your head, a sharp, helpless motion, and the tears spill at last. “They have decided.” You whisper, closing your eyes in pain. “My parents. They have chosen him.”

The world narrows to the irregular sound of your breathing and the dull thud of James’ own heart. Chosen. Him. The words echo, merciless.

For a moment, an image rises unbidden: a foreign lord’s hand closing over yours, a crown pressed down where his fingers brush your hair. A life sealed shut like a door slammed in his face. 

He loosenes his grip before you can feel his hands tremble.

“Who?” He swallows around a knot, though the name hardly matters. Any name that is not his would have the same weight.

Your eyes land on his chest, unable to face the storm inside his. “A duke from the Western side. They say he is… Suitable.” Your voice breaks again, a cruel scoff of a laugh falling from your lips. “That this will secure the border for good.” 

Something fierce and ugly surges in him then— an instinct as old as hunger. Take you and run. Put steel between you and anyone who dares claim you. He has lived with less than nothing before; he could do it again if it meant you are free.

But he says none of it.

“James, I can’t– I don’t want him. I don’t want any of this. You have to do something please! I–” Your words tumble over one another, dissolving into a thin, frightened sound. A tremor runs through you, and your hand presses on your chest as though trying to hold your heart in place. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, and your gaze darts past him as if the world has started to spin at the speed of light.

James angles his body so he blocks you from any prying eyes. His voice remains low, firm. “Look at me.” His finger gently lifts your chin. “Do you trust me?” You desperately nod. “Then follow me, we cannot stay here.”

Your eyes flick to his, wide and unfocused. Somewhere beyond the archway, footsteps echo— distant, but real. Without hesitation, James reaches for his cloak, previously abandoned on a stone, and wraps it around your shoulders, drawing the hood up to shadow your face. His hands are steady even as his pulse thunders in his ears, you are more important.

“Head down.” He murmurs. “Stay close and do not speak.”

His hand on your back guides you forward, the other subtly steering you through the narrow passages he knows better than his own body. Every corner suddenly feels dangerous. Every servant, every guard a threat— not to him, but to your dignity and privacy. If they see you like this, tear-streaked, shaking, it would spread. Whispers would turn to speculation. Speculation to certainty.

James would not allow it.

You reach your chambers without incident, and James wastes no time. He locks the door behind you, and only then does he turn back to you. The moment the latch clicks, your strength weakens. You sag against the door, breath coming in short, broken gasps. James is there instantly, kneeling in front of you, his presence solid, unyielding.

“You are safe.” He utters quietly. “No one can see you now.”

Inside, fear claws at him, sharp and relentless. The walls meant to protect you are now a deadly trap, and this is only the beginning. The first crack in something that could shatter you both. But he keeps his face calm, his voice sure. Panic could take many things from him, but not you, not while he still stands between your peace and the world.

“Breathe with me, my heart.” He encourages softly, one of your hands led to his chest to match his breathing. “I am here now, nothing can hurt you.”

He knows how this world works, how little a princess’s wish could weigh against treaties and borders. His love feels suddenly small and useless, a candle guttering in a storm. He draws in a slow breath and waits until you match it, until the sobs ease into shaky inhales. All the while, dread coils tighter around his heart. He could face blades and hunger and exile, but the prospect of a future where he stands by and watches you marry a man that is not him, against your will… He would tear that future apart before he allowed it to come to pass.

Only when the blizzard inside you quiets, your legs give up under you. James promptly catches your waist, guiding you to sit on your bed with a softness that makes tears spring up in your eyes again.

“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, hands fisted in his cloak as if it was the only solid thing left.

“You are not alone.” He chooses each word like a step across thin ice. “We’ll find a way forward.”

“I refuse to let anyone else touch me the way you should, James.” You swallow, tugging him closer by his shirt. “Let it be you, the man I love, before I am married off to someone undeserving of my touch, who only values gold and titles.”

“My love, what are you suggesting—”

“Take me.”

“Don’t—” He strangles out. “Some words are too dangerous to be spoken aloud.”

“Why?” You almost shriek. “I love you James, and you love me. Let it be you!”

“You must,” His jaw tightens. “You must think this through. If anyone was to hear… If this were spoken of, it would stain you. I won’t be the reason—”

“Please, James.” You are now sobbing, clinging to his shirt like the last thing tethering you to this world. The sight strikes him harder than any blow. “We have already indulged in each other's pleasure—”

James stares at you, disbelieving. “What you are asking is completely different. Don't say what cannot be taken back.”

Your voice shakes, but it does not falter. “I am to be given to a man who sees me as a treaty, as a chest of gold with a crown upon it. He does not know me. He does not love me.” You sniffle. “You do.”

“That is precisely why I can’t,” he replies, too quickly. “Because I love you.”

Your fingers reach up, stopping just short of touching his cheek, as if granting him the chance to pull away. “James,” you whisper. “Please. Let me choose something for myself before I am no longer allowed to.”

His ears ring. He craves to close the distance, to give you the comfort you ask for, the truth his body has known long before his mind allowed it. He needs to have you, and mark you. No one would be allowed to claim you.

“Are you certain?” He asks hoarsely. “Tell me you won’t regret this. Tell me you won’t wake tomorrow and wish I had been stronger than you were.”

You meet his gaze without flinching. “I will regret it if you don’t.”

For a long moment, James does nothing. He sits there, torn between devotion and damnation, between the man he has sworn to be and the man you are asking him to become. Then, with a care that borders on reverence, he lifts a hand to your cheek, as if even that was a transgression in this moment, and leans in.

The kiss is supposed to be brief, chaste. A promise rather than a claim. But after he pulls away, his breath unsteady, his forehead resting against yours as if he could not trust himself to look at you, his restraint snaps. 

With a moan, his hand moves against the back of your neck, pulling you until your lips collide with his. His other hand finds its way to your hip, rubbing the skin through the soft fabric of your gown in a soothing motion. 

“You are trembling,” he comments softly. “Are you scared of me, my heart?” You quickly shake your head, pulling him down into another breathless kiss. He groans, kissing you harder, hand finally sliding down to cup one of your breasts. Heat instantly floods your core, and he revels in your little gasps. “Gods, you don’t even know what you do to me.” Your cheeks are flaming at the veneration in his words, his compliment igniting something deep inside of you, a burning, aching need in your belly that has you wiggling your hips to relieve some of the tension.

“It's just me.” Your breath quivers as his forehead gently rests against yours. “Let me worship you, my love.”

You can only nod eagerly, and James kisses you again until you are dizzy. His hand slides back under your dress, his fingers softly caressing your skin until you tighten your hold on his shirt. He undresses you slowly, taking his time in admiring the sight of you beneath him as you slowly bare more and more of your gorgeous body to him, until you are fully exposed to his gaze, now lying on your bed.

You tentatively reach up and grasp at his shirt, helping him pull it over his head, and you moan at the sight of his broad chest. You have seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never when he was looking at you like an animal hunting its prey. Pressing your lips to his, you continue your mission of undressing him, clumsily toying with the hem of his pants and helping him to tug them down his legs, leaving you both naked and vulnerable.

Your gaze wanders downwards before you even realize it has, and you quietly gasp at the sight of his cock, already hard and aching for attention.

James notices the way your eyes fight the urge to glance back down at his cock, and a little grin brightens his features. You can sense in his warm gaze and the way he holds you closely to him, that he understood what you crave.

He moves to straddle you, pressing his forehead to yours so all you can see are his pretty blue eyes staring right back at you, blocking out the rest of the world and your own thoughts. “Speak to me, sweetness.”

You put your hand on his heart thumping in excitement as the other one traces the expanse of his torso, until it reaches his cock. When you wrap your fingers around his girth, you both let out a loud moan. He always feels so heavy in your hand, so thick and hard under your fingertips as a pang of arousal shoots through you when he moans out your name at the contact. Oh, you could barely wait to have him inside of you.

“My greedy princess.” He exhales slowly, precum dribbling from the tip and you cannot resist the urge to thumb over his sensitive tip to collect some of it. You barely contain your pleased grin when he moans loudly at the feeling, he could come on the spot if you do not abandon your teasing motions.

To know that he is the first man you have ever seen or touched sends a sensation through him that he cannot quite describe. Something primal that fills him with the pride of being the first to have you like this. To be the only man who will ever have you wholly like this.

“I don’t believe it's going to fit.” You breathe out, drooling like a hungry mutt as you keep jerking him off. 

“Then let's get you stretched until it does, princess.”

James worships you with his mouth and fingers. He makes sure to guide you so your hips roll against his eager tongue. You gain a rhythm, moving back and forth seeking out that delicious friction against your clit as you grasp his hair with both hands. Your breath comes out in short pants, and you feel the pressure deep within your pussy close to overtaking you. His fingers move with care, slipping between your thighs like he already knows your body’s secrets. The first touch makes you gasp— gentle, slow, utterly devoted. You rock down against his mouth a couple more times, two fingers deep abusing your sweet spot until you cry out, your first orgasm bursting and rippling over your body. James hums approvingly as he drinks your slick like fine wine. 

“I have given you the world, my love.” He kisses you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, as his length teases your folds. “Let me show you the divine devotion of a true knight, loyal until the bitter end.” Slowly inching it inside you to revel in the feeling of your tight walls, you can only moan into his mouth in response. At first, he thrusts inside you slowly and deliberately to get you used to the feeling. The sensation is initially foreign to you, the stretch unlike anything you have ever known, pain and pleasure mixing together in the most delicious way as you whimper against his mouth.

“I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you.” He starts to rut into you more roughly, abandoning his rhythm once he has a taste of you. “Just like this.” His hips snap forward, and you cry out in response. 

“Oh James, Gods above!” Your back arches, legs tightening around his waist, silently begging for more. 

“I'm not going to last if you look at me like that.” You can only kiss him, his hips rocking against yours to the hilt in a rhythm that makes you clutch at his bicep with one hand and his neck with the other, nails exquisitely marking his skin.

“I can't let you marry him, I can't let you go.” He needs you ruined for any other man. His fingers trails between your thighs, stroking lazy, merciless circles until your hips jerk up. His mouth closes around the swell of your breast, tongue hot and insistent on your nipples, and you cry out, arching against him.

“James.” Your voice breaks as your body trembles on the edge.

“Forgive me, my princess. I cannot stop.” 

“You're not allowed to stop!” You whimper.

“You’re mine to cherish, mine to love.” James whispers, voice rough with possession. “I’ll worship you within an inch of your sanity, fuck you so tenderly and viciously that you will think of nothing but this moment.”

And when he kisses you again, filthy and slow, your body shatters for the second time, clinging to him as you come undone. Shame no longer exists; only the endless tide of your desperate touch, and your sweet moans as he tears you apart. He swears he has never seen anything more angelic than the sight of you overtaken by pure bliss.

A shiver runs down your spine when his gaze lifts to meet yours, dark and wild, and you swear he growls when his body presses you more firmly into the wrinkled sheets, his mouth attached to your throat, your legs disgracefully open for him and only him. James brutally thrusts into you, harder, deeper, the sound of your cries jumping on the marble walls, careless of any servant that might walk by and hear you. 

Every thrust, every scrape of his teeth along your skin, every hot kiss to your breast claims you wholly.

“I can’t— Gods!” He pants your name into your neck, kissing and sucking down the column of your throat, his hand digging into your thighs mercilessly. You are so close again you can barely breathe. The world narrows to the animalistic pace of his hips, his musky scent, the heat building in your core. When your climax hits you for the third and final time, it’s like a storm roaring inside you. James feels you clench around him impossibly tighter, indulging in the way you scream his name, shaking and moaning out of control. An angel made of sinful rapture, pliant for your knight to use as he pleases. Your delicious whimpers and the sounds of your wet pussy sucking his cock back in are utterly obscene, and he knows he is not going to last much longer.

“I need—” He groans, crashing his mouth against yours in an open-mouth kiss. His thrusts grow erratic, before spilling into you with a deep, shuddering moan muffled by your raw lips, filling you with his warmth.

Clinging to each other, both of you tremble, your body exhausted yet sated. James breathes heavily against the damp crook of your neck while you gently thread your fingers through his hair. His hold around you is urgent, terrified someone might break the door down and drag him away from you. Your arms tighten around his shoulders to keep this moment forever, because no matter what is going to happen, you belong to him.

James lies on his side, staring at the gradually slowing of your chest beside him, tracing the curve of your eyelashes in his mind, the gentle brush of your hair tickling his skin.

He has always known loyalty, but today it transformed into something more. Fierce, unyielding, all-consuming. Your laughter, your sighs, the way you look at him when you think no one is watching— they are all treasures he would guard with his life. He could fight armies, bear scars, face danger without hesitation, but nothing matters as much as your happiness.

Not even his armor.

He presses his hand to his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat sing the truth he has tried to ignore for so long. He has no crown to offer you, no kingdom to claim, no power to command armies. But he has his sword, his vow. And his heart, utterly, irreversibly yours.

When his forehead rests against yours, and your fingers intertwine, your focus is solely on him.

“I have a sword to protect you, but not a crown to have you. Marry me, my sweetness, and let us leave behind this world that wants to bind you. Let us write our own story, where we are free, and happiness is ours alone.”

Your breath hitches at those hushed words, yet they outshout every symphony, every reprimand, every demand that has shaped your life. Tears well in your eyes, shimmering like the morning light as your free hand cradles his already damp cheek.

“Oh my beloved knight. Yes James, I will be your wife! Take me with you and let's leave this place behind. Together.”

He holds you close, feeling the weight of every fear and every doubt melt away. In that embrace, surrounded by the warm light of the candles, you allow yourselves to believe in a future untouched by duty or sorrow— a future that is entirely and beautifully yours.

general bucky taglist: @jimmywoosimp @iambuckyswifey @metal-armed-muse @shotinthedcrk @picuappled @dugiioh @hiraethmae @siemprx @its-in-the-woods @bunnybuckys @squishyfruitloop @buckybarneswife08

Switch🔥🫂🚩

Gush🔥

Eat🔥

Misbehavior🔥

Peek🔥

Pillow🔥

Reunion, part 1 out of 2: Tonight🔥💓🌧️

Reunion, part 2 out of 2: Clamp🔥💓🌧️🫂

Panties🔥

Painted🔥

Happy Birthday, Joel 🔥💓

Some prick in a business suit spilled his coffee all over you, your luggage had nearly been lost in transit between connecting flights, and someone’s unsupervised child had tried to bite your ankle while waiting at the gate.

The weather was bad, and all of the flight crew and your boarding group were pissed—your second trip was delayed by two hours due to inclement conditions. Snow had pelted the floor-to-ceiling windows without reprieve for what felt like years, and finally, the folks in air traffic control seemed to have just thrown up their hands and said, ‘Fuck it, let them go.’ You boarded the plane freezing your ass off and stained all down the front of your t-shirt in espresso. Your Achilles tendon ached.

And still, this felt like the greatest day of your life.

You were going home. And not just home but to Joel, who was picking you up from the airport that day. You hadn’t had any exams at the end of the week, so you’d decided to come home a half-day early and surprise him. With all of the delays, you wouldn’t be in until early that morning, but Joel was still happy to pick you up. You wouldn’t tell your dad you were back until the following evening, and in the meantime, you’d savor every second you had with Joel until you had to leave again. You didn’t want to be apart from him, but at least the separation this time around was sweeter: he was your boyfriend.

Just thinking those words made you smile.

Even sat next to a screaming baby the whole four-hour plane ride from Baltimore to Austin, you were happy.

Damn near cheerful skipping off the aircraft five hours after your original ETA, and heading to the baggage claim in a sea of pushy, disgruntled passengers.

You took the stairs instead of the escalator. You didn’t mind the extra effort with your far-too-heavy carry-on; you just wanted to take the fastest route to get to the place you’d be meeting Joel. Your sneakers sounded their light, quick thuds down the marble steps as you went, and you slung the strap of your duffel bag higher up your shoulder to get a better hold while you jogged.

You looked around, eager as ever.

Was that a pit of anxiety you felt?

Around Joel, that was never really a thing—but anticipating his presence after weeks spent apart was a whole different beast. Now your pulse pounded in your ears; your throat constricted a little bit. Where was he?

From: Joel

Just parked

Headed in now

That had been twenty minutes ago.

I’ll be over by the stairs

Except he wasn’t there.

You were at the foot of the stairs, peering anxiously around as you were jostled further out by the moving crowd, but the longer you looked, the more certain you became that Joel wasn’t there. In fact, there was no one that looked even remotely like him. It was mostly families and young people that appeared to be around your age—evidently, all colleges started break at the same time—that were standing around. You stood on your tip-toes to get a peek overtop these people, and you still couldn’t spot one single silver-flecked head that looked like his.

You pulled out your phone to text him.

From: You

Sooooo did someone kidnap you or—

You didn’t get to finish that message.

Before you could hit ‘send,’ you felt two arms wrap around you from behind. You dropped your bag.

The same grin crept onto your face—you couldn’t help it.

“Excuse me, I’m actually waiting for my boyfriend…”

You pretended to tense with discomfort at the feel of someone’s body draped over your own, and then there were lips grazing your hair, stubble teasing your cheek.

“Oh, yeah? Then where is he?”

Joel turned you to face him.

Well, shit, there he is.

Both of you were beaming. Joel looked handsome but sleepy—and who could blame him at 5:21 AM, when he’d likely been at work since six the day before? You were the one to open your arms then. You lunged just in time for him to accept your embrace, and you didn’t miss the way he stumbled a bit. He also turned his face so your lips landed on his cheek, not his mouth. He blinked rapidly.

Perhaps you’d come on a little strong.

Easy now, he’s probably tired as shit.

“Sorry. Just missed you,” you mumbled into Joel’s neck.

He squeezed you tighter. He shook you back and forth.

His lips pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head.

‘Don’t be sorry. I missed you more’ was all he said.

And before you knew it, you were headed home again. Rather than retreating to the house you’d grown up in, though, you went over to Joel’s cozy, ranch-style place. From all the time you’d spent there lately, and even in the years before, you knew it well. Joel kept it clean. Simple.

Cold as shit.

“52 degrees?! Have you lost your fucking mind, Miller?”

You’d pulled your parka fast about yourself as soon as you stepped in. You exhaled and saw it hang mid-air.

“It ain’t that bad. We got blankets,” Joel huffed.

He hadn’t talked much on the ride home from the airport. You didn’t blame him. You could see in his eyes and in the way he’d fixed his stare on the road all the way home that the man was exhausted. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. You decided not to push him on it.

But sleeping in an igloo was where you drew the line.

You spun on your heel to face him, brows pinched.

“My nipples could cut diamonds right now.”

And you peeled back your jacket to show him, where you only wore your tight, coffee-stained tee underneath. Sure enough, two small, hardened peaks poked out through the fabric to greet Joel in the chill of his living room.

To your surprise, Joel swallowed and looked away.

He left the room shortly after that—ostensibly, to adjust the thermostat. But it was the expression he wore as he did that gave you pause. The look on his face was hard.

Guilty.

What the hell had happened in the thirty minutes since you’d gotten here to make him take on that expression?

Was it the way you smelled after six or seven hours of combined air travel, not including all the excruciating minutes spent languishing in the Boston and Baltimore airports? That stupid story you’d told him about the flight attendant whose breath smelled of rotten pimento cheese? Or was it because you’d jumped him too fast—opted for a kiss on the mouth instead of simply hugging him and attempting to curb your enthusiasm a little bit?

Your mind whirred a thousand miles a minute with this thinking—overthinking, really. You couldn’t help doing it.

In spite of the near-dizzying excitement you’d felt coming home, it was easy to slip back into old habits. Worry, uncertainty, fear of feeling more for a person than they did for you and getting too invested, it was all there. It was astounding how quickly the dread crept in. Shit.

“Shit,” you repeated aloud, kicking off your shoes.

You were standing in Joel’s room, preparing for bed. The heat had evidently kicked on, but the space was still freezing, so you peeled your clothes slowly. You set them aside, one-by-one, and folded them atop Joel’s dresser while your stomach churned. Your toes curled in your socks, and for a moment, you contemplated whether or not to wear your pyjamas to bed. Or Joel’s. Or naked.

Did he want to have sex tonight?

He’d looked so tired, and he hadn’t touched you once since setting you down from the hug at the airport, but—

“Hey.”

A folded, fuzzy blanket landed on the dresser next to you

It was pink. It had polka dots on it, not unlike the towel you had back at college and had seen Joel wrap himself in before you’d snuck him into your communal showers.

You smiled faintly at the memory.

You looked back up at Joel.

“I figured you’d get cold whenever you came over here, so I got this. Now you can bundle up. And wear these.”

Emphasizing the last word, Joel dropped a pair of matching slippers next to the blanket. They were new. He’d bought them for you, and had remembered enough to know you liked pink, frilly things. And not freezing your fucking ass off in the middle of winter. Your smile grew.

You thanked him, and were about to turn to give him a hug, when he was off again. This time, to the bathroom.

You decided you’d dress in your own pajamas tonight. You grabbed your new blanket and slippers and then padded over to Joel’s bed at the other end of the room.

How long you waited there was anyone’s guess.

Changing out of his clothes, brushing his teeth, washing his hands or simply running the tap until the water all but ran out seemed to take Joel decades. You stayed curled on your side in his bed, rubbing your now-comfortably warmed feet under the covers and occasionally checking the time. You even scrolled for a little bit to distract your mind and keep it from worrying. He’s probably just tired.

And when, finally, he shut the bathroom door behind him and retired to bed, you could see it: Joel was exhausted.

You wanted to leave him be. Let him get some rest and pick things up in the morning, same as you always did.

Then Joel snaked a big, warm, muscly arm around your waist and pulled you into his chest. Against your back, you could feel it: he had on one of his long sleeve, waffle-knit shirts. You wriggled a little and shuffled your legs, and you shortly discovered he was wearing his thickest pair of pyjama pants as well. Joel almost always slept naked, or in only his boxers, so this was odd. Then again, it was dead of winter, so you couldn’t really blame him.

He pressed an innocent kiss to your temple before murmuring, ‘Night, sweet pea,’ and you couldn’t ignore what you felt, either. What you were feeling, presently, through the thick, cotton fabric of Joel’s pants was impossible to ignore—he was rock-hard against you. Joel shuffled back some, but still, the bulge was prominent.

Okay, well…maybe we don’t have to sleep just yet.

You weren’t entirely sure why you did what you did. You were pretty tired yourself. All you knew was that intimacy made you feel close to Joel—helped your brain process feelings better than speaking, sometimes—and right then, you felt needy. Lonely. With just a few gruff words and a strange look from him before, you’d grown self-conscious again, and you weren’t sure what to do with that emotion. You figured Joel’s dick in you might help.

So you turned around and climbed right on him.

You straddled Joel’s hips, a little more confident in how you maneuvered it now, after doing this dozens of times before. You and Joel enjoyed sleepy sex, whether it was first thing in the morning or right before bed, and usually, neither one of you had to talk to initiate. You simply clambered over the other person and got to work. It was a simple form of stress relief—a way to rid your brain of unwanted thoughts and get you right to sleep after doing the deed—and it didn’t take much to get either one of you off. You sighed when you felt Joel’s cock graze you through your light, satin pyjamas. You didn’t move too quickly, but you did bear down on him.

Joel’s eyes flew open.

He grabbed your hips, and he grunted through his teeth.

“Sweetheart—” he started, strained.

It encouraged you to feel him stiffen from that first motion of your lower half, so you did it again. You leaned down to kiss his neck, in just the spot he always liked, close to the jaw, and you rubbed yourself gently against his erection. His grip tightened on your hips, and the initial surprise seemed shortly to morph into desire.

Like always, Joel would probably flip you and offer to fuck in missionary. That was how you both liked to start.

You dragged your lips down the column of his neck and were about to bare your teeth to leave a quick love bite, maybe nip at the skin once or twice before moving your mouth lower on him, when Joel’s grip really constricted.

His fingers seared your skin.

A groan rumbled in his chest.

“Baby, please…” he croaked. He swallowed hard.

Was he trying to beg? That wouldn’t be a first, but you hadn’t expected it to happen so fast. His tone was low. His voice was soft, and his fingertips were kneading hard

“I know you’re tired, so I’ll get on top,” you offered, quiet.

With barely more than a whisper and a brush of your hand against the bulge in his pants, you earned another throaty sound from Joel. He cursed under his breath.

“This…I need to…fuck.”

Words seemed to evade him, and that wasn’t surprising. When you were turned on, you also forgot how to talk.

Joel always teased you for it, so now you’d do the same.

Moving lower down his body, and pushing the covers back as you went, you kept your gaze locked on his. The house had heated considerably since you’d gotten back, and now you didn’t feel like you had to wrap up in fifteen layers just to stay tolerably warm. You flashed the man a sly little grin, told him he needed to use his words if he wanted you to put your lips to use where he wanted them, and proceeded to stray even further. Your bottom lip grazed past his navel, and your tongue darted out to lick down the strip of grey and black hairs running down his lower belly where the bottom of his shirt had ridden up a little bit. As soon as you did, Joel inhaled sharply.

“Baby,” he hissed.

He seized your hair in his fist. Surprisingly, it felt nice.

It made you want to take him in your mouth even more.

So, hooking your fingers under the waistband of his pants, you didn’t waste any time. You yanked at the fabric, fully prepared to suck Joel off a little before climbing on and riding him, and just when his cock was about to spring free, you felt it—his grasp pulling back.

You heard him, hoarsely:

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Your chin jerked up. Probably no more than five seconds had passed since you’d slid down his body, and each act had transpired so swiftly, without a pause or a hitch from what you could tell, that for Joel to stop you so suddenly meant something was off. Something here was wrong.

“We can’t do this,” Joel blurted out at once.

You let go of his waistband. You tried to talk.

“What’s wro—”

“I— I need to tell you something. Now. I’m sorry.”

At the same time, Joel seemed to be asking you to get up. You didn’t hesitate to do exactly that, shuffling back.

Your stomach plummeted inside you as you feared you might’ve done something wrong, or crossed some line.

That, on top of everything else that night, and feeling like Joel might be having second thoughts about your relationship already, was enough to make your eyes sting. There weren’t tears, but that wasn’t far off.

How had you fucked this up so monumentally, so quick?

You chewed the inside of your lip. You blinked furiously.

“I-I-I’m sorry, Joel. I thought you wanted me to—”

“No, I’m sorry. We just can’t do this right now.”

His gaze was serious. Wide. Your heart sank.

You couldn’t help the words that followed.

“Did— did I just do something wrong?”

“No, baby, you didn’t do anythin—”

“You’re having second thoughts?”

Your pulse leapt and sped up.

“No, no, not at all. I’m jus—”

“Because you can tell me.”

“That’s not what I was—”

“If you want to break up—”

“What? That ain’t what I said.”

“So what is it? What’s going on?”

Your worst thoughts were winning.

You were jumping to conclusions again.

There wasn’t time to be rational or sedate.

“Joel Miller, if you’re gonna dump me right now—”

“Sweetheart, there’s a chance I might be your uncle.”

“What?!”

In fairness to you, his admission sounded fucking insane.

Joel could’ve handled this situation in a thousand different ways, and of course, he’d done it horribly.

The timing? Terrible. Treading close to atrocious.

The execution? Piss-poor. Actually, the worst.

You’d been a second away from wrapping your lips around his dick, and he chose that moment to tell you that you might possibly be his long-lost niece? Really?

The look on your face as you shuffled back didn’t surprise him at all. It did make Joel want to vomit a bit.

“Listen, I can explain…” he started, speaking slowly.

He lifted his hands in a conciliatory sort of gesture, then reached for you, but when you pushed back further in the bed, he dropped both. Your eyes went wide in horror.

“What do you mean you’re my fucking uncle, Joel?!”

His widened, too. You might’ve misheard him.

“No, no, I’m not. I’m probably not, I just—”

“Probably?! What is ‘probably’?!”

You’d all but screeched that.

You were standing from the bed. Looking down at it, as if to say, ‘What did I just do? What have we been doing?’ and your face gave way to a grimace. You winced like you’d just witnessed a car wreck firsthand, and again, Joel couldn’t blame you for that. He needed to fix this.

He’d meant to handle this himself. He’d called Tommy at least sixty times that night, when your dad had casually dropped the bomb that Tommy might have slept with his ex-wife and knocked her up over twenty years back, making him your biological father and Joel your uncle.

It was a stretch.

As far as Joel knew, Tommy had never been involved with your mom, much less around the time you’d been born. It was such a wild, far-fetched idea that he and your dad were almost positive that this wasn’t the case.

There was no way.

But if there was…

Joel hadn’t planned on taking any chances until he was certain. He also hadn’t wanted to cause any unneeded trauma by freaking you out and having you go into a panic, like you were right now. He’d intended to play it cool until he could get ahold of his baby brother—if he ever would pick up his fucking phone—and he’d meant to get the truth out of Tommy before doing anything else. Before you got home. Then you’d changed your flight to come back a half-day earlier, and even with all the delays you’d had, Joel still wasn’t able to get in touch with his brother before then. It was late. He’d been stuck between a rock and a hard place, debating whether to spill this big, terrible news that might turn out not to be news at all, while also revealing your dad’s secret that he might not be your father. It was a clusterfuck. It sucked.

Joel had only found this out hours ago, and already, it felt like the world as he and you knew it was going to shit

He wouldn’t—couldn’t—lay a finger on you until he was absolutely sure that you weren’t his niece. He hadn’t wanted to fuck up your psyche, as well as the heart of your relationship with your maybe-not-biological-father, by sharing this news. So he’d tried to compromise. Sleep side-by-side and pretend to be too tired to do anything, so he could buy more time before he spoke with Tommy. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Then you’d wrecked his plans by straddling his dick and proceeding to try and suck it, and Joel had been left with no choice.

He blurted it out before he could try and stop himself.

“Tommy might’ve— might’ve fucked your mom.”

It was graceless. Just like everything else.

Your eyes went even wider.

“What?” you breathed.

He kept going.

“There’s…your dad was tellin’ me, there’s a slight chance your mom and Tommy were messin’ around back in the day, about a year before you were born, and…and he isn’t completely sure—there were a few other guys, but he doesn’t know—and he told me. He told me this tonight, when we went out for drinks. And then you came back earlier than I was expecting, and…well, I’ve been tryin’ to get ahold of Tommy, but he ain’t pickin’ up. I wanted—”

“Get your keys,” you cut in suddenly.

Now it was his turn to be confused.

“Wait, what?”

Joel stared, and he saw you were already on your phone. Toggling something on the screen. Frowning down at it.

“Where are we—” Joel tried again.

You snapped your fingers, like you’d found something. Then you looked up at him, briefly, before striding out the bedroom door. You walked quickly; Joel followed.

He wasn’t sure where you were going or what you planned on doing, but he opted to dress while he walked. He threw on his jacket and kicked on his boots, then went fishing for his keys—they were lying in a hodgepodge of shit on the counter, as always—and just as he reached out to grab them, you seized them first.

You were already headed for the car port. You didn’t look behind you, and wouldn’t so much as turn your head when he called out after you. You marched to his car.

“Where are we goin’? You gonna talk to me, honey?”

Joel tried sounding soft. You weren’t having it.

You jumped in and barely gave him the chance to get his seatbelt fastened before you threw the thing in reverse.

You were backing the Bronco out in a blink. Your grip tightened on the wheel, and that was when he saw it.

First, a frown.

Then, your gaze cutting over to his across the center console. It was brief, but a look did more than enough.

“I have Tommy’s location. We’re gonna go beat his ass.”

Life was great for Tommy Miller.

Like, really great.

He had a lady he was half-certain was the love of his life sprawled out in his bed, the sheets they got to share were warm, and the world outside was quiet. At 6 AM, out in the sticks as they were, it usually stayed like this.

Cool. Calm. Serene.

He should buy a house of his own out here one day.

The place they were staying at used to be his granddad’s. Joel had already done a bang up job at fixing it himself, and Tommy wanted to help. He also knew it would make a nice retreat for him and Maria whenever they wanted to get out of the city themselves. She liked it here, which meant that Tommy loved it. He loved her.

Stupid as it sounded, he was now beginning to understand some of Joel’s fixation with you.

If his brother felt even a fraction of what he felt for Maria, Tommy could easily see why Joel would risk his whole friendship with your father to be with you. He got it.

What he couldn’t totally comprehend was why you two wouldn’t come clean already. All this lying and sneaking around behind your daddy’s back must have been awful for you both. It would suck telling him at first, to be sure, but your father wasn’t that intolerant that he couldn’t be convinced to warm up to the idea eventually. You’d be graduating in a few months—you could come back here, not have to treat each other like some big, ugly secret, and then live like he and Maria did, every day. That was what Tommy had wanted for his big brother, anyway.

These thoughts and at least a dozen more were all swirling through his mind after the break of dawn that day, when he was half-asleep and barely more conscious than not. He stretched out in bed, smiling to himself.

He was about to turn and drape an arm over Maria’s side when a sound at the front door stopped him. It was loud.

Someone was knocking.

Banging.

Striking their fist on the wood so hard it sounded like they might’ve been apt to knock the whole thing down.

For a moment, Tommy considered grabbing his pistol. Then he shrugged off the thought, not wanting to freak Maria out by brandishing a firearm at this hour, and instead bounded quickly to the door to see what the fuck this person wanted before their knocking woke her up.

He swung the front door open, nostrils flared.

And there you were, looking just as enraged.

“You motherfucker!” you hissed at him.

Before he could stop you, you were storming inside. He could see Joel behind you, looking almost as overcome as he was, but he didn’t have time to talk to his brother.

Tommy didn’t have time to breathe, as you knocked the wind out of him by pushing past him, your steps forceful.

Your eyes were wide with indignation and ire.

Disbelief and…something like disgust?

“Did you fuck my mom?!” you spat.

What the— what? What?

When he was too stunned to speak—from both drowsiness and the initial shock—you stepped in again. You didn’t touch him, but you got in his face. Very close.

“Answer the fucking question, Miller. Did you?!”

“Sweetheart—” Joel started behind you.

Tommy could hear that his voice was tight. Their eyes flitted up to meet each other, briefly, and at the same time, the door to the bedroom opened. Well, great.

“Did you fuck my mother or not, Tommy?!”

Perfect timing. Tommy swallowed hard.

For some reason, his brain wasn’t functioning at full capacity, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. Evidently, you interpreted this pause as an admission, or something, because your face morphed into one of pure horror, and one of your hands rose to cover your mouth.

“Oh god, you did!” you shrieked. Words high and shrill. “You fucked her, then let me have sex with my uncle!”

Oh, fuck.

What the fuck?

What the everliving fuck?

At last, he found words: “No! No, I never—”

Tommy couldn’t imagine what Maria must be thinking.

You turned on your heel, and, hand still hovering over your mouth, you turned to Joel. You looked like you were about to be sick, as did he. Your breaths shortly faltered.

“We are so fucked!” you said to him. In shock.

Joel seemed as if he wanted to comfort you, but in truth, the man looked just as queasy, and you appeared to be in no state to want to be touched. You spun back around.

Somehow, Tommy was able to conjure up more words. Whether they’d actually make sense was anyone’s guess.

“I— I never had sex with your mom, kid. Never,” he said.

Decent enough.

But you didn’t believe him.

“My dad said you did,” you bit back. “He said that you and—and some other guys were hooking up with my mom right around the time she got pregnant with me, and he thinks you might be my dad, which would be insanely, insanely bad, since I’ve been fucking your brother for the last three months, and you knew that!”

Each word hit with all the force of an eighteen-wheeler.

Again, Tommy was too stunned to talk for a moment.

“Just…just come clean if you did. We need to know.”

That was Joel. His face was screwed up in a wince, like he didn’t really want to know any of this, but it was necessary. He needed to know if his brother was truly stupid enough to have sex with a woman and not mention the fact that her daughter might be Joel’s niece.

Tommy stared back, blinking, before recovering again.

This time, he knew he had to keep his shit together.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maria.

Keep. Your. Fucking. Shit. Together.

“I never…in my life, ever slept with Amy, Joel. I swear,” he said, slowly. Then, turning to you. “I was—what, like…twenty-two when you were born? I didn’t even lose my virginity ‘til I was twenty-four. I never had sex with her.”

“But her dad said—” Joel started.

“Her dad thought I was a slut back then, I know. I wasn’t, but I liked pretending I was. It was easier to act like that than tell the guys I was a virgin, alright? It was stupid.”

He felt stupid.

Even more so in front of Maria, who now not only had to hear this whole insane incest debate but also learned he hadn’t gotten laid until his mid-twenties. It shouldn’t matter—it didn’t matter, and he didn’t regret his choice in the slightest—but still, he felt a pang in his chest.

And more to the point, why the hell would your dad even insinuate that he might’ve slept with Amy? He knew damn well they’d never gotten together. They were friends, sure, but that’s all they ever were, or appeared.

None of it made any sense.

Clearly, the news was still settling in between you, Joel, Maria, and even himself. Silence stretched on for some seconds, and Tommy released a sigh to himself. His heart rate gradually slowed, and he looked to Maria.

And where he’d expected to find her distraught, if not disgusted or a little humiliated on his behalf, he saw a smile. It was faint, but it was there. From the opposite side of the living room, in the dim glow of the morning sun’s first rays, he could see it. She was smiling at him.

Your family’s kind of insane.

I still love you, by the way.

Maria didn’t need to speak to him in words, but he felt it. He couldn’t help but grin weakly back at her, wanting to walk over to her and give her a big, bear hug in apology.

Unfortunately, Tommy didn’t get that chance, as you jumped him in the next instant with a hug of your own.

You squeezed tight and exhaled shakily into his chest.

“Shit. Tommy, I am so sorry. I’m sorry,” you said.

His grin stretched bigger in spite of himself.

In spite of this whole ridiculous, messy situation, he smiled and hugged you back. You were like a little sister to him, thankfully not a daughter, and Tommy forgave folks easily. Over the top of your head, he glanced at his girlfriend again, and he mouthed a soft apology himself.

I’m so sorry, Maria.

Also, I love you more.

“It’s all good, kid.” Out of habit, and feeling the same protective instinct he’d always felt for you, he kissed the crown of your head. He rubbed your back as you hugged. “If I thought somebody was dumb enough not to tell me I might be fuckin’ my uncle, I’d also try to kick their ass.”

You laughed. You shook your head a little against him.

“You’re too big. I could never actually do it,” you said.

“I might,” Joel rejoined from someplace behind you.

That threat had no teeth. His brother was simply heaving a sigh of relief as he plopped down on the couch, likely thinking to himself that he was so fucking glad this conversation hadn’t steered where he feared it might. Briefly, Tommy caught his gaze, then squeezed you in his arms a little bit tighter. He angled your bodies to Joel.

“Even if he ain’t your uncle, are you sure you wanna be stuck with this loser, honey? He’s an ass, as you can see.”

He was talking to you, but his focus was on Joel. Smug.

The man on the sofa just rolled his eyes. He reached out to snag the waistband of your shorts and tug you back, while Tommy kept that wry, knowing smirk on his lips.

He let go, and you gladly dropped over into Joel’s lap.

“Too late. We’re dating,” his brother hummed back.

Dating?

Well, shit.

Tommy stared harder, only this time his look was one of surprise—and muted satisfaction. He glanced at Maria, who was yawning and preparing to draw back into the bedroom, it looked like. Then he remembered how early it was. His brother looked just as drained laying out on the couch, and if he’d had to guess, you and Joel would be retiring to the guest bedroom to crash at any minute.

He would have to keep this quick.

“Goin’ steady, huh?” he pressed.

“Don’t start.” Joel raised a hand, yawning himself.

You were all too tired for this shit. Tommy couldn’t resist. Like the bonehead little brother he was, he had to say it. He’d been waiting too long to see Joel in a relationship.

He was already retreating to the bedroom, to Maria, and he didn’t intend on dragging this out, but the opportunity was also too tempting to ignore.

“And y’all didn’t ask for my permission?” he called over his shoulder. Taunting. “A father has a right to know!”

Joel lifted one big, callused middle finger from the sofa. You smiled and waved and gave your best impression of a person much sweeter than you normally were, saying:

“Sorry, Dad, Uncle Joel’s dick was too good to resist!”

Eeeeeewwwwwww.

Tommy made a face as he left.

“I’m going back to bed. Y’all are sick.”

And on some level, he meant it. He was also grinning ear-to-ear as he shut the bedroom door behind him and turned to Maria, who was sliding under the covers.

“Your life is a Folgers commercial,” she chuckled.

“Pretty much,” he murmured as he joined her.

Then, without thinking twice about it, he reached for one of the pillows that had fallen off the bed. He nudged it over his girlfriend’s way, as if offering for her to take it, and when Maria cocked a brow, Tommy pointed to the door. He could already hear you and Joel going upstairs.

“You’ll need this. Use it to cover your ears,” he said.

“What? Why?”

“Because if I know anything about those two, they’re about to have some of the most disgustingly loud sex.”

You and Joel were having the most disgustingly loud sex.

It always was, though, wasn’t it?

The concern wasn’t one that often crossed your mind when getting drilled from behind by Joel Miller, but today, with his brother—who was not your biological father—and his girlfriend in the room directly below the one where you and Joel were fucking, you did consider it.

Were you being too noisy? Could they hear you now?

Was Joel pounding too hard, and should you have maybe put a pillow between the metal bed frame and the wall?

There was no time to fix the latter. You were in too deep. Joel was in too deep himself, digging through your guts with every quick, merciless thrust of his hips against you. His grip tightened on your waist, and he pushed down. He wanted your upper half damn near parallel with the bed, while your ass was up and pointed just where he could fuck your wet and needy cunt. He drove in hard.

Every push of his cock through your body, sawing back and forth, again and again with increasing vigor, could’ve supplied noise enough to wake the whole neighborhood. The dizzying squelch, the persistent, wet smack of his groin against your ass, the tiny strings of your shared arousal and sweat stretching far and then colliding all over again with each new thrust, all blew your cover.

If you’d had any desire to keep your sex noises private, your body and his were doing a terrible fucking job of it.

You might as well have painted it on a billboard by now:

‘WE REALLY, REALLY LOVE FUCKING!’

‘WE’RE NOT RELATED, BY THE WAY!!’

Perhaps that was why Joel was so earnest now—having just found out that this had all been a false alarm and you could fuck as much as desired, well…it did things to him.

It did things to you, too.

It made it hard to keep quiet or even try to curb the frenzy when Joel sheathed himself fully inside, held it, then leaned over your prone body to press his hand to the back of your head. He tilted your chin toward him as best he could in this position. He dug even deeper, and you felt him in your fucking lungs. You let out a whimper

“Joel—”

“Look at me, darlin’,” Joel said, gruff. “You’re close, hm?”

You were.

You nodded your head against his firm hold.

Your eyes tried meeting his from where your face was pressed against the mattress and Joel was hovering directly above, but the effort was fruitless. Your gaze couldn’t stay on his like he’d wanted. Joel grunted.

He pulled you up. He tugged you back into a semi-kneeling position, so that your back was flush with his chest and your bodies still connected. His lips pressed a quick, calming kiss to your neck before he moved again.

Before you knew it, you were off the bed and standing—more a function of Joel holding you up than any strength in your legs. You were propped against a pretty wooden dresser with a mirror attached to the back. In your shared reflection, you met Joel’s gaze, and he grinned at you. He wasted no time pushing back inside and watching your face contort with the pressure and the stretch of his girth. Your jaw went slack; you clenched around him.

And you could feel in the responding groan from Joel that he was just as close. You’d been at it for less than five minutes, but the ardor and the relief and the fact that it had been weeks since you’d gotten to do this together was enough to send you both spiraling fast. Joel reached for your hip in one hand and held your throat in the other. He went on at a relentless pace.

With every snap of his hips, your knees hit the dresser drawers. It didn’t hurt. Joel angled your body so he wasn’t pushing you too hard into the surface of the furniture, but he did make you feel it. He lowered his head closer to yours so that your faces were side-by-side in the mirror, and you felt his stubble graze your cheek.

“Y’know, I meant what I said. Last time,” Joel murmured.

What?

As close as you both were now, how could the man even string words together, much less bring up old memories?

You steeled yourself in place, barely holding his gaze.

“Wh— Huh?” You sounded dumb as shit. “What?”

Joel’s teeth grazed the soft, tender skin from your jaw to your chin while he continued to work himself in and out. He slowed his thrusts to a much calmer, gentler rhythm.

He kissed your cheek just as he plunged in, balls deep.

You let out a whine so desperate, pitchy, and shrill at that, you almost didn’t hear it when he spoke again:

“I told you that I was ready.” Another gentle withdrawal. “To tell your dad.” A thrust back in. “Whenever you were.”

Shit.

So that was what this was about.

You felt good. You felt like you were ready, too.

But the prospect of telling your father the truth about you and Joel was nothing short of terrifying, frankly. Imagining what he might say—or do—to the man you loved made you want to keep this hidden away for as long as you possibly could. It was selfish, you knew it. Still, it was scary to think of all the things that would change as soon as you made this known to your dad.

From what you could tell, though, Joel wasn’t feeling quite the same level of concern. He fucked you slow and deep. He let his hand slide from your throat to your legs.

Between them, he found your clit easily and pressed in.

He rubbed circles while he dragged his cock in and out at the most maddening pace, and with every thrust, you could feel him hit that sensitive place, again and again.

You shuddered in his arms. You braced your hands against the dresser below, not wanting to collapse.

Sensing you were right at the brink of ecstasy, and likely wanting something to fill the lull you’d left, Joel went on.

“You— you want that, too, don’t you?”

There was patent need in that tone.

The slightest tinge of insecurity.

You didn’t want Joel to think for even a moment that you were having second thoughts, so you fought back the worry in your own mind, and you nodded your head.

“Y-Yeah, Joel. I want it,” you whispered. “I’m just scared.”

Hell, that admission might as well have been written on your face, because your expression said it all. You were teetering on release and fucking terrified of this coming to an end. The eyes that held his were a bit glossier now. Joel saw that and seemed to ease off, pressing his lips back to your skin as he rocked his hips back and forth.

“I am, too,” he confessed. His breath hitched, and the circles on your clit grew a little sloppier. He was close. “We— we can wait. I just wanna…take you places, hon.”

You knew what he meant by that. Going out without having to check over your shoulder every ten minutes, wondering if this was the time you got caught. Not needing to worry so much. Again, you nodded, and you felt Joel’s cock twitch inside you. Your walls ached, and the knot in your stomach was tightening every second.

You were about to speak up, when Joel cut back in.

“I love you. I…I don’t care how long this takes us.”

“I love you, Joel.”

You couldn’t manage much more than that. Already the tides of pleasure were rising too high, and your chest was flooded with a heady feeling. You were about to give in, still holding Joel’s gaze in the mirror, and from behind you, you could see his demeanor harden with purpose.

On hearing you say those words, you loved him, plans involving his old friend and the worst the man might think when you two came clean with the truth were lost to the ether, it seemed. He set it all aside, at least momentarily, as he worked on drawing your pleasure out and also getting himself there in time. He held your hip tighter and drew his quick, messy circles through your folds in just the way you liked, and he kissed you gently. He fucked you gently. He made every last word and touch and brush of his cock inside you feel as tender as you’d ever felt it before. You came undone in seconds.

‘I love you’ was almost like a refrain between you both.

Joel shortly followed. He groaned against your neck as the pleasure fluttered and pulsed—muttered something about wanting to spill inside, but you both knew better. He withdrew just in time to paint the insides of your thighs, then your ass, then the small of your back.

There was so much. While relishing your own moment of bliss, you couldn’t help but savor the warmth and weight of Joel’s spend coating your skin. It made it feel that much more raw, and primal, and from the look Joel had lowered between your bodies to take in that wet, sticky mess, you could tell he was thinking the same as you.

You weren’t surprised, and didn’t flinch, when he pushed two fingers in your mouth. He still had you up against the dresser, eyes locked on your own reflection, so you saw what he’d wanted you to see. You licked and sucked the cum off his fingers until they were completely clean. A reflexive whine reverberated down those fingers after you’d swallowed, and Joel’s first instinct was to smile.

“You did so good for me, sweet pea,” he praised.

His hand strayed down your front, mapping the skin mindlessly and with that same, sweet grin on his lips. You preened beneath his touch and didn’t want it to end.

Eventually, it had to. You were both drenched in cum and sweat, and as cold as it happened to be outdoors, your activities had managed to kick the heat up more than a few degrees. Joel’s chest and shoulders were glistening.

“Shower?” you murmured, turning around to face him.

Joel hummed in agreement.

He swept his thumb between your thighs one last time before teasing the tip at your lips. You suckled it softly, if not with a drowsy and contented little smile to match his

You showered. You toweled off. You threw on his shirt, Joel slid on his boxers, and you both crawled into bed. Anything beyond snuggling in and sleeping wasn’t high on the list of priorities, as you assumed it was for Tommy and Maria, so you were surprised to hear a noise right after you closed your eyes. It was a knock on the door.

It was Tommy’s. You could tell.

Sensing the same, Joel called out:

“We’re sleepin’, man, c’mon. Go on now.”

You were certain Tommy and Maria could’ve said the same when the two of you had been engaged in your cacophonous fuckfest just fifteen minutes prior, so you stayed quiet. You squeezed Joel’s arm around your waist.

The knocking continued.

This time, it was accompanied by Tommy’s voice.

“Are y’all decent?”

In other words: not naked and going to traumatize him. You were both semi-clothed and under the covers anyway, so you yelled back that, yes, you were.

Tommy walked in. He had his phone to his ear.

Then he held the thing up, where you could dimly make out that the call was on mute, but what alarmed you even more was the contact name on the screen.

Joel leapt into a sitting position just as quickly as you.

You both froze; Tommy gestured as if to say, ‘Relax.’

“Wh— why is my dad calling you?!” you demanded.

You had no idea how the man was staying so calm. This was a bad thing, right? Beside you, Joel seemed to be thinking the same, because he twisted his head toward the window. He craned his neck, as if checking to see if your father might not be parked outside the front door. Your body tensed glancing back at Tommy—he was still holding the phone like it was a prize, or something—and when you saw him smirk a bit, you shot him a wary look.

“What?! What does he want?” you pressed again.

Instead of answering immediately, Tommy moved his thumb over to the ‘unmute’ button, and his grin grew.

“I dunno, why don’t you ask him yourself?” he said.

At the same time, and before Tommy could press that button, you and Joel both shouted at once: “DON’T!”

It almost would’ve been comical if it wasn’t also bone-chillingly horrifying. What the hell was his problem?

As if to press that last question, Joel stood from the bed and stalked over to his brother. Tommy ambled back, still taunting, and held the phone up closer to his face. Right when Joel lunged for it, the nimbler Miller jumped back. Joel blew out a breath and gritted for Tommy to grow the fuck up, would ya? Tommy just smirked and continued the song-and-dance for the cellular device. It didn’t take much for the two to get into a full-blown battle for the thing, and before you knew it, Joel had his brother snagged in a headlock, Tommy was laughing his ass off and telling him the chokehold’s illegal, asshole, and you were a second away from intervening. Fuck this noise.

“Tommy, you’re bein’ a—” you started, sharp.

“Fuckin’ dickhead!” Joel finished for you.

He’d almost wrestled the phone out of Tommy’s grip, when his brother turned and surprised you both again—he threw the phone your way. You shrieked out loud.

Force of habit.

You narrowly caught the phone in your hands.

And, having nearly dropped it at first, your fingers seized at the screen to secure their grasp. Of course, your thumb tapped right on the key you’d been trying to avoid

“Shit,” you cursed reflexively.

“Sweetheart?”

The phone was on speaker.

Across the room, Joel froze in place, and the color drained from him completely. You, too, were stock-still.

“D-Dad?” you stammered.

You half-expected him to shout—‘What on earth are you doin’ home early? And with Tommy?’—and you winced. For a second, you thought your friend might’ve snitched, and you shot him a look, but then your dad was back.

“Hey! Glad Tommy got ahold of ya. He said you caught an early flight back to surprise me. Y’all at the airport?”

You swallowed.

You must’ve said yes, because your father went on.

“Good, good. Keep your bags packed, alright?”

“Why?” You hoped he didn’t hear you falter.

Time was moving too fast. Your heart was no doubt drilling holes in your ribcage by now. Blood rushed and swirled and deafened your ears to all that was going on, but dimly, you could see Joel’s expression across the room. It was pensive, while his brother’s stayed amused.

Tommy knew something you didn’t.

Before you could begin to wonder what that was, your dad’s voice across the line shortly supplied the answer.

It was laid-back, easy, and uncharacteristically excited.

You hadn’t thought you’d ever heard him so eager about anything in his life, but there he went, telling you at once:

You came from a well-off family, one that had never had to put their children in danger with tesserae, one that got the freshest bread, one that had no idea about their eldest daughter's after-school activities; heading to the hob as often as possible, paying anyone she could for a bottle of spirits. You began when you were 16.

Your only true drinking competition was Haymitch Abernathy- he had known your family for years, but as close as he was with your father, he had never known you. You never cared to approach him when he entered your house or when your parents spotted him in the square.

When you became a regular Hob attendee, you saw much more of him. Drinking competitions became a regular occurrence between the two of you when you were 17, praises of your tolerance always boosting your ego at 18. This lasted until you were 19.

Your father had a rough day at work. He had visited the Hob for the first time in year, accompanied by Haymitch. He had come to try and spot you before your father could and tell you to book it. It didn't work out that way.

Haymitch spotted you two seconds too late, after hearing the deafening screech of your father yelling your name across the Hob. You froze in place, glass in hand and arm on a man who's name you couldn't remember. The sounds around you died around somewhat, all eyes on the father-daughter exchange.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He hissed, approaching rapidly.

"I'm 19, dad, I'm allowed to have fun," you huffed.

"Since when is 'fun' illegal drinking in the black market?"

"A while now, actually."

"You're grounded."

"I'm 19."

"Then get your shit," he snatched the drink from your hand, throwing it back like water. "And get the fuck out of the house." He slammed the glass against the table, turning tail and leaving.

You sat, stunned at the confrontation. You slipped off your barstool and followed your father's path in a haze. You jumped when a hand clamped around your wrist, eyes flickering to Haymitch standing there, concern splashed through his features.

"What happened, sweetheart?" He questioned genuinely.

"Nothing, Haymitch, don't worry about it," you sighed, trying to pull away and not drag him into family business.

"I said 'what happened', kid. Not 'do you want to tell me'," he demanded.

"I- nothing," you stopped yourself. It was none of his business!

"I want to help you, let me, please." Well you never thought you'd hear him say please.

"My dad kicked me out- happy?" You fumed, a sudden rage building in your belly as you yanked your wrist away from him with all your might and began stomping off.

"You can stay with me," he called after you. "The couch is comfy." You turned on your heel back to him.

"You're kidding," you blanched. "Seriously? You'd let me stay with you? Why?" The questions spilled out, confusion and appreciation mingling.

"Because I care about your wellbeing, kid," he chuckled. "And if you're living with me you ain't gotta head all the way to the Hob for a drink or two."

And so began the complicated relationship between the two of you. Two unemployed day drinkers with no hobbies, no friends, and no family. You found out that your mother wanted nothing to do with you, and they wouldn't allow your siblings to see you. Haymitch had no family left alive. You were both stuck drinking away your sorrows together.

He didn't make you get a job- just run errands. Get food, get living supplies, relax. He got the liquor. He kept you from drinking too much, usually limiting you to three glasses at a time. A good majority of your time was spent cuddling. It wasn't weird. It was just.. comforting. For the both of you. Nothing weird.

The night you had moved in with him was the first time. You were vulnerable, and ended up sobbing on the floor with a bottle in your hand. He slipped it out gently, setting it on the ground next to you. He leaned down and picked you up off the ground with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist and your arms around his neck. He laid down on the couch with you in that position, letting you blubber and yap until you fell asleep.

When you awoke, you were squished between the back cushions and his body comfortably. His arms laced around your waist, holding you to his chest, his face in the crook of your neck. You dozed back off and when you awoke he was sitting at his armchair, unphased and watching the news.

it had been 6 months since that night. You drank with him almost every day, had two friends which were men you had drank with at the hob, and had hobbies and a black cat that roamed freely through Haymitch's house. Things were.. good.

And you were falling for your housemate.

He was nothing more than someone who you cared for. You were legal, yes, but he was so much older than you. He was a respectable man- sure, drinking the days away with a friend's disowned daughter wasn't exactly mature behavior, but at least he held you close every time you cried. But that was purely platonic affection, him caring for your well-being and holding you through the night being the only way he knew to comfort you.

That night, you drank your feelings away with him. He was getting louder and you were getting quieter, watching him carefully. Trying not to expose the vile thoughts running your mind into the dirt as he blabbed about his favorite liquor.

The heat in your tummy only got worse as you drank more, giving him professional fuck-me eyes by your 4th. If he noticed, he didn't say anything. But by the way his eyes never left yours, even when you looked away, you were sure he had.

"H-Haymitch," you hiccuped, certain you were bordering alcohol poisoning. You never drank this much- either you had enough or he stopped you. Not tonight. "I'm not, I'm really, uh," you couldn't get your thoughts straight. "Take me to our room, please." You managed to get out.

"Our room?" He questioned, brighter than you'd ever seen him. "Last I checked, we've never slept in it at the same time. If anything, the living room is our room." He sauntered over to you slowly, placing his bottle on the table in front of you. You reached for it and got your hand smacked. You were already feeling a little green.

"Just take me," you groaned, choking back a gag. "I'm sleepy." You whined at him.

"Sure you don't need to vomit, sweetheart? Do it before I tuck you in, if you would be ever-so-kind," you shook your head no, but then stood swiftly and shook your head yes. He guided you to the sink as you emptied the contents of your stomach in it. He held your hair. You tilted your head back up and turned the water on, washing the liquid away.

"Atta girl, let's get you some water, why don't we," you groaned and nodded, washing your hands and turning back to him as he handed you a bottled water. You chugged it, feeling a tad more sober, and you began to walk to the bathroom. Haymitch sat back down and swirled his finger around the lip of his cheap whiskey bottle.

You brushed your teeth and tongue thoroughly. You wouldn't have cared, you didn't. But something in the way Haymitch's fingers continued to linger on your skin made you start to. You exited the bathroom, swishing a bit of mouthwash through your teeth before walking to the kitchen sink and spitting it out there.

"Take me to bed." You requested, standing in front of haymitch in your big tee-shirt and shorts.

"Awfully bold now, aren't you sweetheart?" He rasped, standing almost as soon as you had asked. He walked towards you, leaning down and scooping you up bridal style. You were not expecting this- a belly laugh escaping from you as he began to walk you up the stairs.

You were drenched. Absolutely soaked through your panties. You just prayed he wouldn't notice anything off about your demeanor- maybe he would just chalk it down to the abundance of alcohol in your system?

"Haymitch! Do you have to be so rough?" You gasped as he nearly threw you and himself onto the bed. As you recollected yourself, he stood. "Leaving so soon?" You whined playfully.

"Not if you don't want me to, doll," he chuckled. His raspy voice sent a chill down your spine.

"Well, I mean," you sputtered. "I would- I don't, no. I don't." You finally got your words out, pursing your lips and peering up at him through your lashes as he laughed at you.

"God, you're a mess, aren't you sweetheart?" He mocked, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to you. "I would almost think it's more than just the alcohol at this point, wouldn't you?" You inhaled sharply through your nose at the insinuation.

"What? No, I'm just really drunk, that's all-" he pressed his thumb to your lips.

"Quiet," he whispered, leaning closer to you. "Lying won't get you anywhere in life, sweetheart." God, he was so close. You could smell him, more than usual. Pine and whiskey, mingling into the sexiest thing you had ever had the pleasure to smell.

You whimpered out loud when he pulled away. He smirked at you. Your eyes went wide as he began stripping. "Wh- why, what-" You tripped over your words, nearly beginning to crawl towards him. He was clearly relishing in your newfound behavior.

"Calm yourself, doll," he chuckled, flopping down next to you on his bed. "I'm just getting comfortable- you wanted to sleep after all. Right?" He was asking for your honesty.

This was the make-it-or-break-it of the night- he was giving you the chance to tell him what you were feeling. "I, uhm," you began with so much confidence and hope. But then, your critical thinking kicked in. He didn't actually want you to respond like that! He was warning you not to act on your obvious desires.

"Yes, just want to sleep," you muttered, beginning to pull your shirt from your body. You stood before you could finish. "I'll go to the bathroom, sorry." You apologized, melancholy. He grabbed your wrist.

"You're fine, sweetheart," he was serious. Your heartbeat increased and you suspected he was feeling at your pulse with the way he was squeezing. "Lying won't get you anywhere." He intentionally repeated his words from earlier. A shiver ran down your spine and settled in your bones. You were on edge and dripping wet. You whimpered.

"Haymitch, please," you whispered. "Don't make me say it." You pouted at him with glazed eyes and he pulled you back onto the bed in front of him. You were looking at him with need in your eyes, and he nearly matched your expression.

"Well, if you're so tired, you'd better get ready for bed, right, sweetheart?" He rasped, and you felt disappointment settle in your gut.

"Oh, uhm, yeah, I guess," you spoke quietly, scooting yourself to be more comfortable as you reached under your shirt to unclasp your bra. You were looking away from him, trying to avoid facing the cause of the weight on your chest.

A featherlight touch on your abdomen drug your attention away from your failed attempt, arms falling to your sides as he replaced your hands, unhooking the garment with ease. The straps fell from your shoulders as he reached to the bottom of your shirt. You raised your arms and let him lift it, leaving you in nothing but shorts and your loose and unsecured bra.

You looked at him in curiosity. He noticed and smirked. "You have to be comfortable to sleep, don't you, sweetheart?" His gentle grip turned demanding and you gasped as he snatched the only thing covering your breasts. Your arms flew to cover yourself and he slowly reached to restrain your wrists, shifting his weight so he was holding himself over you, pinning your wrists into the mattress.

"H-Haymitch," you whispered, barely audible.

"Yes, love?" He matched your volume, leaning so close that you could taste the whiskey on his breath.

"Kiss me," you asked. "Please." He looked from your eyes to your lips, silent for a moment.

"There's no going back if we do this," he warned, staring into your eyes for any tell of your thoughts. All he could see was desire. The same burning desire that fuelled the hard-on in his briefs. "I won't pretend anymore, especially not if you let me do what I want right n-"

"Shut up and kiss me, Haymitch," you groaned, bucking your hips up and rubbing yourself against his clothed erection. "Before I change my mind." You giggled.

He pressed his lips to yours fervently, touching you in a way that all the hours you had spent together could have never prepared you for. His hands flew from your wrists and his weight shifted to his knees, pressing your heat to his cock as he practically dry-humped you through your makeout. He was rubbing his thumb into your hip, squeezing it so tightly but you relished in it. His other free arm was pressed into the pillow next to your head, keeping him from crushing you under his weight.

"Good God," he groaned out needily, pulling away from your lips to begin kissing and sucking on your throat. He threaded his fingers through your hair, tilting your head for more access to your quickly purpling neck. "Sweeter than candy, you know that?" He grumbled against your skin. Your hands were settled in his hair and on his broad shoulders, taking in every sensation.

"There's something I would like to taste," you smirked slyly, pushing at his shoulders gently, sitting up with him.

"Oh, really? And what might that be, darling?" He reached up and held your hands as they sat on his shoulders. You reached down to his briefs and pulled them until his cock sprung from the waistband. You gasped at the size of it, watching it slap against his stomach with a soft sound.

"Y-You're so," you stammered. "I'm not sure I can take all of that, Haymitch.." He chuckled, replacing his hand in your hair as he pushed you towards his cock, pulling you with him as he readjusted against the headboard.

"You'll learn." Was all he said as he pulled you until your lips were wrapping around his broad head.

"You're so," you spoke around his tip. "So girthy, Haymitch.." He laughed at your muffled words, spoken with his cock bumped against your cheek. You began to swirl your tongue around his tip and he sighed, letting his laughter die down. He shifted his hand and shoved his dick straight into the back of your throat. You gagged and sputtered, pulling off and coughing with your cheek against his rigid member.

"It ain't Haymitch to you anymore, sweetheart," he growled. Your eyes widened, not sure what his next words would be. "It's daddy. Got that, doll?" You gasped- how vulgar, why would he ever think you would call him something so, so-

"Yes, daddy," your own words caught you off guard. You picked your head up and proceeded to gag on his cock until you felt as though you could throw up. A few times, you were enveloped in pure bliss. Those were the moments when he groaned and shoved your head down so far that your nose buried in the thick hair at the base of his cock. You felt so used and proud of yourself.

"Atta girl," he praised, lifting your head off his cock and smirking at you. You were panting, saliva and precum coating your chin. "So gorgeous like this, should get you drunk like this more often." He kissed you gently, contrasting the roughness of which he just fucked your throat.

"Please," You begged quietly. "Please fuck me." Haymitch chuckled at you.

"Say my name, darling," he growled. You began to say Haymitch, but he interrupted you. "Not that name, doll." He corrected, grabbing you and pulling you on top of himself until you were straddling him. You were slightly caught off guard, grinding down on him and moaning. You were still clad in your shorts and panties.

"Please, daddy," you whimpered. He chuckled, gripping your hips and pressing you harder against him. "Please fuck me, daddy!" You cried out, throwing yourself forward into a kiss. He flipped you over, pressing your back into the mattress. He sat up and yanked your shorts down before ripping both sides of your underwear. You yelped in surprise and scolded him.

"Consider it a souvenir, sweetheart," he chuckled at you. "A souvenir from the first time you're getting fucked by me." You gasped, feeling him begin to align his thick head with your entrance. He pushed in slowly, and you cried out.

"Daddy! Be gentle, plea-" You were cut off by a silent moan getting caught in your throat as he bottomed out. "Mmhm, please wait a- a momen- mm." You could barely speak, he wasn't thrusting but he was circling his hips ever so slightly, giving you friction in parts of your pussy you didn't even know you had.

"Oh, I'll be gentle for now, sweetheart," he groaned, beginning to thrust gently. "But I can't promise that'll last." He kept a slow and rhythmic pace, bottoming out with every lingering thrust. You let out a sharp breath every time.

He picked up his pace, your breath hitching with every thrust. You did your best to hide any moans, but could barely contain yourself. He began suckling on your neck and unintentionally digging his fingers into your hips.

Then, he pulled out. You whined at the unwanted emptiness, but then he grabbed your hips and flipped you onto your stomach. He began pounding into you, faster and harder and deeper than before. You became a slurred, moaning mess. He didn't stop, ignoring all of your moans and pleas of pure pleasure.

He had already begun to bruise your hips, squeezing and pushing and pulling to fuck you oh-so-nicely, penetrating you over and over.

He started getting rough, leaning over you and removing his hands from your hips. He started fucking you with the force of his whole body weight, leaving you moaning like a whore underneath him.

"I'm close, sweetheart," he growled. "You?" Not taking a break to let you answer, if anything going faster.

"Ah, uh, mm-mhm!" You cried. "K-keep, nn, going! Please daddy!" and with that, he lost all tempo and fucked you ruthlessly. He picked you up, put you on your back, pressed your knees into your chest, and slid back in one smooth motion.

This new angle was so deep, hitting your G-spot with every thrust. You cried out, reaching to Haymitch and gripping your hands in his hair.

"Daddy! Please, please, please, PLEASE," you screamed, begging for release with all your might. He reached down, playing with your clit for a moment, and you burst.

You felt the heat in your tummy rush to all your pleasure points, overwhelming you. Haymitch didn't slow down, but when you began to squeeze his cock like a vice, he pulled you close and started with short, deep thrusts.

You fell asleep immediately.

When you awoke, you were alone in the bed. You looked around groggily, no sign of your newfound lover. You slipped your feet to the side of the bed, attempting to stand. Your knees gave out, but you caught yourself on the bed.

You noticed that there was no trace of your earlier activities- a clean bed that you had just been tucked nicely into, your legs had no residue of either yours or his juices. Your hair was neatly combed.

You heard the sound of water shutting off, and figured Haymitch had been showering. A few minutes later, he exited with damp hair and a towel around his waist. You were intrigued.

"Good mornin', darlin'," he chuckled at the way you were looking at him. "Looking so eager for another round, huh?" He teased. You settled back into bed.

"Soon," you told him. " But for now, come lay with me." You smiled, scooting further into the bed to give him space. He dropped his towel and walked towards you. You dampened at the sight of his semi-hard cock.

He slipped into bed next to you, flipping you over so your back was to his chest. His cock rested between your legs, the head bumping your clit.

"Go back to sleep, sweetheart," he whispered, moving his hips and making his cock bump your sensitive nub. "That's what you wanted, right dear?"

(shitty) HAYMITCH HEADCANNONS

- Haymitch who has never held hands with a woman until you and gets cocky over it

- Haymitch who sobers up a little bit any time you make eye contact

- Haymitch who WILL cut your supply off if you start to seem half as dependant as he is

- Haymitch who fought with you about his habit of sleeping with a knife and the compromise was to switch it with a butter knife

- Haymitch who kisses all over your face any chance he gets, leaving slobbery, stinky marks

- Haymitch who keeps ahold of you any time you're in public, no matter what

- Haymitch who will force the sidewalk rule from day one (even though there's no cars in district 12)

DISTRICT 13 HC

- Haymitch who fought Coin for weeks before you made it to 13 for your shared space

- Haymitch who held your hands to stop your trembles from the withdrawls even though he was shaking harder

- Haymitch who will squeeze you so tight it hurts when you're both trying to sleep off the need

- Haymitch who refused to assist Coin in anything to do with the Mockingjay project if you weren't involved, insisting he needed you as his emotional support animal

"Haymitch, you know how much of a fucking cunt you are?" you hissed at him as he watched Peeta stumble through the snow, yourself glancing back at Katniss storming off in the other direction towards her old house in the Seam.

"You have no room to talk," he practically spat, eyes ripping from Peeta's back to your enraged glare. "You're just as irreverent as she is, you brat."

You felt a twinge in your chest- taken aback by his diligence in simultaneously insulting you and his victor at once. Poor Katniss had recovered from her games, the war, her sisters death, all that trauma as much as could be hoped for and yet still picked fights. You were no better in that sense.

Years of living as a drunken survivor alongside Haymitch should've taught you to withstand his low blows- especially when he was a bottle deep, and yet he still manages to make you want to run off to that hole in the earth. Stare into its depths for hours as you had as a child, as you had for the 5 years after he had led you to victory up until the bombings.

"Fuck you," you managed, suddenly feeling entirely drained. These arguments were so frequent now, you could hardly keep up. Your singing quartet of a symbol, a painter, a drunkard and whatever the fuck you were at this point, all dumbed down to bumbling idiots at the slightest trigger. Setting off landmines so terribly similar to those you had all been surrounded by in your games.

You set off at a quick pace to his home, snatching a bottle of spirits from his counter and practically running towards what used to be the Seam. You heard him yell something that surely would've set you ablaze once more if you had listened, but you were too far enveloped in your thoughts to care.

By the time you reached the softly smoking chasm, you were completely out of breath and exhaling some mix between a wheeze and a cough and a pant. You collapsed on the snow soaked cushions on the black metal bench that you had dragged painstakingly from the square a week or so ago.

You half sat, half lay on your left side. Dry, trembling fingers attempting to open your bottle. Nearly failing but refusing to relent, you finally cracked the cork from the opening. A froth spilled from the top, landing on your hand and sleeve. You sighed, internally blaming Haymitch though he had nothing to do with this particular struggle.

You sit, sipping the vulgar liquid for hours. Til your knuckles were red and puffy and your nose was runny and you were sure your lips were some shade of blue. Every rustle of branches or shift in snow catching your eyes, from any angle or position. Every movement spiking some sort of anxious overflow, hoping that it was Haymitch.

Haymitch isn't the first person you see, though. It's Katniss, emerging from the woods through a decently sized opening in the fencing near your spot. She looks much cozier than you, bringing some minor comfort in knowing she's better off than you at the moment.

She quietly approaches, game bag in hand stuffed with something heavy. You nod to her but she doesn't reciprocate. She stands next to you, glaring down into the mines with you.

"Do you think they're- their spirits, or something- that they're still down there?" You try to speak strongly, but after hours of silence it comes out hoarse.

"No." She says after a few moments, turning on her heel and beginning towards the Victors Village. You sigh, regretting something, but not sure what. Maybe the fact that you stayed as separate as you could from her over the time you'd known her. Maybe the fact that you hadn't tried to relate to her greif from this pit of despair sooner. Maybe none of it mattered.

You wanted to get up- wanted to stumble away and trip through that fluffy, gorgeous snow and back to Haymitch. Beg for forgiveness and plead for him to hold you. But it took you thirty minutes to tear your eyes from the horrible comfort.

When you finally attempted to move, your muscles were so stiff it felt impossible. You flexed each joint independently, pain shooting through your ankles as you bore your weight into them. Still weak in your bearings from the spirits, you took slow, trembling steps in the possibly correct direction.

You took the final swig from the bottle, gait faltering as your head tilted backwards. You flung the carcass of your comfort into a nearby mound of snow and it disappeared, leaving a concave in its wake.

It took you much longer than it had ever to return, at least if felt like it. When you reached the house, you turned the handle without knocking. You fully anticipated a blackout Haymitch, collapsed in a pile of clothes or hunched over his kitchen island. Instead, he sat on his stairs in a rather uncomfortable looking position.

"I'm sorry," you supplied without even a 'hello'. His bloodshot eyes flitted up to your diverted gaze and he stayed silent. An overwhelming feeling of rejection took you over, tears pooling across your waterline almost instantaneously. A stream of incoherent babbles took place of the distasteful silence and you fell to the floor in a heap.

Tears blocked your vision more than the view of your legs as you curled up in a ball on the floor, whispering the things you'd been thinking of saying aloud to Haymitch since you stormed off this morning. You thought he was still seated on the stairs, embarrassment rising to the forefront of your emotions along with regret and longing.

You were about to rise and stumble out of his home when you felt his strong, though shaking, hands on you. One on your back and the other coaxing between your calves and thighs up under your clenched knees. You relaxed ever so slightly and let him lift you.

You expected him to carry you to bed, as he had done so many times over the years, but instead he sat you on his counter in the only clear spot. You slouched, rubbing your eyes. He poured shots for the two of you as you pulled your legs up and rested your head on them. Your fingers toyed with the fluffy hem of your socks.

He threw his drink back without flinching and you attempted to do the same, but you winced as you swallowed, feeling bile rise to your throat then lower slowly. He took your glass and sat it on the counter next to you with his own.

You observed eachother for a moment, saying nothing. You waited. He watched. Your eyes flitted towards his hands, clenching into tight fists then relaxing over and over again. The silence was deafening.

"I was-"

"Do you-"

You brought your gaze back to his eyes, observing the same guilt and shame reflecting in your own. He sighed, stepping forward and pushing your legs apart to stand between them. His calloused hands found their way under your jacket and shirt, drawing patterns in the soft hair on your back. He pressed his lips to your forehead, trailing down until he was at the corner of your mouth.

"You aren't a brat," he whispered. You felt tears begin to well as you leaned up to meet his lips. The feeling was familiar and yet still felt uncertain from time to time. A rhythm always in sync with that of a decades long romance, and yet sensations still as new as young teens fawning over eachother. You loved him.

"You aren't a cunt," you pulled back slightly. Looking deep into his beautiful blue eyes. "Most of the time." You grinned. He chuckled and moved his hands from your back to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze.

"Most of the time?" He questioned, expression matching your own. "Sweetheart, remember who feeds you."

"Uhh, Katniss?" You giggled, snorting softly.

"Okay, well, remember who gets you drunk,"

"I do that all by myself." He scooped you from the counter, eliciting a soft squeal. You wrapped your legs tight around his hips, allowing him to carry you. He walked to the couch, letting his knees hit the cushion before dropping you and kneeling over you, elbows on either side of your head.

He gently stroked your hair from your face, observing you quietly. He pressed his lips to yours at last, setting a slow but intense pace, slipping his tongue between your lips and quickly dissapating your thoughts.

He pulled back slowly, looking at you with a ferver you hadn't noticed a few minutes ago. He pushed his knee between your legs, forcing them open as he stroked your jaw and throat.

"Remember who makes you feel better than anyone could." And with that, your body was heaved up, clothes being pulled and tugged and thrown into the piles of everything else he had no use for.

In no time, you were stripped and helping him remove his own garments, leaving you bare and him in his briefs. He slipped down to the ground, pulling you by your knees until you were slouched with your legs over his shoulders.

He wasted no time in eating you out, licking and sucking at your core until you were whining in less than a minute. Your hands found their way to the back of his head, forming tiny fists and pulling him into yourself deeper.

He was sucking at your clit, flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, doing everything he knew you couldn't stand. He held your thigh with one hand, grazing the underside of the other with his knuckles before reaching to tease your soaked slit.

"Please, please fi- oh my god, finger me already," you cried, and he almost immediately sunk a finger knuckle deep, curling upwards as he increased the intensity of his oral ministrations. "Ohh, don't stop, please." Your words were drawn out and slurred.

He slipped another finger in, setting a brutal pace, your hips rutting against his face. He was abusing that spongey spot inside of you, making you cry out obscenities.

"Haymitch, I'm gonna cu-" you were cut off by him completely withdrawling from your cunt. You gasped, trying to pull him back, but he stood over you, eyes trained hungrily on your figure as he yanked his undergarments from himself, hard cock slapping his stomach before he stepped towards you, bare for your enjoyment.

He grabbed your hair firmly, stroking his cock inches from your face as you tried to reach it, body begging to taste him as you salivated. He pushed your head towards him and you took him in your mouth, gagging hard as he forced it to the back of your throat.

He pulled you off, a string of thick saliva connecting you to his manhood still. He released your hair, leaning down and grabbing you by the hips, nearly throwing you over the armrest of the couch. He was directly behind you, one knee planted on the cushion behind you, one leg on the floor.

He leaned down, his cock aligning with your slit as he pressed his face to your neck, whispering gruffly into your ear.

"I'm gonna fuck the brat out of you if it's the last fucking thing I do, got that, sweetheart?" Butterflies flared in your stomach as you nodded as much as his grip in your hair would allow. He yanked your head back slightly, stubble tickling your throat now.

"I said, got that? Use your words."

"Yes, sir!" You cried, and with that, he straightened himself and thrusted into you. He gave you no time to adjust, setting a vicious pace immediately, causing the couch to shift with every slam of his hips into yours, the wood floor screeching in resistance to the friction.

You screamed, going limp beneath him as he fucked you senseless. He grabbed your hip with bruising force, dragging you back into him with every thrust. There was a puddle forming beneath your head, saliva and tears mixing into a salty mess on the dirty floor.

You were enveloped in pure bliss, barely able to moan due to breathlessness. He was genuinely winding you, lungs compressed between the couch and his chest. You were gasping for air and he was only fucking you harder and harder. The coil in your belly was becoming tighter, pleasure overwhelming your senses.

You were whimpering and he was groaning, he pulled his hand from your hair, leaning into you further as he reached beneath you, pinching your clit and rubbing, sending jolts through your body. You cried harder, pushing back into him as much as you could, you were so close.

"I'm gonna cum, Haymitch, please," it came out hoarse and whispery, throat dry and lungs on low capacity. Then, he rose from his position leaning on top of you, letting you take in your first full breath in ages. You gasped and couldnt stop yourself from coming undone around his fat cock, a scream escaping you.

Your vision went black, your back arched, and he didn't stop. Warmth spread through your body as he pounded you through your orgasm, his fingers never stopping their little pinches and rubs on your clit.

"I'm gonna cum inside of you, sweetheart." He growled, and your limp body shivered with anticipation. You were overwhelmed and fucked out, but you didn't want him to stop.

He grabbed your hips with both hands and pulled you back onto him completely, groaning deeply as he emptied his balls into your wet mound. You couldn't stop trembling, the feeling of being full, fucked out, and overstimulated all at the same time overwhelming your senses.

He groaned, keeping his cock lodged inside of you as he lifted you and lay down on the couch. He squished you between himself and the back cushions, yanking an askew blanket from the top of them and pulling it over the two of you. He wrapped his arms around you tightly and you sighed lovingly.

"Gonna start acting right." He said it like a statement.

"Maybe," you teased, and he squeezed your chest firmly, causing you to quietly gasp. "Yes, I meant yes." You corrected yourself.