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egcdeath · 3 days

Text

something old, something new

pairing: patrick zweig x f!reader

summary: when your childhood best friend asks you to get married, how are you supposed to say no?

word count: 7.2k

warnings: MATURE (mentions of sex but no explicit sex scenes), marriage of convenience, fluff, mentions of alcohol, patrick is a bad friend (but he improves), friends to spouses to lovers, fake dating, yearning and pining, everyone is bad at communicating, many feelings are being repressed, mentions of dieting in an athlete way, one singular creepy old man, no use of y/n

author’s note: i cannot get this tennis man out of my head!! i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

It wasn’t every day that you could count on hearing anything from your childhood best friend, but it seemed like whenever you did hear from Patrick Zweig, it was always an ask for something more shocking than the previous one.

As kids, you spent many evenings doing the homework that Patrick didn’t want to do, despite the fact that you didn’t really want to do more homework either. At boarding school, you’d somehow become his personal designated driver, answering his calls no matter what time and groggily picking him up from whatever party he’d found himself at. In your adulthood, you found yourself becoming a go-to stand-in for him at events he didn’t feel like attending. The amount of times that you’d shaken hands at charity galas and introduced yourself as Patrick’s girlfriend, despite not having a single romantic encounter with him, was frankly astounding.

It seemed like whenever Patrick needed something, you were the first person he reached out to. After his parents, of course.

You dreaded knowing the reason behind the simple hey, text message you’d just received, but you were sure that you’d find the reason out sooner rather than later–and that whatever the reason was could not have been good.

Like clockwork, only an hour after you’d received his message, Patrick appeared at the doorway of your apartment. He came to you equipped with his secret weapon, the kicked puppy look that he often used on you before he asked you for a ridiculous favor, like breaking up with his girlfriend for him or telling his mom that he still wasn’t joining the board of the family business.

You sighed as you took his less-than-stellar appearance in. Downtrodden expression, wrinkled and sweat-stained shirt, as if he’d gone to the gym to sweat out his feelings before coming to you, and eyes so red-rimmed, you wondered if he’d been crying.

If you had to guess, he’d either been arguing with his parents, who knew exactly how to get under his skin, or his tennis friends, who also knew exactly how to get under his skin, or his latest girlfriend, who probably confronted him about his own wrongdoings. Regardless of who had upset him, he had obviously come to you to lick his wounds.

Like always, Patrick stalked inside without asking you for any further permission. The two of you had done this song and dance more times than either one of you would like to admit.

“How are you?” he asked, stopping in your kitchen to steal an apple from your decorative bowl of fruit.

“I’m good,” you said with hesitation, eyeing him once more. He really looked like shit. If he hadn’t looked so sad, you would’ve told him exactly how much shit he looked like.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me how I am?” he questioned, a little pathetically.

“No,” you walked off to your living room, fully expecting him to follow you. You were unsurprised when he did exactly that. “Let’s just get right to it. Why’d you come over here?” you asked as the two of you sat down on your couch.

“My parents are cutting me off,” he explained, voice breaking as he spoke.

Surely, this couldn’t all be over an empty threat. They seemed to threaten Patrick with this every few days. In fact, you’d been in the room with him when his parents promised that he’d never see another dime from them–more than once. Every time, it ended with them coming to their senses and throwing more cash at him.

“That’s what, the twentieth time?” you laughed. “They always threaten to cut you off. What’s different this time?”

“This time, they mean it.”

You laughed even harder in his face. If you had a quarter for every time you’d had this conversation, you’d be richer than the two of your families combined.

“I’m serious,” he inched closer to you. “They’re tired of funding my ‘tennis habit’. They want me to get serious about life. To join the board and start a family. My dad showed me an edited draft of his will and everything”

“So?” you prompted, trying to figure out where you fell into the equation. Hopefully he wouldn’t try to put you up to something absurd, like seducing his father into convincing him to not threaten Patrick’s inheritance.

“So, tennis is the only thing I care about.”

“Okay…” you trailed off. “What would you like me to do about that?”

“I need you to help show my parents that I have a vision for the future.”

“Again, Patrick, what exactly are you asking me to do?”

“Marry me.”

You weren’t sure what you expected him to say, but it certainly was not that. Your mouth instantly dropped open and you were sure that you were gaping like a fish. Maybe if he had asked you ten years ago, you’d have instantly said yes, but you’d let that naive dream die after you’d come to realize the transactional subtext of your friendship.

“What?”

“I want you to marry me. I was thinking… you remember when we were younger and we made that pact, that if we weren’t married by the time we were adults, then we’d get hitched?”

You continued to stare at him, completely dumbfounded and not believing a single word coming from his mouth. “I… I…” you couldn’t even form the words. “We were kids!”

He gave you a halfhearted shrug, as if that didn’t matter at all, and as if he didn’t just ask you to be legally and romantically bound to him forever.

“You are fucking unbelievable! You haven't talked to me for anything other than asking me a favor in years, I barely know you’re alive apart from the random drunk texts you send me, and now you want me to marry you? Do you even hear yourself?”

You scoffed and stared at him in disbelief. “And that has to be the worst proposal in all of human history. First you tell me that tennis is the only thing you care about and then ask me to marry you? You’re a joke.”

He let you finish your rant, but after a beat he finally asked. “…Is that a no?”

———-

Stranger things had happened to you than marrying your childhood best friend just a month after he’d randomly popped back up in your life. At least, that’s what you told yourself as you walked down the aisle on a beautiful beach off of the Amalfi Coast.

The last few weeks had been an absolute whirlwind, with what felt like every second of your time consumed by making guest lists and invitations, booking hotel rooms, and finding a dress that you liked enough to get married in. Obviously, you knew this was more of an elaborate scheme than a celebration of love, but you wanted it to be nice anyway. For all you knew, you may never get married again.

You don’t know what possessed you to say yes to Patrick. Maybe the small, desperate part of you that had been begging him to truly see you since you were old enough to realize he didn’t, or maybe the desire to finally have that fairytale destination wedding you’d been dreaming about from the time you learned what a wedding was. Regardless of the reason, both of your families were overjoyed by the union. In one fell swoop, you’d been able to satisfy both of your parents’ desires for you to settle down, and you’d done it with someone both pairs approved of.

You had to give props to Patrick, the ceremony was beautiful. Given the short timeline, the two of you decided to divide and conquer the planning of the event. You were sure that he’d outsourced the work, since he was still in the middle of his tennis season, but whoever he hired did an excellent job at giving you the wedding you’d always wanted.

Despite the very short timeline everyone had been given, you were able to wrangle all of your close family and friends to Italy to watch you elope. Your parents had insisted on inviting second cousins and shareholders to your wedding, but you’d somehow convinced them that you and Patrick wanted a smaller, more intimate ceremony. It was probably better to have less people there, lest someone notices the artificial nature of your union.

Part of you felt like you’d pulled off the greatest prank of all time as the two of you stood up in front of your small crowd, gazing as lovingly as you could manage into each others’ eyes while the officiant said his spiel, but the other, more logical part of you filled with dread as the reality of the situation began to set in. Patrick seemed to have a way of always dragging you into a shitty situation, and you hoped for both of your sakes, that that wouldn’t be the case for your marriage.

After what felt like a lifetime, Patrick began to recite his vows, claiming to have loved you since you were children, and promising to continue to love you ‘till death did you part. If you had been marrying literally anyone else, your knees would go weak with swooning.

Unfortunately, you were cursed with the knowledge of the reality of your situation, one where your vows sounded more like: “We only have to stay married until I retire, which should be sooner rather than later. We don’t have to do anything together: no galas, no family dinners, no family vacations. Hell, you don’t even have to come to my games. And we don’t have to be exclusive either. This is basically just a title, so feel free to see anyone you want to. I can already see the worry in your face. Stop that. We can hire someone to make us prenups, so the divorce will be an easy, clean split of our assets. See? It’s not that bad.”

The dichotomy between the words he’d said to you a month ago and the bullshit he was spewing now almost made you laugh, but that was clearly not the reaction you were meant to be having when the love of your life was publicly declaring their feelings for you.

Once he finished declaring his romantic, empty words, you began to read off your vows. They fell in a similar vein to his, a proclamation of a lifetime-spanning love that didn’t really exist in the first place. But when you glanced up at him from your slip of paper, he was really selling it. He stared at you like he adored you, like he wanted to study every inch of your face after running off with you into the sunset.

The ridiculousness of it all finally hit you like a freight train, and you managed to pivot the laugh that was creeping up into your throat into a weepy sounding crack of your voice. Surely people cried during their own weddings.

You finished off your vows, doing your best to pretend like this whole ordeal wasn’t the most ridiculous scheme you’d ever been dragged into. You imagined a world where he was less selfish and you were less selfless, one where you were exchanging these vows with sincerity, and it helped you to get through the words that you knew were almost completely meaningless.

The two of you then took turns placing the ring on each others’ fingers, with Patrick giving you a ring with the largest diamond you’d ever seen, and you giving him a band that had been passed throughout your family. He’d agreed to give you the heirloom back once you divorced, so you couldn’t complain too much about giving it away in the first place.

The announcement of being able to kiss the bride rang out in your ears, yet you still found yourself surprised when Patrick eagerly wrapped his arms around you and kissed you passionately. Cheers erupted around the two of you, and you pulled away as the officiant declared you Mr. and Mrs. Zweig.

You had successfully tricked your audience, and yet, you still had the strangest feeling.

Your reception felt far more natural than your wedding ceremony. After a change of outfit, a huge bowl of pasta, and a few flutes of champagne, you were feeling substantially better about the arguably poor decision you’d just made. You chatted up your friends, who jumped at the opportunity to comment on how cute of a couple you two were, did some light matchmaking between single guests, and placated both of your parents with manufactured acts of affection. You even managed to get Patrick out on the dance floor, after he swore to you that he didn’t dance.

By the time the two of you were stumbling back into your villa, the woes of the day had practically been forgotten. When you were having this much fun, who cared about a massive, potentially life altering decision?

You immediately made a beeline to the bathroom, anxious to get into your comfortable pajamas and to wash your face after a long day of wearing tight, extravagant dresses and a heavy layer of makeup.

“So what did you think of your big day, Mrs. Zweig?” Patrick called out from the other side of the bathroom door, where you were sure he was also preparing for bed. “Was it everything you wanted and more?”

“I think this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” you paused as you thought about something before confessing, “but it was everything I wanted and more.”

“Yes!” he celebrated from where you couldn’t see him, though you could perfectly envision the goofy look on his face. “I owe it to you after everything I’ve put you through. I just hope you weren’t too let down by the groom.”

“What?” you drew out before blowing a raspberry. “Of course not. You looked very handsome today,” you complimented in between splashes of your face.

“You looked pretty beautiful, yourself,” he complimented you right back.

“Aww, thank you, honey,” you emphasized the pet name.

“Hmm, I don’t know if I like that,” you heard the squeak of the bed from behind the door as you assumed that he’d sat down.

“Hey, you’re the one who made me marry you,” you pointed out. “Am I more than you bargained for?”

“Of course not, babe,” he emphasized his own pet name, which sent you into a fit of laughter. “It’s just so weird to hear you refer to me as anything other than an asshole.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’re still an asshole,” you replied as you walked out of the bathroom, donning an old shirt with the logo of your boarding school and an equally old pair of shorts. “Just a married asshole.”

You took in the sight of your now-husband as you made your way to your side of the bed, surprised to find that you quite liked the sense of domestic bliss you were feeling. The bed dipped as you sat down and glanced back at Patrick with the slightest bit of hesitation.

“Is this weird for you? I can go to the spare room, if you want me to,” he offered, surely in reference to the two of you sleeping in the same bed.

“Don’t worry about it,” you assured him, setting a steady hand on his knee. “What kind of couple would we be if we didn’t spend our wedding night together?” you teased.

“The kind of couple that marries for convenience?” he suggested.

“Hey, who’s to say that this isn’t love? I had the biggest crush on you when we were kids. Maybe some of it lingered, or some shit.”

“Oh yeah?” he looked at you with that sleazy smirk that you both loved and hated. “What happened?”

“Hmm… I think I realized that you’re a dick,” you matched his smirk with a challenging one of your own.

“Huh. Did you have this realization before or after you started seeing Dan Thompson?” he questioned.

You were surprised by the mention of your first boyfriend, particularly because you weren’t sure that Patrick remembered any detail about your personal life, let alone your love life. “I realized it after you started treating me like your workhorse.”

“Oh okay, so you had a crush on me while you were with your boyfriend. Good to know.”

“Shut up,” you groaned and turned away from him as you finally full laid down.

“Would it make you feel better to know that I also had a crush on you?” you heard the bed sheets rustle as he scooted closer to you, and you turned back to face him.

“You’re lying.” You couldn’t see any world where that would make sense to you. In your youth, it seemed like Patrick was always off somewhere with a new person, and none of those people were you. Not that you had an issue with it, but the thought that the two of you might’ve had crushes on each other at the same time without either of you pursuing each other felt kind of weird.

“Nope. You’re the first person I ever jerked off to,” he said as casually as if he were telling you what he ate for breakfast, not breaking eye contact with you.

“Ew, you’re so gross,” you gently pushed him, but your hands lingered where they sat on his chest. “Was that supposed to be romantic or something?”

“That’s not romantic to you?” he asked with all the sincerity of someone who was fully committing to a bit.

The two of you broke out into laughter. Once you finally caught your breath, you began once more. “This is gonna be a long marriage.”

“Hopefully,” he remarked in response.

“If you keep talking to me like that, I will literally go get our marriage annulled, like right now.”

“Please don’t,” he whined, grabbing one of your hands from his chest and kissing your fingers. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Every time you promise to make something up to me, an inconsistent fairy gains its wings.”

“Hey,” his tone suddenly became very serious, completely catching you off guard. “I really am sorry that I’ve been a terrible friend. I don’t know that I’ve ever said it, but I am. You deserve so much better than me, and I don’t even know how I convinced you to do this for me.”

You almost started to laugh, unable to take the absurd situation seriously. You’d been waiting years to hear him genuinely apologize, and now hours after you’d married solely as a favor to him, he was finally telling you what you wanted to hear.

“Please. I’m serious. I know you think I’m a piece of shit flaky ashhole, and I am, but I want to be a better husband to you than I ever was as a friend.”

You felt your heart stop beating for a second. The word husband sounded so foreign in his mouth. You couldn’t quite pin how you felt about it, but you knew you felt uncomfortable with the intimacy of his words.

“Patrick, please shut up,” you squeezed your eyes shut, suddenly a little overwhelmed with the Patrick of it all. In fact, you couldn’t think of anything more encapsulating of your experience with him than the whiplash you got from that moment. He could be a complete asshat, but his occasional moments of earnestness kept you following him like a lost puppy, accepting his apologies and granting him ridiculous favors, despite your better judgment.

“Are you okay?” he asked, moving closer to you to get a good look at you. You swore you felt your heart squeeze painfully in your chest.

“I’m fine, I just-“ am overwhelmed by you being sweet? Can’t believe that I’m hearing you say this to me after so long? Also can’t believe that you and I are married?

None of the right words seemed to come to you, so you did the second best thing you could think of.

You pecked his lips and pulled away as if you’d just touched a hot handle. You didn’t know what had come over you, and immediately began to apologize profusely.

“Oh my god, I don’t know-“ you were cut off by his hands on your face, greedily and sloppily pulling you back in for another kiss, this one far more passionate and confident than the first.

Your kiss was messy but fervent, years of pent up sexual frustration and non-sexual frustration behind your every movement. As you kissed, you moved to straddle him, feeling a little ridiculous in your ratty old clothes, but that didn’t stop him from groping you over your pajamas like you were the hottest thing on the planet.

Maybe the strangest thing to happen to you that day wasn’t even your wedding.

——

That night was the first in a series of very strange events. You couldn’t even fully wrap your head around what was happening in your marriage. You just knew that the two of you had become closer friends than you’d ever been before, and that you slept together when either of you had the urge. It was basically a no strings attached situation, except, legally, all strings were attached.

If you were confused by your arrangement, you were sure that your friends were even more lost, something they proved to you as they interrogated you over brunch.

“So, just so we’re clear, you married him as a favor?!” your friend asked in complete disbelief.

“Well… yeah, basically.”

“Shit. Can I ask you for a favor of a million dollars?” she joked, leading to the laughter of your other friends at the table.

“Well, that’s different. At least with our marriage, we both benefit. He gets his parents off his ass about being so focused on tennis that he doesn’t have any future prospects, and I get my parents to stop trying to marry me off to every single rich boy they find.”

“But you’re not like, actually married. Like you guys don’t have feelings for each other?” another friend questioned.

You sipped your mimosa before explaining your situation for what must’ve been the fifth time that day, “we’re basically friends with benefits.”

“But you’re legally married? Like, the wedding was official and stuff?”

“Legally? Yeah. But it’s literally just that,” you clarified.

“Legal marriage and sex?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, hoping that they were finally catching on.

“Then… are you guys seeing other people?”

“Oh yeah, what ever happened to that one model guy you were seeing?” another one of your friends pitched in.

“It didn’t really work out,” you addressed that with an understatement. He rightfully flipped his shit when he found out you were going to be marrying someone else. “But neither of us are seeing other people. I don’t think either of us want to risk bringing anything back to one another.”

“That sounds pretty committed to me.”

“Not really,” you dismissed.

“Then why are you even together?”

“How many times do I have to explain how we both benefit from this?”

“No, not legally, or socially or whatever. Why are you hooking up with him? Aren’t you scared you’ll mess up your friendship or something?”

“Well, the sex is really, really good. But I’m really not worried. There's no romance between us. We’ve been friends for so long that it’s just… weird to look at him like anything other than my friend. It’s basically a loveless marriage of convenience.”

Your friend shot you a skeptical look. You just shrugged her off.

———

The moment you found out your afternoon meeting had been canceled, you reached out to your assistant to make arrangements for you to go to Patrick’s tennis game. He’d been on a winning streak, and though he insisted that you didn’t need to come to his games, you knew that he secretly liked having you there.

Over the past few months of your marriage, you’d grown to realize that he often didn’t say what he actually meant. Like the time he told you that he preferred to live alone, before breathily confessing in your ear that he slept better by your side. Or when he swore to you that he loved the pancakes you’d served him, despite the food being some of the worst you’d ever put in our mouth and him being on a diet. You almost found it sweet that he tried to prioritize your feelings over his own, which was surely a result of overcompensation from the way he had treated you for the majority of your lives.

You arrived at his match just in time to watch him take a break, making your way into the stands and finding a seat where you’d have the best view of your friend as possible. You didn’t expect him to scan the audience and find you until much later on, but you were pleasantly surprised when the two of you made eye contact and he absolutely lit up. You waved, then gave him a thumbs up in hopes to communicate your support from far away.

While you couldn’t always make it, you liked to play the role of supportive tennis wife. Getting dressed up and making an appearance not only publicly legitimized your sham of a marriage, but helped you to reconnect with some of your former boarding school classmates, who were often in the stands supporting a friend or a loved one. You also just liked to watch him play, as witnessing the passion and ferocity he had out on the court was extremely entertaining, and even at times, mildly arousing.

With their break ending, Patrick went back out on the court and played just as well as you expected him to, crushing his competition, and looking up into the stands at you to celebrate once he’d scored the winning point.

At first, it was surprising how proud his wins made you feel of him, a feeling that you explained to yourself by arguing that if he wasn’t giving his absolute all to tennis, then your marriage had basically been all for nothing. Although that did still ring slightly true, the truth was that you were simply proud of Patrick. Whether you liked it or not, the two of you were a unit now, which meant that his wins were your wins and vice versa. In some ways, it was kind of nice to be part of a team. Or at least his team.

You met Patrick down on the court, where he paused from packing his bag to immediately greet you with a kiss to the forehead, a small act of intimacy that was typically reserved for situations far different from the one you were currently in.

“Hey! I didn’t know you were coming!” he exclaimed, pulling you in for a half-hug.

“I didn’t know I was coming either,” you instinctually wrapped your arm around him in response to his half-hug. “Great job out there. You kinda demolished him!”

“I did, didn’t I,” he said just loud enough for you to hear, still wanting to appear like a good sport. “I have to go get ready for the press conference. Do you want to meet me at my hotel?”

“Of course. You don’t mind me staying for the night?” you probed, despite knowing the answer. He wouldn’t have asked you to go to his hotel in the first place if he’d minded.

“You know I never mind you staying for the night,” he gave you a cheeky wink.

“You’re so sleazy,” you commented with fake disgust.

“You started it,” he replied, reluctantly pulling away from you and reaching into his bag to grab his hotel keycard. “I’ll text you when I’m heading back.”

The moment you received a message about him being on his way to the hotel, you made a very lengthy phone call and request to the restaurant in the building. Technically, he shouldn’t be eating any of what you ordered, on account of him being on a strict diet plan, but you figured that he deserved it after playing the way that he did. Besides, Patrick liked thoughtful acts of service, and you figured that this would count as one.

“You know me so well,” he practically gasped as he stepped into the room, taking in the platters of food you’d laid out for him.

“What kind of wife would I be if I didn’t?” you teased, though your sentiment was somewhat accurate, and it was clear that the two of you had grown to know each other far better over the past few months, you hoped that your friend wasn’t interpreting your words in too serious of a way.

The two of you laid out on the pristine hotel bed, eating the feast that you’d ordered without much dialogue between you, other than a comment on how good something was, or a request to pass an item to one another. It felt oddly domestic, and oddly enough, you liked it. Maybe you liked it even more than you’d been willing to admit.

“I’m gonna go shower,” he announced after tossing his napkin onto a cleared off plate.

“Want some company?” you offered, raising your brows at him in a playfully suggestive manner.

“Is that what this is all about?” he feigned offense.

“Maybe,” you trailed off. “Or maybe I just wanted to celebrate the greatest tennis player of all time,” you purred.

“Come on. You and I both know that is far from the truth.”

“Well you’re the greatest player in my heart,” you praised, much to his chagrin.

“Ugh. Shut up and come shower with me.”

As you sleepily ran your fingers through his damp hair, you were surprised when he broke his silence with a comment seemingly out of the blue. It was more of a mumble than anything else, but you’d grown accustomed to his muffled words over the course of your marriage.

“You’re so beautiful,” he randomly complimented you.

“You know you don’t have to compliment me to get into my pants, right?” you asked with a hint of laughter in your tone.

“I’m not trying to,” he pecked your arm–the limb he had the easiest access to at the moment–as if he was trying to emphasize his point, though all it did was bring heat to your cheeks at the reminder of the way he’d pressed slow and meaningful kisses along your calves and inner thighs while the two of you were in the shower. “You just looked so good today, I couldn’t not comment.”

“I don’t look good every day?” you asked facetiously, trying to deflect from the warm and fuzzy feeling his compliments and affection were making you feel.

“Of course you always look good,” he reassured you rather than playing along with your game of joking instead of addressing your feelings. “I just don’t tell you that enough.”

You weren’t even sure how you could respond to that. Clearly, he wasn’t in the mood to mince words tonight, but you couldn’t bear to match his genuinity with cheap jokes. The only real, genuine thought to pop into your head were three ridiculous words that you immediately batted away. You couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing than randomly declaring your love to a husband who wasn’t really your husband in a marriage that wasn’t really a marriage.

Out of ideas, you hit the lamp on your side of the bed. “I appreciate it. Goodnight.”

“Night,” he parroted back to you, remaining snug against your chest, despite the fact that your hands had stopped threading through his hair.

Deep down, you knew that those three words had been on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, too.

——

Being in the social circles of filthily rich people meant you often found yourself at random charity events, hosted by the nonprofits of families and business owners looking for a particularly large tax break for the year. Over the years, you’d felt that you’d seen and participated in it all: marathons raising awareness for a serious, but extremely rare disease, date auctions to raise money for a cause that certainly didn’t justify you having to go on a date with a man almost forty years your senior, or galas for nearly-extinct sea creatures that were essentially used as an excuse to stand around and network while drinking expensive alcohol and eating hor d'oeuvres.

You seemed to find yourself at a lot of events like the latter, including the one you were standing at now. The gala, which took place in the art exhibit it was raising money for, was a rather standard one, filled with the typical suspects who regularly attended those events.

It was slightly ironic to be at the event with Patrick as your plus one, as this was the exact type of event he would’ve texted you about an hour before it began to ask if you would play his concerned partner for the night who told everyone a flimsy excuse about him being under the weather.

It also served as somewhat of a reminder to you of the massive growth that your friend had undergone since the two of you became legally bound to one another. It finally felt like Patrick saw you as a true friend, instead of a reliable person who would do his dirty work. It finally felt like he cared. In some ways, your marriage was the best thing to happen to your friendship.

Patrick returned to where you were standing, this time with two flutes of champagne and a delicious looking appetizer in his hand.

“You’re too kind,” you said as he passed you your drink.

“Anything for my wife,” he mockingly bowed in front of you and you chuckled and shook your head. Over the past year, the two of you slowly became slightly more comfortable with referencing each other as husband and wife, but only really as a joke. You guessed that in a lot of ways, that’s what your marriage was—a ridiculous inside joke.

He was just about to feed you a hor d'oeuvre when you were approached by a wildly unwelcome figure: the man who had purchased a date with you a few years ago. Despite your one very awkward, stilted date, he never really seemed to get over you–which he made a point to prove at every event you both happened to be at. And unfortunately for you, his generous donations landed him on the guest list for the majority of these events.

You were used to fighting him off on your own, as he seemed to come and flirt with you regardless of how inappropriate it was for the setting of the event, or even when he already had a beautiful young bombshell hanging on his arm. At this point, you’d learned to just tune his every word out and flee as soon as you possibly could. He was annoying, but he wasn’t dangerous.

“Hey, honey,” he greeted you way too comfortably. You’d given up on asking him to call you by your name a very long time ago.

“Hi, John,” you reached out to shake his hand and cringed internally when he kissed the back of your hand.

“Oh honey, who is this?” Patrick immediately lept in, surprising you with his unsubtle passive aggressive tone and ridiculous use of a pet name.

“You don’t remember me? I swear, we’ve met a few times.” John asked, trying to smile despite clearly being agitated by the presence of competition.

“Some people are more forgettable than others,” he said with a shrug. “How do you know my wife?” He emphasized the word and you pushed down the small inkling of pride you were feeling. Whether it was from watching Patrick try to scare this annoying man away from you, or being so proudly referred to as his wife, you couldn’t be sure.

“Finally settling down, eh?” he directed at you, then directed his next statement to Patrick. “We went on a date back in the day.”

“It was for that one date auction thing,” you quickly added context, but paused when you took in John’s less than pleased look. He was a large donor at your own family’s nonprofit, and you were sure that your parents wouldn’t be too pleased with you if they found out he pulled out over you hurting his feelings. “We had a lot of fun, though.”

“We definitely did,” he chuckled and smirked. You wanted to punch him in the mouth. “We should definitely do it again sometime.”

It was clear that Patrick was not taking kindly to seeing you be flirted with so brazenly in front of him. Part of you wondered why he would be possessive, since part of your initial deal was that you could see whoever you wanted, even if that happened to be a creepy old man with a lot of money. The other part of you was enjoying seeing him so fired up. Particularly, seeing him fired up over you.

“Our schedule is just so busy. Between work and us trying to start a family, I just don’t know when we’ll have time to see you again.”

Trying to start a family? That was definitely news to you. Although, the idea didn’t sound awful. Wasn’t it everyone’s dream to start a family with their closest, most dear friend?

“Well, she knows where to find me, right, honey?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, looking into your glass like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Now if you don’t mind, my wife and I are going to go check out the exhibit,” Patrick announced, grabbing your hand and taking a step away from John.

“You two have fun,” he said before clapping Patrick’s shoulder and leaning in to begin a stage whisper. “Make sure you treat her right and cherish her. If you don’t, I might have to swoop in and do so myself.”

He winked at you and you bit back a gag.

“Don't you worry your wrinkly little head. Nobody lov- cherishes her more than I do,” he theatrically patted his back much like he’d initially done to him. “See you around.”

Did he almost say what you think he almost said? Surely you misheard him, or he was just playing up your relationship to scare away that creepy man. It really wasn’t anything to think twice about.

Once the two of you had walked away far enough to be out of earshot, you finally addressed what had just happened. “Thank you, bodyguard. You don’t even know how much I despise that man.”

“He seems like he’s the worst,” he agreed with you, looking back over his shoulder.

“That’s because he is,” you emphasized. “This is so random, but did you mean what you said earlier?”

Patrick suddenly paused, his face going pale like he’d just seen a ghost. You were a little confused by this reaction, as he’d said nothing to warrant that level of fear.

“Do you actually want to start a family? Obviously not now, while you’re still playing tennis, but maybe eventually? I know we don’t have the most traditional marriage, but, I don’t know. Neither of us are getting any younger, and it might be fun to co-parent with my best friend,” you were clearly rambling now, but luckily, Patrick came in to rescue you for the second time that night. He looked far less aghast now.

“I would love that,” he said to you with a genuine smile. You matched his with one of your own.

———

“Do you have any big plans for retirement?” a reporter asked for the final question of the press conference.

“Mostly just eating a lot of burgers. And maybe learning how to play pickleball,” Patrick responded, never one to give a serious answer to questions that weren’t explicitly about tennis.

It was a ridiculous note to end on, but it felt right. You’d found that to be the case with most things in your life that pertained to him–most notably your marriage, which ended up being far more than you ever expected it to be.

After the press conference had come to a close, Patrick met you outside by the car, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips, then leaning down to peck your baby bump.

“How does it feel to be retired?” you asked, ruffling his hair while he was still bending down.

“It feels like you might divorce me,” he joked. Obviously your marriage deal was only meant to cover the time that he was still playing tennis, but after years of a complicated marriage that suddenly became significantly less complicated once you finally confronted the fact that the two of you very obviously loved each other, it seemed unlikely that your union would end any time soon.

You glanced down at your baby bump, then back up to him skeptically. “I hope you’re not being serious.”

“Come on, I never know with you. You’re the one who friendzoned me the entire first year of our marriage!” he exclaimed.

“That was a lifetime ago,” you countered before taking his hands in yours. “If you’re really worried, I have zero intentions of ending our marriage.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he grinned, stepping away from you. “Let’s get going. I don’t want us to miss our reservation.”

You nodded and obliged, passing him the keys before heading to the passenger side of the car.

Once you sat down, you were overcome with the urge to say something. You had spent so much time bottling up and pressing down your own feelings, that it was now hard to resist letting things out when they came to you.

“I’m so proud of you,” you blurted. “And I love you. So much.”

Patrick smiled at you genuinely, before his look turned into a slightly more devious one. “I love you so much, too. One might even say I love you more.”

“Don’t even start with that,” you laughed, not in the mood to have the kind of back and forth with him that you had at least once a week. Considering that you were carrying his child, you were pretty sure that you were the winner of the love competition.

“Fine. We love each other equally,” he conceded.

“That’s more like it.”

You tried to think back to one specific moment where your marriage had crossed over from being one of convenience, into a union with genuine feelings attached, and realized that you weren’t exactly sure. It could’ve been the first night you spent together, when you’d finally allowed yourself to consider what your relationship might look like beyond a simple friendship, or maybe it was even earlier than that, when you gazed into Patrick’s eyes as you read off your vows. The look of pure adoration he gave you was one that you had grown familiar with throughout the course of your marriage, but you hadn’t realized at the time just how genuine he had been. Or maybe even the moment Patrick asked you in the living room of your apartment, when you’d been the first person he thought of to carry out his ridiculous scheme, and you’d said yes despite every logical part of your brain that screamed at you to say no.

Whenever it began didn’t particularly matter. What mattered now was that the two of you fully intended to spend the rest of your lives together.

#patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig fic #patrick zweig imagine #art donaldson x reader #challengers #challengers fanfic #challengers fic #josh o'connor x reader

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angel5ofp0rn · 2 days

Note

Ummm, how about price sabotaging the dates that the reader goes to

he would never do such a thing…

PT 5 😋

ExHusband!Price x f!reader

*im so shy at writing smut plz b patient ._.

“John, I really can't talk right now.”

“Who is he?”

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. You knew better than to talk about your plans around the children.

“He's just...” You sigh, unable to lie to him even though you wanted to. “His daughter is on Gabriel's soccer team.”

The line is silent.

“…John?

“Have you been seeing each other for a while, then?”

“This is none of your-”

“How long have you been seeing him?” John reworded his question, sounding more stern than casual.

You don’t need to tell him anything. It’s been a month since the two of you kissed outside of your oldest child’s school, and that was an accident.

“It’s our first date.” You mumble your admission.

John grunts, as if he’s finding the news amusing.

You look over yourself in the mirror, suddenly feeling anxious. Shaking hands smooth over your little black dress, you run your fingers through your hair.

God, why does he still have this effect on you?

“Where’s he takin’ you?” John asks casually. “That little Italian place you like?”

You roll your eyes at this, picking your phone back up from where it was laying atop your vanity.

“I’m hanging up now.” You huff. “Tell the kids I love them.”

You didn’t give John a chance to say anything else before ending the call.

•••

The ambiance of the Italian restaurant is warm and inviting, with soft lighting and a gentle murmur of conversation. You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering discomfort from your phone call with John.

Tonight is about moving forward. For leaving your past in the past.

Your date, Matt, smiles at you across the table, his dark eyes twinkling in the low light.

"I'm really glad you agreed to go out with me," he says, his voice warm and genuine.

You return his smile, feeling grateful for his patience and understanding even after the several times you’d turned him down.

You were too busy, Linnie was sick, you had to go in to work…

You were hung up on John.

"Me too," you say softly.

As you delve into conversation, the outside world fades away. The past is in the past.

For the first time in a long while, you weren’t thinking about John.

Just as you start to lose yourself in the moment, a familiar voice interrupts from behind you.

“Mummy!”

Your heart sinks as you see John, that smug grin playing on his lips. On either side of him were your children, wide-eyed and excited, each clutching one of his hands.

"Daddy said we're having a fancy dinner!" your youngest exclaims, bouncing with enthusiasm as they approach your table.

Your stomach churns with disbelief as you try to comprehend what's happening. "John, what are you doing?" you demand, your voice tight with frustration.

He shrugs, his expression unapologetic. "The kids wanted to go out for dinner," he says casually, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

You glance at Matt, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. "I'm so sorry," you murmur, mortified by the scene unfolding before you. “This is my-”

“John Price,” John reaches out to shake hands with your date, “Ex husband. SAS.”

“Uh… Matt.” Your date introduces himself, looking to you in confusion.

“I’m so sorry…” You squeeze your eyes closed, trying not to cry out of pure frustration. “I didn’t know he was going to do this.”

“Where’s our chairs?” Your oldest looks at you, noticing your table only had a seat for you and your date.

“We’ll be right over here, buddy.” John smiles, guiding the kids to the table next to your own.

It had a folded card on top that read “Reserved”.

This wasn’t a spur of the moment stunt.

John knew about your date and planned on crashing it all along.

You glance helplessly at Matt, feeling a pang of guilt for dragging him into this mess.

To your surprise, he reaches out to squeeze your hand, a small smile on his lips.

“Maybe we should go,” he says gently.

You nod, grateful that he’s so… understanding.

The two of you stand, and before you leave you stop by John’s table to give each of the kids a kiss on the cheek and let them know that you’ll see them tomorrow. You don’t even glance at John.

•••

“I had a really good time tonight,” Matt smiles as the two of you stand on your doorstep.

You hardly believe him; after John pulled that stunt at the restaurant, you were sure Matt would completely lose interest in pursuing this any further…

But to your surprise, he tried to make sure you enjoyed the rest of the night. The two of you had an impromptu picnic at the park, got ice cream and he even bought you flowers.

Matt is so… Nice.

“I did, too.” You smile, looking at your date with a small blush on your cheeks.

The two of you stare at each other for a beat before Matt speaks again, shyly this time.

“I’d really like to kiss you, if that’s okay.”

“That won’t be happening, mate.” John announces in the now open doorway, a bowl of cereal in his hand.

“John-!”

“Oh…” Matt blushes, taking a step back. “You two are still living together..?”

“No, we’re not,” You explain desperately. “John, what the fuck are you doing here?!”

John shrugs, taking another bite of his late-night snack. “Kids missed their real beds. I have the emergency key.”

You glare at him. He smiles.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll call you, yeah?” Matt offers as he starts towards his car. “It was nice seeing you.”

“Have a good night, Mike.” John waves with a grin, knowing damn well his name is Matt, not Mike.

“You’re such a fucking asshole.” You grumble, pushing past him into the house.

“What? I was bein’ nice to him.” John plays innocent, pushing the door closed with his foot. “Wasn’t really your type, though.”

“What’re you talking about?” You frown, removing your earrings.

John smirks. “He has brown eyes.”

You look at him like he’s insane… because you fully believe that is.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You like blue eyes, lovey.” John says softly, setting the bowl on the coffee table in the living room. “Mad for ‘em. You’d chase a man out to the parking lot over a pair of blue eyes.”

You don’t say a word.

John takes the bouquet of tulips from Matt from your hands, looking them over. You just watch.

“Doesn’t he know you hate tulips?” He looks back up to you, an eyebrow raised.

“Don’t be an ass.” You mumble, taking them back. “How would he know that? This was our first date.”

“I knew by our first date.” John counters, his arms crossing over his chest. “Knew you wanted a white house with a garden in the back, a big bathroom with a claw tub, an engagement ring with a garnet or a pearl instead of an ‘ugly silver and diamond ring’… and a hundred blue-eyed babies.”

You look down at your tulips, then back up at John.

You hate that he’s right. That he knows you too well. That he always has.

“You still didn’t have to crash my date.” You mumble, sitting down on the sofa, laying the flowers down next to you.

“Couldn’t help it, love. I go after what I want.”

John’s familiar words made you feel something in the pit of your stomach… Something you couldn’t quite name.

You lean back on the sofa, lifting your foot to him.

John crouches down to help you remove your heels, gently setting them aside.

“So, how was he?” John murmurs, his hands creeping up under your dress and starting to slowly pull your panties down your thighs.

You lift your hips, making it easier for him. “He was nice…”

“Hm.” John shakes his head with a tut. “You’ve never liked the nice ones.”

You watch as your panties are now being pulled down around your ankles, John’s head near your knees. He looks up for a moment, waiting for your signal.

You run your fingers through his hair gently before pushing his head towards your sex.

John wasted no time pushing your dress up your thighs and pulling you closer to devour you like he was starving.

Something about John on his knees in front of you, your legs over his shoulders...

“You’re such an asshole,” You groan.

John pulls back, lifting his head from your wet, needy pussy. He’s teasing you out of revenge, you’re sure of it.

Your back arches, trying to get his mouth back where you want it, but John leans back a bit more.

“John,” You whine, desperately trying to push his head back down.

“What is it, lovey? Hm?” John asks softly, pushing his fingers into your entrance, slowly dragging them in and out as he looks up at you. “Tell me wha’ you want.”

“I want-” You bite back a moan. “I want you.”

“You have me, sweetheart. Always have.” John’s husky words sounded like poetry.

You nod, because he’s right.

It doesn’t take long for John to make you come; he still knows your body better than anyone ever will.

He presses a few gently kisses to the inside of your thigh before pulling back. He rubs your legs as you come down from your climax.

“Forgive me, lovey?” He asks smugly.

You nod, a small smile on your lips to go with your flushed cheeks and heavy eyelids.

“Good. Now c’mere, you never got that goodnight kiss.”

<< prev next >>

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steddieas-shegoes · 2 days

Note

Congrats on 3K followers, which you so deserve! My request is because The Hold Steady's song "Stuck Between Stations" is stuck in my head and the lyric is, shockingly, "Tonight it's like he's stuck between stations". Have a wonderful writing weekend!

Thank you so much! I decided to take this super literally and do something a little silly. Hope you enjoy!

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

The train was late, but what else is new?

Eddie watched the board as the estimated arrival time kept going up. He’d have to text Elliot to let him know he’d be late for their appointment.

At least Elliot was a regular client of his and would understand.

Eventually, only 18 minutes late, the train arrived.

Eddie shoved through the crowd to get on, not even caring if he had to stand sandwiched between sweaty people as long as he got to his shop.

By some miracle, he managed to get the only empty seat left at the back of the car.

And it was next to possibly the hottest guy he’d ever seen.

He was wearing tight jeans and a polo, glasses, a nose ring, and his hair was perfectly mussed. Eddie was such a sucker for the preppy hipster look. It never turned out well for him, but dammit if he didn’t try anyway.

“Mind if I sit?” Eddie asked the guy.

“Nope,” he replied, not even looking up from his phone.

He was furiously typing something, and Eddie was doing his best to not read anything.

But it sure was difficult and Eddie had pretty good eyesight and also never learned manners.

It’s not even that she left me for someone else. She tried to say that my coming out as bi ruined our relationship. Our relationship was ruined way before that! And she knew saying that would make me feel like shit so-

“Am I entertaining you?” The guy said from next to him.

Eddie startled and looked up, right into the warmest brown eyes he’d ever looked into.

“Sorry. It kinda seemed like you were working on a novel. I’m an avid reader.”

The man snorted and put his phone face down on his leg. “I’m Steve. You should at least know my name if you’re gonna know my business.”

“Eddie. I am sorry. Even more sorry your ex was clearly a piece of shit,” Eddie nudged his shoulder with his own.

The train started moving and Eddie glanced up at crowd of people in the car.

“Yeah, well. It was bound to happen. I wanted to settle down, she wanted to travel and focus on her career. Would’ve never worked,” Steve sighed. “Onto the next!”

Eddie snorted. “How long were you together?”

“Three years.”

“Ouch.”

“It was coming for a while,” Steve shrugged. “I feel like I mourned the relationship while I was still in it. Plus, she moved in with her new boyfriend, so it’s only a matter of time before I move in with mine.”

Eddie felt a weird pain in his chest. “Oh, you’ve got a boyfriend?”

Steve smirked at him. “Not yet.”

The train slowed and then came to a stop. The usual announcement for the next station didn’t start. Instead, an announcement let them know they were experiencing a short delay.

Eddie groaned and let his head hit the window next to him.

“I’m sure my shoulder is more comfortable than the window.”

Eddie’s head shot up at Steve’s suggestion.

Steve was blushing, looking down at his phone like he hadn’t even spoken. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe Eddie imagined it.

“If you want. The last short delay took 25 minutes,” Steve continued, finally looking over at Eddie with a small smile.

“I have to let my client know I’m gonna be even later,” Eddie pulled his phone from his pocket to send another text. It may not go through underground, but at least he could say he tried.

“Client? Are you a therapist?”

“Close. Tattoo artist,” Eddie finished up the text and put his phone back in his pocket.

“Oh, my friend Will is a tattoo artist! He keeps telling me to get something, but I’m not the biggest fan of needles.” Steve looked apologetic. “I’m worried I’d pass out.”

Eddie was already planning exactly what he’d tattoo on Steve’s body.

“You’d be surprised how many people I tattoo who don’t like needles. Is it a pain thing or just the needles in general?”

“Both? I guess?” Steve was slowly leaning closer to Eddie’s side.

“Well, the pain is easy. I have a numbing cream I recommend to first timers or people getting something done in an especially sensitive spot that works great.” Eddie let his arm rest across the back of the seat, skin brushing against Steve’s back. “The other part is a little harder, but usually I go the old school distractions method.”

“Like a toddler with a shot?” Steve laughed.

“Exactly! I play music they like or put on a show they wanna watch. Sometimes we just talk the whole time. Sometimes they prefer to just close their eyes and pretend they’re somewhere else. Everyone’s different.”

Eddie watched Steve soak in that information. He technically didn’t take walk-ins anymore except for special events, but he’d be willing to have Steve in his chair right after Elliot’s appointment. He’d stay late. He’d do it for free if it meant having his hands on Steve’s skin.

“Have you ever had someone leave before it’s done?”

“Twice,” Eddie nodded. “Once was a drunk guy who insisted he was sober enough to do the tattoo and halfway through, he threw up and then just walked out. Don’t know if he ever bothered to get it done. The other was a woman who had chosen her ribs as her first tattoo ever. Don’t ever do that, by the way. Not a great start. She quit on the second word of the lyrics she was getting.”

Steve snorted. “What were the lyrics?”

“I hate to say it, but I don’t remember. I’m sure she regrets even trying all the time.”

Steve laughed again and leaned his head on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie let his arm wrap around Steve’s shoulder and squeeze.

“So? You gonna get one? Did I convince you?” Eddie said quietly. He didn’t want to ruin this moment between them, stuck between stations for the foreseeable future.

“Hm. I’ll consider it. Do you have room on your books for me?” Steve turned his face into Eddie’s shirt.

“I’m sure I can make room for you, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart already? What a sweet talker you are,” Steve mumbled against his shoulder.

“I read people pretty well and you are a sweetheart. No doubt about it.”

Steve groaned. “Are you always like this?”

“Not at all.”

Something in Eddie’s voice must have sounded genuine. Steve looked up at him, his face close enough to Eddie’s to feel his breath.

“This is kind of crazy.”

“What is?”

“This. I feel safe here with you. I’m ready to let you give me a tattoo even though I hate needles.”

Eddie’s fingers traced patterns along his upper arm, mindlessly planning out a tattoo already.

“Could give you one right here,” Eddie tapped his bicep. “Something small, dainty linework, a sunflower maybe.”

“A sunflower? Isn’t that kinda feminine?” Steve’s fingers were tracing a pattern on Eddie’s thigh. “Not that I’m against it because of that, it just doesn’t seem to fit me.”

And maybe yeah, if Eddie thought about it, he could see how Steve’s body type was thicker, muscular, closer to jock than city hipster living off of coffee and cigarettes. Flowers might not be the first thing someone would think of when looking at Steve.

But when talking to him, when seeing how soft he got with an arm around him, how he turned into the affection, it was pretty obvious he should be covered in delicate work.

He deserves delicate things, Eddie could already tell.

He wanted to give him that.

He wanted to give him anything.

“Someone as radiant as you needs something that represents that. Anytime you’re ready,” Eddie couldn’t help the kiss he pressed to the top of Steve’s head.

The short delay turned into a long delay, but Steve and Eddie talked the entire time. When they finally got moving, Steve stayed on even though the next station was his stop.

“Think I’d like this tattoo artist to take my tattoo virginity,” Steve smirked at him as the train started moving again.

“As long as you’re okay sitting through my appointment first. Might get boring.”

“Doubt being near you could ever be boring.”

Getting stuck on the train with Steve turned into barely leaving his side for weeks, months, years.

Nothing felt as natural as being with his sunflower.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #asks #drabbles #follower celebration #meet cute

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 days

Text

1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Is it a story worth telling? I think so. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.

Today I’m sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping back—they’re doing something to his shoulders, they’re destroying him—but he likes to listen. He’s getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemond’s retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and he’ll snap bones to keep it.

So anyway, Io was a king’s daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the god’s wrath. That’s easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someone’s life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that I’ve forgotten. I don’t think John McCain will know the difference.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I don’t seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. You’re right, I’m not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheus—chained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fire—and he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.

I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. They’re fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemond’s wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. She’s sharp, she’s hilarious. She’s mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.

At first I wondered why Aemond hasn’t gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.

I feel kind of bad for her. Aemond’s wife, I mean.

I don’t think she knows about Alys.

~~~~~~~~~~

On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.

Ari’s vault—an unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone else’s—is located just above yours. You can’t stop staring at it. You can’t hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimi’s other children are somber but seem to be coping well enough—they are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies died—but Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegon’s, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.

Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Criston—a man with no plaque assigned to him—is trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he can’t. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so that’s what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.

When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. It’s a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.

You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.

“He is okay?” Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.

“He’s alright. He’s resting. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Fosco sighs mournfully. “I keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, that’s why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldn’t, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasn’t who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.”

This family breaks people. This family kills people. “We’ll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. I’ll help you, and we can teach the kids.”

Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. “I am very glad you are still here.”

“I’m not trying to race you to that mausoleum.”

Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: “Um…I will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.”

“You don’t have to leave, Fosco.”

“It is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.” Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.

Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmo—now fast asleep, his face smooth and peaceful—before he speaks. “I can’t grasp that she’s really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.”

“Your children need you.” It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it’s the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. “They have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.”

“I’ll have time to work on it. I’m staying here. I’ve already been informed.”

You are alarmed. “What? By who?”

“Aemond and Otto.” Aegon says. “When the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.”

“They’re getting you off the campaign trail,” you realize.

“They’re putting me on house arrest.”

Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? “I’m sure you’re relived. You hate the grandstanding and the media.”

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that they need to look out for you.”

“Aegon, I’ve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.”

“But it’s different now.”

He’s right, it is.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” he asks. “You’ll let me know how the trip is going, you’ll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but I’d risk it.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

“Hey.” Gently, he turns your face so you can’t hide from him. “Will you be okay without me?”

I have to be. I don’t have a choice. Instead you reply: “I’ll miss the weed.”

The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. “Behave yourself.” He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.

“What, what?” Ludwika says. “Are we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain won’t resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.”

“I can’t be there for the last leg of the campaign.” Aegon points to you. “I need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.”

“This is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.”

Aegon furrows his brow at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. “You are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.” She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.

~~~~~~~~~~

In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavez—being treated for debilitating back pain at O’Connor Hospital—and expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam War—in money, in time, in blood—and pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond can’t be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.

“What if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?” Criston demands. “What if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?”

“No one can kill me,” Aemond says, grinning wryly. “I’m not supposed to die yet. I’m supposed to be the president. It is God’s will.” And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?

The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though he’ll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.

George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegon’s second son.

Nixon promises “peace with honor” in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about “states’ rights” and “law and order,” ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallace’s white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You can’t think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.

A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: “People are voting for Aemond, but they’re voting for you too.”

And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I don’t help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first lady…according to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You aren’t sure where Aemond is, and you don’t especially care. You are relieved to be alone.

There’s a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. It’s 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.

Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: “Geiá sou? Ti?”

“Hi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?”

“Where else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.”

“Please be nice to him. His wife just died.”

“And so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?” Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. “Antio sas,” she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.

Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. “Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!” You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. “What’s up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?”

“I just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?”

He’s smiling; you can tell. “They’re alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.”

“Well he’s in middle school and thus beyond your skill.”

“How’s Jupiter?”

You know who he means. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

“Okay.” Aegon says, curious. “So what should we talk about?”

A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. “Where are you right now?”

“In my lair. Like a beast.”

“Alone?”

A transitory pause. “At the moment.”

“On the shag carpet or your futon?”

Now he’s very intrigued. “Futon. Why?”

“I just want a visual.” Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.

“Where are you?” Aegon asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe I want a visual too.”

You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. “I’m in a gigantic pink bathtub. It’s ridiculous, it’s shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.”

“Oh.” And then he hesitates, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. “Big enough for two?”

“More like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.”

“My basement’s been pretty empty recently.”

Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: “You aren’t seeing other girls?”

“Nah, babe. I want something they can’t give me.”

You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“In Seattle?”

“No. Right here.”

Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. “How’s the water?”

“Extremely hot and full of bubbles.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“No,” you say, baiting him.

“But I could touch you.”

“You already have.”

“Not enough,” he murmurs. “Nowhere close to enough.”

“Do you remember what I felt like?”

“Oh God,” he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. “Yeah. Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my head. But I’ve been trying not to…you know…it felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.”

“No, I want you to think about me.”

You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. “Where’s your other hand, huh?”

“Under the water,” you reply coyly.

“You bitch,” he says, laughing. “I miss you so fucking much. The house isn’t right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.”

Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water can’t wash away. It’s a familiar sensation, though you haven’t felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. “Tell me about you,” you pant.

He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He can’t believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. “I mean, I’m…I’m insanely hard.”

“Stroke yourself, imagine it’s me. I wish it could be me.”

“Oh fuck,” Aegon whimpers. “Okay, okay…I want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and then…”

Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you can’t fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. What’s happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You can’t get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.

“I need to see you,” Aegon says. He’s close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; he’s gasping. “I need to be with you, let me give you what you want.”

“I want you to finish inside me.”

“Io…babe…oh my God, you’re gonna kill me…”

There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. You’re so consumed you almost don’t notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. “Gotta go, bye.”

“Wait—!”

You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks in—immaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpet—and turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where he’s been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

If Aemond doubts this, he doesn’t show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. He’s always been less a man than a force of nature. “I know this year has been hell.”

You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. “You haven’t made it easier.”

There’s a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. “We can’t forget everything we’ve accomplished together,” Aemond says. “I still need you. You’re my Aphrodite.”

He’s going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. “Any luck with Nixon?”

Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. “He still won’t agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, he’s rabid for it, he’d show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.”

“Because he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. They’ll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.”

“So how do I get him to do it?”

You look up at Aemond. It’s not a hypothetical question; he’s really asking for advice.

“I have to debate Nixon,” Aemond insists. “It’s close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. I’ll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. That’s just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixon’s resting on his political experience and accusations that I’m a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.”

You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. “Challenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.”

“What if Nixon still refuses?”

“Then you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how he’s supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he can’t even face you.”

Aemond grins admiringly. “You’re vicious.” And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.

“If there’s a debate, everyone should go,” you say, seized by sudden inspiration. “We should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that they’re doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.”

Aemond isn’t grinning anymore. He’s studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, he’s trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. “Otto and I will decide what to do with him.”

“He’s a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.”

Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you don’t want to leave it. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are.”

There’s nothing else to say. Legally, a wife’s flesh is one with her husband’s. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like he’s helping you; like you’re something he owns.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two knocks, swift and forceful. “Hey, it’s me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.”

You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. They’re an inch higher than what you’re used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. It’s mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemond’s retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. It’s harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegon’s flight must have just landed.

As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: “Can you help me zip this, please?”

He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. “Sorry, what?”

“The zipper’s stuck. I need you to get it.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasn’t tight a week ago, but now it is, and you aren’t pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldn’t bother you if Aemond didn’t seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: “I don’t think it’s gonna fit, babe.”

“It has to fit.”

“Even if I miraculously get this closed, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just…just…” You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. “Yes!” Oh, but Aegon was right: you really can’t breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna last the whole debate in that. You’ll be sweating more than Nixon.”

“I’m fine.”

“Io…”

“I’m fine. Come on.” You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.

At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen children—Aegon’s five and Helaena’s three—are presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegon’s kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what they’re learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leaves—a powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legs—and he says he hopes you’re coming home to Asteria soon.

“Me too, kiddo,” Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.

As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallace’s dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.

“I tried to call,” he says. He’s a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, and—you have the impression—more aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. “But no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.”

You aren’t sure what he means. “Oh?”

“I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,” Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. “Pat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the country…I can’t even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.”

“It does,” you say softly.

“I lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. You’re a remarkable woman. You’re lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? You’re like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than Ethel…although, to be frank, who wouldn’t be? And you’re not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Ted’s wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? He’d lose, that’s what he’d do.”

Nixon’s smart, but he’s wounded. He’s capable, but he’s so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. “You’re very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this country…” You smirk, a bit mischievously. “Just not as the president.”

Nixon chortles. “No matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,” he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. “You know that bastard tried to primary me?”

“Actors don’t belong in politics.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.

As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you can’t breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who won’t stop making jabs about Nixon: “He looks like a troll,” “He looks like a sasquatch,” “Do you think Pat makes him wear a Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?” The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.

“You alright?” Aegon whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’m great.”

“Sure,” he says, and he acts like he’s teasing, but there’s something tremendously sad underneath. He can’t save you from this. He can’t save you from anything. What must that feel like?

On the debate stage—broadcast to a national audience—Aemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemond’s entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now you’re gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.

“I told you,” Aegon says. And then: “Come on. We’ll take the first limo back.”

In the front room of your hotel suite—one yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilight—Aegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. “Ow,” you whine. “Oh fuck, this was so stupid…”

“Don’t let him make you wear shit you don’t want to wear.”

“I have to do what he says, Aegon.”

“He doesn’t own you.”

“Legally, he does.”

He’s tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. “Are you planning on using this again?”

“I believe that would be wistful thinking.”

“You probably look better out of it anyway.” He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At all.”

“Got it.”

You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything you’ve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.

The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.

“We can’t,” you whisper, hating yourself for it.

Aegon kisses the nape of your neck—so slow, so kind—and then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another world’s gravity.

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

And only then does Aegon vanish.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon x you #aegon x y/n

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munsonsmixtapes · 17 hours

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lmao i’m a lil embarrassed for asking but i can’t help it now that i saw you said to send in a request. can we have more virgin!eddie x experienced!reader? maybe she’s teaching him how to eat her out properly and she’s surprised by how into he is and how eager he is to please? with some cute puppy eddie fluff pleeeease 😇 lol doesn’t have to be this at all tbh, just anything with that pairing fr 😅

No need to be embarrassed, lovely! I absolutely love this request and pairing! I was actually thinking about writing more about them, if people are interested!

virgin!Eddie x experienced!reader

cw: oral (f receiving)

This is a continuation of this post!

After your first time with Eddie, you had made it a very regular thing. It didn’t matter whose place you ended up at, but you’d always end up in bed together. You’d be tangled up in the sheets either until the early morning or until you couldn’t walk, whichever came first.

And there was never any foreplay or much kissing involved either. You’d just get straight into the act, desperate to have Eddie’s dick inside you every single time. And you were addicted to the feeling, loving how confident he was becoming after you had been sleeping together for a while.

He was now shameless about the noises he made and it almost seemed like he was making them supper loud because he knew just how wet it always made you. He was getting really good, almost better than you which you didn’t think was possible.

There was something about being with him that felt so different from being with anyone else. He actually seemed to want to enjoy his time with you as opposed to the others who were just looking to take whatever it was that they wanted from you. Eddie was actually concerned about making you feel good and wanted to be sure that you were enjoying it just as much as him.

You and Eddie were in your bed for the third time that week and but found yourselves only making out. No clothes had been removed and the two of you seemed pretty content with just kissing while sensual music played in the background.

His lips moved with yours and your mind started to wonder what his mouth would feel like on your cunt. You knew he hadn’t eaten anyone out, but maybe you could have taught him. Maybe if he told him exactly what to do, he’d be able to do it, making you feel so much pleasure.

You pulled away from him and looked at his face. His pupils were blown and his lips were pink and swollen from all the kisses you had shared. He was so adorable that it hurt with his big brown eyes that were always filled with so much love and his hair that was always messy even after he had just brushed it.

“I did something wrong, didn’t I?” He was always asking that and it made you feel bad that that was always a thought in the back of his head. Even if he did do something “wrong” you would tell him nicely and help him correct it.

“No, no,” you shook your head and moved your hand up to wrap one of his curls around your finger, twirling it around the digit. “I was just wondering if maybe you wanted to…eat me out?”

Eddie nodded his head vigorously and his eyes went wide. He was definitely more up for it than you had anticipated and that made you feel better about the whole thing.

“I can definitely do that,” he nodded again. “But…I don’t know how.”

“I could coach you through it,” you told him, a small smile kicked up at the corner of his mouth.

“You’d do that?” Of course you would have.

“Mhm,” you replied. “Do you want to?” He wanted nothing more and was getting so hard thinking about having his head between your thighs.

“So bad, baby,” his hands squeezed your hips. “You have no idea.”

You both sat up and Eddie got off of you, unsure where to place himself and you took him by the hands, wanting to have a discussion before anything started. You wanted to make sure that he knew that he could back out at any point and that he didn’t have to do it just to please you if he wasn’t enjoying it.

He nodded along as you spoke, taking in every single word as if they were very important to him. All of the talks you had had about consent were just as important to him to listen as they were to you to speak them.

“Alright, um, you’re going to want to get on your knees at the foot of the bed.” He listened and quickly got off the bed and lowered himself to his knees on the rug underneath him. You followed and placed yourself in front of him and took him by the hands.

You guided them up to the band of your panties and he slowly pulled them down your legs before setting them on the floor. He then slowly rested his hands on your knees and spread your legs, maintaining eye contact with you the entire time to make sure that it was okay. His eyes then drifted to your sopping wet pussy and you could see his cheeks blush.

“You’re soaked,” he let out a chuckle.

“Mhm,” you bit your bottom lip. “And it’s all for you, baby.” His cheeks flushed even more and you thought it was funny that you could make him do that just form a little comment. “Whenever you’re ready, drape a leg over each shoulder.

He did the action so quickly so you could tell that he was eager to get to it. He had definitely wanted it just as much as you did and that made you even more wet.

“Now when you get your face into it, use your tongue and lick back and forth to start.” He buried his face into your pussy and you let out a gasp as his nose brushed the sensitive skin.

He licked back and forth and you clutched the blanket underneath you as pleasure rolled through you. He kept going and you told him to suck on the spot which he did, eliciting a moan from you. He licked and sucked and you gripped the blanket even harder as your back arched in euphoria.

“You taste so good,” he told you before diving back in and you felt his teeth graze the sensitive spot, wondering where the hell he had learned that, but before you could ask, another moan fell from your lips.

“Sh-shit, Eddie.”

“You like that?” He laughed, loving that he was able to make you come undone for a change.

“Fuck, do that again.” He was quick to oblige and shoved his face back into your cunt, grazing it with his teeth once more and you reached your climax, letting out what Eddie thought was the loudest moan he had ever heard and was eager to hear it again.

“Could eat you all night, darling. Swear to god. Taste so fucking good.” He then replaced his teeth with his tongue, shoving as much of the muscle as he could inside of you and your back arched again as your knees pressed against his head.

Your moans has been muffled by your knees, but he could still hear them clearly as he continued to lick, suck, and graze it with his teeth. You had been eaten out more time than you could count, but this one was definitely the best out of them all. First off, he seemed so eager to please you, wanting to make you feel good. And he also loved the way you tasted, making sure to let you know while others didn’t seem to care enough to.

That was the difference. Eddie cared. He cared so much and always felt the need to tell you how much he was enjoying himself while making sure that you felt the same. It was all so important to him and that made you feel special even though you knew he would have done the same for anyone else.

Eddie removed his face from your cunt and you sat up, your breathing still labored as you looked down at him. You noticed slick dripping from his chin and just as you were about to let him know, he made direct eye contact with you and ran his tongue along his chin, getting every last drop before pulling his tongue back into his mouth.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you told him and pushed him to the ground before pressing your lips to his in a bruising kiss before licking into his mouth. “And by the way, you can eat me out anytime you want.”

“Oh, I intend to,” he grinned and you pulled him into another kiss, neither of you bothering to get back into the bed as you removed your clothes for the first fuck of the night, knowing that Eddie could please you just as much as you pleased him.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem!reader #virgin!eddie munson #experienced!reader #virgin!eddie munson x experienced!reader

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fckbatmanhissonsrminenow · 2 days

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i love the idea of damien being the most protective batkid.

like you’d think it was dick but nope it’s damien who was mostly raised by dick and has learnt to show his love and affection by worrying about and protecting his family in his own way. if u mess with any of his siblings be prepared to know why they call him demon brat.

when an old guy starts coughing up a lung at a gala while standing in front of an immunocompromised tim, damien immediately starts lecturing the guy about wearing a mask while simultaneously yoinking antibiotics out of tim’s pockets and handing him a glass of water.

one time a villain makes dick cry (maybe it’s scarecrow) and yes while damian knows dick cries often when he’s happy or proud or sad or sometimes when he’s angry but he has never cried in fear before. and damien is pissed because how dare you make his big brother cry? he beats the shit out of the villain.

(i’m doing two for dick because while i love the above one i realised the rest of them are civilian ones so i decided to add this one)

someone making weird comments about dicks body, stuff like, “what i would give to have him for a night”. damien is borderline murderous. “you know he has a name and Richard is not an object for you to use for your pleasure, he’s a person.”

someone says something ignorant about the people living in and around crime alley and before jason can even open his mouth damien is already going into how you should assume peoples living situations and how not everyone has the privilege the rich gothemites have.

someone says something weird and misogynistic about Steph? you already know damien is there defending all women and even bringing in points about why steph especially is incredible.

and you know if anyone said anything about any of his POC siblings ( dick, cass, duke) or himself he’s already on his “wait until i tell father that you have such racist ideals” and recording prepared to ruin this guys life.

someone is fetishising or infantilising cass? he comes out of nowhere with “she can speak for herself.” or “she’s not a work of art for you to stare and make comments about she’s a human being.”

someone making comments about how duke doesn’t below among high society because he wasn’t born into it. damien is there defending him and saying how he has better manners than they do.

this is very ooc but the idea of damien using his vocabulary to just absolutely eat people up is so pleasant to me.

also u can tell i don’t know much about the less “mainstream” batfam members but im doing my research and writing what i find down in my hyperfixation book.

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midnightorchids · 1 day

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Hey babe- I wanted to know how you felt about booknerd!reader x Jason. Because it's been rotting my brain forever now and I need to know what someone as genius as yourself thinks about it. So like- We know Jason is a book girl. He's got huge floor to ceiling shelves in his apartment filled with non-fiction, historical fiction, classics, and maybe a few Si-Fi titles. I feel like he would love Toni Morison, Maya Angelou, Henrik Isben, Margret Atwood, and maybe even Harukai Murakami. He has this beautiful collection of leather bond additions of the Iliad Bruce gave him when he was 16. And when he finally invites you over, he cannot contain his excited smile as you start gushing over his home library. He makes you guys coffee and you spend hours talking about your fav genres, authors, online author drama - and after he's walking back to his apartment after dropping you off, he's smiling down at his phone at the message you sent. 'I had so much fun today! Ur library is so so so cool, was wondering if you would be ok going with me to Chapters next week? Wanted to pick up the new Skyward book' He's kicking his feet and hiding his face in his pillow. So deeply overjoyed that his crush shares in his immense love of literature. After you guys officially get together, he buys you so many fucking books. He fallows your goodreads wishlist religiously and surprises you almost every month with a new addition to your growing collection. He usually collects used paper backs, but for you, he splurges on the hardcover special additions. Of course it's because he loves you but it's also so that, maybe, you'll be more incentivised to move into a different apartment. One with floor-to-ceiling book shelves and a shared bed... just saying.. He branches out into more genres and authors he wouldn't usually read from just so he could talk about your favourite books with you. You do the same - your book collections getting mixed together in the process. Library dates, bookstore dates, used-bookstore dates. Your first couple of dates and realisations of love happened in and around books. You would always leave little messages inside the first page of the books you give him. So that if your every away or he's on a mission and he takes a book with him, he'll have one of your small messages of love as a reminder of something to return home to.

Hi hon!! I’m so sorry for the late response, I’ve been dying with uni and just life in general recently, but I’m back and ready to write again!!

I fully agree with almost everything that you said, like you’ve written it out so well and it’s just so cute! I was literally giggling and kicking my feet at the last one omg.

I shall try to add more stuff!!

Jason’s go to present for his loved ones is annotated copies of his favourite books. He only does this when he feels comfortable with a person because sharing his thoughts feels raw and vulnerable sometimes.

Having a significant other who loves to read and appreciates these types of gifts would make him feel happy and very emotional. It’s not often he gets to share this side of himself with people.

When he gifts his copies to his friends or his partner, he feels like he’s leaving a piece of him with the person, so he only does this when he trusts you.

He leaves detailed little messages on the margins of his books. He draws little smiley faces on the cute parts and angry faces on the parts that made him upset.

In the books for his significant other, Jason leaves little notes around the quotes that remind him of you. He highlights them in a different colour and makes sure his notes look extra tidy.

He sucks at wrapping things, so sometimes you’ll get a very poorly wrapped, tape covered novel. You’ll look at the wrapping and laugh, you’d pinch his cheeks teasingly and tell him he did a good job. He’d turn his face away in embarrassment, which leads to you placing a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Then, there would be times where he doesn’t have the energy to deal with the horrible wrapping paper. So, you’ll be gifted a plain paper back with a sticky note on the front cover that reads ‘for you,’ in squiggly lines.

It’s honestly sweet and he gets very shy about it.

Also, Jason’s taste in books is very diverse, he reads anything from the classics to romance to gothic horror. He reads anything and everything and because of that, I think that it would be very easy for you to share your thoughts and recommendations with him.

Even if Jason hasn’t read the book, he listens intently with a huge smile on his face. He loves listening to you talk. If he doesn’t know the author or the book, he will try to familiarize himself with what you’re reading and branch into different genres.

There would be lots of reading and bookstore dates. You’d browse through the different aisles with his hand in yours, only letting go when a particular book catches your attention. He watches you in awe as you gush about the different series.

(Side note, my friends and I always go to bookstores and just point out the worst books we’ve read and I think Jason would do that too.)

As you search through the shelves to find your next read, he’ll come to you all excited, rambling about the book in his hand. From the looks of it, it seems like he loves the book. His hands are moving around, he’s smiling and giggling, but if you pay attention, he’s actually just cussing out the author.

This becomes a tradition in your relationship. You both bring up books that you hate instead of the ones that you really enjoy. You’d spend the next hour of your bookstore visit just giggling at the random passages that the author thought were good enough to share with the world.

I think this would also lead to a book club of reading awful books sometimes just for shits and giggles. There would be weeks where you would read amazing, well written stories together, but then there would be times when you guys would pick up something bad just to make fun of it.

Overall, Jason would love having a book nerd significant other because he finally has someone who he can geek out with.

#gn!reader #jason todd #red hood #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #jason todd headcanon #red hood headcanon #batfam

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akunoniwa · 2 days

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Knife Prty

AN: gang. I've not published anything in like. Three months. For me, this ""piece"" is more of a way to break the ice of my mind that's since frozen over. Overall, I am very reluctant to write, let alone publish, Astarion for various reasons, but I was listening to Deftones one day and was feeling devious.

Synopsis: In which you hold the memory of your first encounter with him very near and dear... He uses it to his tactical advantage...

Pairing: Astarion x fem!reader/tav

Warnings: MDNI, knife play, most definitely would not recommend fucking or getting fucked with a knife handle, sorry it sounded hot,

WC: ~2.3k

A knife balanced against your neck, a familiar blade, increasingly warm with your heat. It was a grave distraction as it teetered threateningly along the grain of your skin, but you’d made a purposeful mistake of telling Astarion how nice it felt to be not just beneath him, but his dagger. It was objectively dangerous, the feeling wasn’t conveniently replicated, thus it felt… real this way, vital. His hand had an instinctual way of slotting itself between your thighs, the heart of his palm blanketing your blooming clit. Two fingers coaxing slick sweetness and moans from your body that twined around him.

“Is this…” Your hand searched behind you to grab at his right upper thigh, pulling him into your backside, “...What you needed, my love?” His words, shrouded in his misty tone, implored you in tandem with his hand.

He was in too many lovely places at once, your muscles slacking in unison as you both stood bare in the middle of the large bath in the vacant House of Hope. Fresh killers you were, in need of a cleanse in every sense, but something about finally taking out Raphael and his accessories had you both at peculiar odds. Astarion was made to witness your vulnerabilities to Haarlep, and despite knowing you well at this point, he found he was unable to accept that you were actually susceptible to its charm. Even if that weren’t the case, he wasn’t about to say he was basking happily in the image of you being ridden by an incubus who ought to just be Raphael himself. The more he was made to think about it after the fact– fighting beasts to save Hope, slashing down Raphael himself… His mind deviated drunkenly back to your body… You. With someone… Something else.

He decided he’d have you in that very spot, right in the Hells where his heat in this moment would make even the waters here boil over.

You two haven't really spoken about what happened in the graveyard, perhaps enough had already been said and done. It’d been weeks since, and no matter how paramount it was to you both, in different respects, Cazador had virtually nothing to do with the looming Elder Brain.

But Astarion’s declaration of his new ‘life’, or an amendment of his living death, still prevailed. This revitalization of sorts stood prominently, following him decisively like a shadow he didn’t have. Constant proof of him as him.

The sharpened metal at your throat was an afterthought to you at the time, but a thought nonetheless– one Astarion had hung onto dearly. Ever since you’d told him in a passing moment that you found your first encounter with him haunting your more unsavory moments, he couldn’t rid himself of the reminders.

“Gods, yes…” You shamelessly ground your hips into his beckoning hand, requiring his attention like nothing else. He was, needless to say, extremely turned on by you in any case, but here… Like this, adorned with his blade that had just slain that imbecilic devil, in addition to his enslaver just weeks prior. He could hardly allow his mind to wander trying to understand, but here his knife somehow signified something of untouchable worth. Trust… A morbid reenactment, sure, but how he adored you so, obsessed with how he was able to thrill you in such an asinine way.

You could feel him straining against you, that familiar sensation of his needing you… Though, he enthusiastically opted to see how long he could play with you, guiding your orgasm through the thickets of his teasing maze.

“Sick little love… I can feel you pulsing against my fingers, so fucking hot and wet.” His remark was serpentine and crude, hips rutting his cock ever so slightly between the swells of your perched ass, “How many times have you thought about this…?” He needed to sift through your tainted mind, needed to hear of your hunger, starvation, for him, as much as he tries to pretend he doesn’t love the assurance. Does your mind, too, think of him like he does of you? Remind me… He’d think– You must keep reminding him of how he tears your sanity to such decadent shreds.

His pace slowed only to allow for precision, his middle and ring finger hooked inside you knowingly as he worked at your left shoulder with his tongue.

“Fuck…” Your small, overwhelmed squeak indicated he was doing exactly as he should, rubbing the velvety spot just past the threshold of your cunt that made you shudder in his embrace, “I don’t even know…” He felt your head fall back on his right shoulder in blissful dejection, “It was more than a few.”

“My routine of devouring you isn’t enough, hm?” His fine-pointed fangs indented your skin on cue, not yet drawing blood.

You let out a breathy laugh, “Admittedly… I was nervous about the pain at first, but… You always manage to make such reckless things feel so good…”

“You drive me insane, darling. Utterly insane. Especially when you say deranged things like that…” Still hooked, his fingers sped up with dedicated intent to make you cum, skin sticky with sweat as you were sealed against his front, “A knife to your sweet neck is all it takes to make you drip down my hand?” You made him feel murderous, vulturine… Alive? Your adorable reactions picked at all the right places within him like crows.

You hummed a dizzied whine in time with his firm pace, a rush of everything creating a cyclone deep within your core, “But, you’re holding it…”

“That I am, dear. Watching you fucking lose yourself like this is truly a sight to behold.” The knife pressed its taunts as he fucked into you while you tried to keep steady.

“Don’t stop…” You couldn’t and didn’t want to fixate on anything else but the pleasure he was giving you, “Please…” Your free hand subconsciously rushed to blanket the one that worked at your beckoning hole, making him gleam beneath your needy touch. His precum began to gradually garnish your backside– Why in the Hells would he stop now?

He need not hide his satisfaction, never with you, a grin causing his words to fray upward with lust, “Pretty, pretty thing… Cum for me.” He sprinkled your shoulder with nipping kisses once more, “ Give it all to me…” He crooned right into your center, his tone broad and smoky.

Hardly needing much past a syllable, your violent shakes when you cum were one of his favorite things to witness, let alone cause. His hand was caught in a vice grip between the tide of your plush thighs as he continued to press into that perfect spot as you came, your moans resonating through his cock. He loved the way your nails dug into the back of his thigh to bring him impossibly close, the other hand around his wrist… Holding onto him for all that you were worth in this moment.

“So divine…” He dragged the knife torturously down your chest, its fine point flicking just barely at your nipples, circling them, “I know how much you like when I tease here…”

You wanted to cry out, every nerve ablaze after your orgasm as you warmed his coated fingers. Instead, you gnawed on another dulled groan in your mouth as the metal tip tickled your areola.

“Let me hear you, darling… There’s no one around.” His voice enveloped your mind like a lecherous fog, words enunciated as they cut into you, “I’d almost say that’s a shame, as I can’t decide if I’d want everyone in all the Hells and beyond to hear your little noises, or have you all to myself.”

“Astarion…” He was breaking you, collecting your pieces, and puzzling your lust-drunk self back together as he pleased.

It seems everyone at camp has been reaching the apex of their struggles at once, especially since reaching Baldur’s Gate– seeing an unwanted face or two is inevitable. It’s been a smothered blur, and to put it more plainly, you and Astarion have not really been afforded time together. It was absurd, fighting almost toe to steel toe beside him, but this was the case day in, day out, everything else had to wait. You’d begun to miss him… You’d tried to brush it off, perhaps it was just you and some arrangement of irrational justifications. His biting quips seemed more distant, even when he held you after a long outing, he felt… Far. And the only reason for this was the non-squirmy affliction you both shared for each other. Of course, he missed you dreadfully. Hence his body currently being superimposed onto yours, an eclipse of raw, splitting desire.

“Give me more… Say it again.” He urged feverishly as your hips still twitched here and there, your movements waking through him.

“Astarion.” You trailed a caressing hand up the arm he latched around your front, just listening to what little was left in your mind. You found the hilt of his dagger gripped in his other hand, guiding it so the fuller would rest on your flattened tongue. Licking a careful stripe towards the tip, he watched in an attentive daze, your projections onto the knife translating to his groin just as you’d hoped.

“Yes, darling…” He finally pulled his fingers from you, experimentally wiping your slick onto the knife. You could feel his smirk radiating beside your cheek as he tugged the blade to his lips. Making sure to secure your eyes, you watched as he tasted your sweet mixed with metallic, making you writhe beneath the image before you.

Swiftly, as he does, he flipped the dagger to lead the rounded pommel down over your stomach, slowly flowing over your pelvis, ultimately pressing down on your clit. He managed to grip it in a way so as to avoid cutting his own hand, running the ball between your swollen folds.

“Mm, I wanna touch you…” You whined pitifully as you writhed, wanting to make him feel as good as he was making you feel, lavish him in pleasure as you’d been ceaselessly imagining.

The moonlight was damn near blinding that night on the overgrown plot of his not-so-restful place… How he pushed you back, fiercely, claiming everything as his own– most importantly, himself. You almost giggle at your spontaneous recollections, how forceful yet tediously careful his movements were as he made it no secret that he’d take you then and there. How his knee swiftly presented you to him, his relentless, passionate kisses…–

“Perhaps I want to be sure that we are on the same page…” The pommel grazed your quivering center, rolling your arousal to a fro, insinuating his intent, “Do you think I enjoyed watching you moan beneath that infernal wretch?”

“I was truly trying to sort out the hammer business… I can’t say I was willingly enthused, he had to charm me just to get me to consider taking my clothes off.”

“It was certainly a… production… But I must be frank, it was not something I ever dreamed of being made to see. How that… Thing nearly made you succumb to its little tricks.” He angled the dagger so as to push it inside you, just a bit, dragging out another melodious moan from you.

He chuckled at this, deciding to drop the matter for the moment, “My filthy darling… You wouldn’t cum around my dagger, would you?” He chided, knowing full well that he’d see to that being the case, “It seems… You just need to be fucked, no matter how.”

The hilt was thick, stretching you generously as its smooth leather pushed further into you. He gripped the guard to avoid splitting his hand, but the risk of a small injury paled in comparison to this, “Maybe there’s something about Avernus, this house… I just feel… Hot,” You debated momentarily, wondering if it’d be more of a burden to speak from what little of your mind remained, “...And I didn’t want to bother you by telling you that I missed you. In any capacity… I’ve missed all of you.” You forced coherence despite him establishing a cyclic rhythm.

He kissed your cheek a few times in response, though found himself quickly perplexed, “Bother me– Darling, never. You’ve… Missed me?”

“It’s been fighting nonstop for weeks, and save for… A few instances, the last few months. All I’ve wanted was to just be able to relax with you, to truly just be.”

“You’re going to tell me this as I’ve buried a dagger handle inside you? You’ve got peculiar timing, my sweet.” His movements subconsciously stilled as he was looking to you for an unknown kind of answer.

“Gods–” You clenched as he kissed your neck this time, allowing his fangs to indent just enough to make themselves known again, “I’m sorry… I guess I could’ve said it any time… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“No, no, no– love, so could I,” He opted to always shower you with every pet name he could recite, perhaps as a habitual hedge, perhaps to drown you in his doting, “I’ve most certainly missed you, too.” He could feel you attempting to move onto the dagger, sending his body and estranged soul into a frenzy, “So, so much…” He found he just wanted to make you scream, in this particular instance. He’d been rearranging the meaning of intimacy in his mind slowly but steadily alongside you. While harrowing associations would inevitably remain attached to the act, he wanted to overwrite as much of that as he could with images of you. Of true rejoice, pleasure. He swore, his cock twitched upon reminding himself just how good you make him feel, body and beyond.

#i need to get out of this stagnation so here's more garbage #again this is kind of an abrupt end bc i didn't like the rest of it as much #astarion #astarion x female reader #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 smut #astarion smut

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luveline · 15 hours

Text

—you meet Spencer again after losing out on the BAU job. he comforts you while you do your best not to flirt. bombshell!reader, 0.9k

You lose out on the BAU job to Elle Greenaway. It drives you crazy.

You work just as hard as Elle does, you’re professional no matter what Jason Gideon has to say about you, and you know you could do it. You have just as many successes as Elle does.

It makes you feel sick. You tried so, so hard.

I’m sorry, Hotch had said, and at least you’d had his support. He was kind enough to tell you in person. I can’t make the decision without Gideon, and if he thinks you aren’t right for it right now, we’ll have to wait.

Wait. As though Jason Gideon was ever going to change his mind about you.

You open your purse and take out the barrel of your sheer lipstick. Your compact is next. You hold the mirror up and angle your face in the sun, popping the lid off of the lipstick, and pressing its flat end to your bottom lip. The line you draw is perfectly precise. Your hand barely trembles.

You drop the mirror down and rub your lips together slowly. No matter what falls out of your control, you can present yourself to your liking. You can be immaculate. You—

“Hi.”

You look up from your rumination, startled. You’d been thinking so hard someone actually got the run up on you.

“Hi,” you say, tilting your head gently toward your shoulder.

Dr. Spencer Reid stands a polite three feet away from you. He’s suddenly changed. The last time you met him he was wearing his long hair in a side part. Now it’s split down the middle, just a touch shorter at the sides, and he’s wearing glasses.

(He’s wearing glasses!)

You’d thought he was pretty before.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” you say, tempted to call him baby, maybe sweetheart. He’s a sweet looking boy. His sweater vest makes you wanna hold his hand. “Thank you for asking. Why are you asking?”

You talk to him with no derision nor malice, just curiosity.

He frowns. It gives his eyes a sad shine. “I know you wanted the open position. You would’ve been great at it.”

“You think so?” you ask, surprised.

“I’ve seen some of your write ups. We’ve used your summaries in one of our profiles, do you… remember that?”

You send Hotch anything he wants to see.

“I don’t know why Gideon doesn’t like you… He’s so rarely wrong about people, but you’re…” He licks his lips nervously. “You’re– you’re smart. You’re inquisitive. I think you would be an asset to the team, and it’s a shame you didn’t get your chance.”

You’re making him nervous and it isn’t your intention. You put your hands in your lap and stop giving him the look, swapping your amicable smile for a proper friendly one. “Thank you. Is it okay if I call you Spencer? Dr. Spencer Reid is a lot to say at once.”

He laughs, still nervous. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

“Spencer, thank you for caring so much, but I’m okay. I think I might still have a chance one day, but with Elle gone, the sex crimes division is going to need me.” You lift your chin. If he’s sought you out to tell you he’s sorry, your premonitions about him when you met a few weeks ago were correct. He’s as kind as he is pretty. “I love your glasses. Are they for reading?”

“I always wore glasses when I was a kid, and then I started working here, and I thought it might make me seem less… childish, if I wore contacts, but they’re the worst.”

You laugh happily. He says it in such a pained voice. “The glasses suit you so much,” you say, shoving your things into your bag and standing. “Did you wanna go for coffee? I need a pick me up before I go back to the office.”

Spencer touches his wrist. “Are you serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?” you ask, again, without a drop of malice. You’re not stupid, Spencer has all the nervousness of someone who’s been mistreated before, and heartily, and it’s easy to be soft with him not solely because of it, but because he seems so sweet. You could happily be his friend. “Do you like coffee? We could get those hot donuts from the cafeteria, have you tried those?”

You close the little gap between you both and raise your hand carefully to his face. Gentle, you try to pull a stray hair from the hinge of his glasses leg without snapping it.

“You can tell me all the stuff I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Spencer says.

“Come on, there has to be something.”

His mouth gives him away. “It’s not that you’re doing it wrong, you’re just– you– you’re not looking at things the…” Your fingertip brushes his cheek as you drop your hand. “…Right way, sometimes.”

“I wanted your recommendations.” You bump his elbow with yours. “I’ll buy you a coffee and you can write me a list. Cool?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Cool.”

You’re thinking it’ll be the start of a good friendship. You and Dr. Reid make quite a pair.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction

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tiredfox64 · 15 hours

Note

Hello :) your writing is so good and I like how you write the Lin Kuei bros so much.

I was wondering if I could request a Bi-han x Werewolf!reader, I have been playing Skyrim alongside Mk1 and realized there isn’t any kind of werewolves type of stuff in mk when there is vampires like Nitara. So I was thinking maybe the reader was a fighter recruited by Liu Kang along with Johnny, Lao, Raiden, and Kenshi. Bi-Han doesn’t understand why Liu Kang recruited the reader as there for one their fighting style lacks cordnation and they fight like an animal. And even worse the reader doesn’t have a lot of displine and doesn’t any care for the titles he has. It’s not until they see them turn into their werewolf form in battle that he understands.

An American Werewolf in China

Prior notes: o(^▽^)o thank you! The werewolves in Skyrim look awesome! You work the same way as me where you combine two things you are dealing with at the same time.

Pairing: Bi-Han x Werewolf! Gn reader

Warnings ‼️: Awooo

“That insufferable, mischievous, uncoordinated, delinquent is going to fail Earthrealm. This was the best Liu Kang could do?” Bi-Han gritted his teeth.

He was staring at you as you practiced with some of the monks at the Wu Shi academy. Your moves angered him. You were as capable of a fighter as an aggravated wolf. You go around baring your teeth that he saw as unkept with how jagged they looked. So were your nails. It looks like you purposely make them that sharp by rubbing them against rough rocks.

“I trust that Liu Kang made the right decisions. You doubted Johnny Cage yet he still beat us.” Kuai Liang reminded him.

Bi-Han groaned at that reminder. At least Johnny was more coordinated and acted like a human. But you…geez.

Even the first time you guys encountered each other he was infuriated by you. Him, Kuai Liang, and Liu Kang walked into the establishment you worked at. The smell of drunkards wafted in the air since you worked in a pub. Liu Kang’s proposal sounded like the ramblings of someone who was drunk so you ignored him. It wasn’t until Bi-Han tried to grab you that you finally acted.

That beat down was the most humiliating thing he had endured. You leaped on his back and tried choking him out. Kuai Liang tried to rip you off but you were latched on tightly. You even bit down on his shoulder. Though it didn’t pierce through his skin it did leave a large bruise. All the people in the pub payed little mind as if this was the usual.

When Kuai Liang finally managed to tear you off his brother he threw you into the tables nearby. Bi-Han was a mess with his low bun unraveled and scratch marks on his biceps.

“You little—do you know who you are dealing with? I am the Lin Kuei’s grandmaster! You should have more respect!” He yelled

“I don’t give a single fuck! Don’t come in here and fucking touch me!” You snarled back.

“Enough!” Liu Kang yelled out as he bursted into flames.

There was a silence and everyone in the pub scattered out. Can’t be going up in flames in a pub that’s stupid.

After that little incident you saw Liu Kang was telling the truth. You agreed to serve Earthrealm when it came to the Mortal Kombat tournament. But your vicious attack left Bi-Han with a bad taste in his mouth.

You don’t listen. You only listen to certain people. Liu Kang, sure, he’s god you’re not gonna disobey god. Raiden, understandable he is respectable. Tomas? Why him? Bi-Han is the one with the title, show him respect!

If anyone tried to tell you what to do, even something simple like grab some water, you’d be hesitant to obey. Someone told you to move? You gave them a side eye while not moving an inch. You’re acting like a disobedient dog.

That counts for your fighting as well. Like a rogue pitbull latching onto a slab of meat. Sometimes Bi-Han noticed that when you were low to the ground you looked to be moving on all fours. Weird. You leap at your opponents as well.

“They are incompetent. I have not seen them improve at all. Everyone has improved while they grow more wild.” He criticized you.

“Perhaps that’s just what they prefer. Not everyone is capable of the same fighting style.” Kuai Liang was really trying to defend you but even he was unsure of your fighting style.

“This is no fighting style. This is random slashes and hoping they land.”

Bi-Han was about to say more but you seemed to be getting frustrated. You were getting angry even though your opponent was already losing to you. You started shaking and huffing before letting out a yell. A yell that soon turned into a howl. The sound of cracking bones rang out from your body as you started to change before everyone’s eyes.

Your canines grew larger while the front of your face started to protrude into a snout. Your hair grew longer till it became a coat of fur. Your clothes, no matter how many times you tried to keep them on, could not handle the change and ripped again. Perky wolf ears and a bushy tail popped out. Your arms and legs were longer which was the reason the sound of cracking bones was heard. Your eyes that were once human were animalistic with an amber glow to them. By the elder gods! You’re a werewolf.

It basically answers all of Bi-Han’s questions and critiques. You are an animal, half animal actually. As a boy he has heard tales about creatures like you, he thought them tall ones. But here you were standing before him with your ragged coat of fur and glowing amber eyes. This conclusion would be a second guess for him. He would think you were a feral child before guessing you were a werewolf.

You were one pissed off werewolf.

You were growling not at your opponent but Bi-Han. You were staring him down but before you could do anything Liu Kang came running up to you and asked what was wrong. You just whined and pointed your snout at Bi-Han like a pointer dog. You bared your teeth while your ears were pointed back. You’re not happy which means Liu Kang isn’t happy. He walked up to Bi-Han with urgency.

“Stop talking badly about them. They have heard everything. They know they fight like an animal. It still works well.” Liu Kang was not playing.

“If you would have disclosed with me about the fact that they are a werewolf I would have watched my mouth.”

So it’s Liu Kang’s fault that Bi-Han was caught talking behind your back. Alright, his logic is mysterious in nature.

Some of the monks were trying to calm you down. But with the insult from Bi-Han, Johnny and Kenshi fighting again, and Kung Lao saying he will handle you cause he is the best you are just overwhelmed. You started leaping at everyone. You weren’t trying to hurt them but you still are getting used to fighting in your werewolf form. Johnny went flying in one direction and Kenshi went diving to avoid your tackle. Kung Lao leapt onto your back and tried to grab the back of your neck but you started thrashing around like a rodeo bull which knocked him off.

Even Kuai Liang was trying to get a hold of you with his rope but he met a similar fate. Can’t fight a dog with some rope, that’s a challenge. Now he is playing tug-a-war with you and once you let go he flung back hard.

You turned your attention towards Bi-Han before crawling towards him. You towered over him, forcing him to look up at you. Alright, he gets it, he’s wrong. You can stop throwing people around. He doesn’t want a round two with you in this form.

“I take back what I said. It is understandable now.”

It’s not an apology but it’s close. He really doesn’t want to deal with your rage right now so in an effort to douse the fire in your belly he started rubbing behind your ear. It surprisingly worked since your ears went from being pointed back to pointing up to the sky. You stopped showing your teeth and licked up your drool. You stared at Bi-Han for a few more seconds before huffing in his face. It’s the equivalent of sneezing in his face if you were in human form. It’s just unpleasant but he deserved it.

“Alright, enough, go to the zen garden to cool off. We will discuss your fit later on in the day.” Liu Kang addressed you.

You crawled away to the zen gardens to meditate the rage away. All that was left were many men on the ground and Bi-Han wiping his face off.

You turned into quite an interesting case to Bi-Han. He’ll be careful with his mouth now. You proved your point and he doesn’t want to poke the werewolf anymore. Though once this tournament is done he might want to see you again. A werewolf in the Lin Kuei might be a strange yet effective addition. Like having a hunting dog except the dog is huge and human. Seeing that you can be calmed is a good sign. He’ll keep that in mind when he feels he might need you on his side.

After notes: My favorite werewolf movie is An American Werewolf in London (I think y’all could have guessed that). But it was also the way I found out that 🌽 movie theaters were a thing. That was the scariest thing to me. Adiós!

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bravo4iscool · 15 hours

Note

Hey , you can just say Au, where call-off-duty work in an office (more precisely, according to my idea, they get a new job), they come to a new place, they are met by the boss (Reader)

Tall,fem! reader, who is dressed in an office suit(?) (I really don't know what they're wearing), a bright blue shirt with a slightly open fly, a jacket, and a skirt just above the knees (damn,shit what's it called? A pencil skirt? Bro I don't I know, in general, the skirts that office women wear in movies :/)

(König, Soap, Ghost and, and others, you can choose any, honestly it doesn’t matter to me!:)

this is amazing! i really like this request🤭.

and yes they’re called pencil skirt hahaha.

(i hope you can forgive me that i didn’t include könig. i’ve never played him and don’t know much about him, that’s why he isn’t present here😭)

i hope it turned out the way you imagined it :)) (this is all in the same universe btw!!)

tag list: @yazt09 @blackhawkfanatic @bumblebeesfromvenus

(masterlist | join my tag list!)

simon “ghost” riley

he didn’t want to take the job. he never was one for office jobs or generally any thing involving sitting and writing.

he didn’t push all the paper work down to poor recruits because he felt like it. he hated paper work with all he had and now he was sitting in a office, in some chic skyscraper, waiting for his new boss to arrive.

damn price for throwing this job at him.

simon was sitting at his desk, playing around with the pen in his hands. he felt so free to already do background checks on all his coworkers but while he searched everything for intel about you—he found nothing. not even a single crumb. that was weird…

and then you walked in. blue blouse, a damn right pencil skirt and your hair pulled into a neat bun. you have a bunch of files under your arm and your phone in the other hand.

you walk straight towards his desk and he doesn’t know what to think. you were so, so—he couldn’t find the words. he’s never met anyone that held themselves the way you did.

you smile at him and plant the files in front of him. “lieutenant riley?” you ask and he nods. “great! john told me you’d be here today. i have this bunch of mission reports that need to be looked at.”

again, simon just nods and grabs the files. “and then?” he finally finds his voice.

“you need to look for any discrepancies. these files are maybe the only change we can win this case,” you explain. “you’ve been in the military for long, haven’t you?”

“yes ma’am.”

you give him a relieved smile and simon feels like he’s been struck by lightning. “then you know what to look for, right?”

“absolutely,” he confirms and nods.

you wipe a strand of hair out of your face. “amazing! let me know if you find anything.” you pat his shoulder and turn to leave. simon wants to start reading already but then you stop. “oh, and lieutenant riley,” you catch his attention. “i’m glad you’re on board for this case.”

simon smiles and gives you a small salute. ‘call me simon,’ he thinks but then you’re already gone.

john “soap” mactavish

“you recommended me to a law firm?” soap raises his eyebrow in a questioning manner. simon nods and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“‘s the same one i work for,” he tells his best friend with a shrug. “i’m sure they’ll be happy t’ave ya.”

soap frowns and plays with the rim of his whiskey glass. “why would they? i haven’t studied law.”

simon huffs and rolls his eyes. “‘nd ya think i did? they’re workin’ on expandin’ their military law wing. they need more experts than j’st me,” simon explains while he downs his glass of whiskey.

the younger man thinks for a second before he signs. “they’re paying good?” he asks and his best friend immediately nods.

soap was here. he really was here waiting to meet the boss of the law firm. he didn’t know much about her, expect from what simon told him…

after a few minutes he hears the door behind him open. “sargent mactavish,” a friendly voice calls out and soap stands up to turn around.

towards him walking are you, your signature pencil skirt and blue blouse. today you fly was slightly open and soap needed to force his eyes back onto your face. holy heaven, you were something.

“hello ma’am,” he clears his throat as he extends his hand. “a pleasure to finally meet you,” he says and you smile while you return the hand shake.

you walk around him to take a seat behind your desk. “the pleasure is all mine! i’m glad lieutenant riley recommended you. your war crime wing is expanding and when i told him he immediately thought about you!”

you quickly sort through a couple of files before you look at him again. “if i understand correctly you and lieutenant riley served together?”

soap nods and folds his hands in front of his lap. he was having a hard time to concentrate. you were just—you were a woman. a real woman.

“great!” you smile. “i will show you your workplace then!”

kyle “gaz” garrick

“simon,” you sigh. “are you really trying to convince me to hire your whole team?” you tilt your head at the lieutenant in front of you.

he shrugs, “maybe…”

“i though you and john were mastering the work alone?” you lean back in your chair. “i can always send one of my people over.”

simon shakes his head. “i want kyle,” he says—his voice barely leaving room to argue.

you sigh again and massage the bridge of your nose. “simon…”

“j’st f’r this case,” he tells you. “ya can let ‘im go after that.” the look in his eyes is pleading and you curse yourself for letting him have such power over you. “i need him.”

“this case,” you agree after a few moments of thinking. “and this case only.”

you walk into the office you have simon and john for their work. you open the door and three pairs of eyes snap towards you.

you give simon and john an acknowledging nod before you turn to the third man—must be kyle. “sergeant garrick?” you ask and he nods. “good. there are a few things we need to clarify before you’re allowed to work on the classified files,” you explain and gaz shoots a look towards simon. the older man gives him a small nod and gaz stands up.

“of course ma’am,” he slightly bows his head and crosses his hands behind his back. he was having a hard time concentrating… he knew about you from what soap and simon had told him but damn. that skirt was wrapping around your hips like it was tailored just for you and the way it highlighted curves–gaz felt like he was living a dream.

you immediately notice the way the sergeant is looking at you and you clear your throat. “sergeant garrick, you might want to look at my face when i talk to you.” his eyes widen in shame and he's lucky one can't see when he's blushing.

“of course ma'am. i apologize!” he trains his eyes on you, trying to ignore the way soap was snorting out a laugh behind him. he thought he was being subtle. probably not so...

captain john price

“lieutenant riley told me to deliver these files to him,” price groans when the woman at the reception didn't let him through.

“i’m sorry sir but i’ve not been told about that,” she gives price an apologetic smile and continues typing on her keyboard.

price groans and massages the bridge of his nose. “this has to be a joke. either, you let me through to lieutenant riley or i’ll make a way myself and i don’t know which one you’d like better!” he bangs his hand on the counter.

when he gets nothing more than a scared look he takes a deep breath and just pushes past the counter. “everything you have to do yourself,” he whispers under his breath.

moments before he sees simon a voice bellows through the office space. “excuse me sir,” price twirls around. “i believe my receptionist asked you to remain where you were just minutes ago.”

price frowns and tilts his head. “and i believe i asked to speak with lieutenant riley since he requested me to deliver these files personally.”

you shake you head and walk towards him. “i didn’t know that lieutenant riley runs this firm.” a smirk creeps onto your lips when you notice how the shock slowly shows on his face. “captain john price? or am i mistaken?”

price clears his throat and shuffles uncomfortably. “indeed ma’am. i am captain john price.” his eyes dart from your hips to your eyes and back to your cleavage. that blue blouse was really…working for you.

you nod and purse your lips. “well, captain price… in my law firm i believe in respect and respectful conversation.” you cross your hands behind your back. “what you are doing right now—“ you look him up and down “—is not respectful in any way.”

the captain swallows and averts his gaze. he’s never felt so ashamed before. what were you doing to him?

“everything you want to give to my lieutenant to can give to me.” you extend your hand. “or you learn how to talk and behave in the correct manner.” you raise you eyebrow in a questioning manner.

you know you got him when he takes a deep breath and straightens his back. “of course ma’am. i apologize.”

“great.”

#writing #ao3 #fanfiction #archive of our own #story writing #call of duty #simon riley #cod #ghost #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x you #gaz garrick x reader #gaz garrick x you #john price x you #john price x reader

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leonscape · 1 day

Text

Leonscape’s 400 Follower Special

Thank you for 400 followers guys! I need to get back into writing so I will be doing that with this celebration event. The prompts are all Cigarettes After Sex songs. I highly recommend listening to the songs just to get a feel for the vibes.

4 is a special number for me personally so that’s why this milestone is extra special to me.

I will be writing Leon content so please pick a prompt and choose what genre and with who you want the fic to be written with.

Prompts:

Apocalypse, “When you’re all alone, I will reach for you. When you’re feeling low, I will be there too.”

Crush, “Can’t live without your love inside me now. I’ll find a way to slip into your skin somehow.”

Don’t Let Me Go, “Come to me now, Don’t let me go. Stay by my side.”

Dreaming of You, “Seen you from afar. Wondered who you are. Wondered what you're like. Think you're just my type.”

Falling in Love, “Falling in love. Deeper than I’ve felt it before with you, baby. I feel I’m falling in love with all my heart.”

Heavenly, “Tell me it’s love, tell me it’s real. Touch me with a kiss, feel me on your lips.”

Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby, “Nothing's gonna hurt you baby. As long as you're with me you'll be just fine.”

Opera House, “I was meant to love you & always keep you in my life. I was meant to love you, I knew I loved you at first sight.”

Starry Eyes, “Starry eyes. What can I do for your attention? Starry eyes. Starry eyes forever shall be mine.”

Stop Waiting, “I could win, I could lose, But that’s a look I can’t refuse.”

Sunsetz, “Sunsets. We wander through a foreign town. Strangely there’s nobody else around.”

Sweet, “It’s so sweet knowing that you love me. Though we don’t need to say it to each other, Sweet knowing that I love you & running my fingers through your hair.”

You’re All I Want, “There is no other love, it’s only yours. You’re all I want, all I love.”

You’re the Only Good Thing in My Life, “Everything is wrong, but it’s alright. You’re the only good thing in my life.”

Genre:

❤️ Fluff

🥀 Angst

💋 Spicy

Please specify:

Leon x Emma/MC

Leon x Reader

Leon x Irene (my OC)

If this is not specified, I will either choose at random or it will default to my OC Irene.

I’m pushing myself outside of my comfort zone and including spicy content. That being said, the spicy content is not guaranteed (I might chicken out and not do it because I’m a scaredy cat). Feel free to listen to the song first before you request it! Maybe the other lyrics could give you some ideas that you can use to specify what you’d like to read?

Example for a request:

4 Dreaming of You, Fluff, Leon/Irene

Again, you can choose other lyrics if you want a different feel.

Thank you 🦁🌹🫶

#ikemen prince #ikepri #ikemen prince leon #ikepri leon #leon dompteur #leonscape’s 400 follower special

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volklana · 16 hours

Text

I Really feel That I'm Losing My Best Friend.

Modern!Sihtric x Reader

Title Comes From This Song:

Request: Hi lana!! Can I get a best friend modern sithric x fem reader smut? They're just friends until everyone in their friend group brings up that reader and sithric would be a cute couple and it changes the dynamic of the relationship and they begin to have sexual tension until it just blows up

Thank youuu

A/N: I am awful a writing smut so I did my best. I'm really sorry if this wasn't what you wanted. But you know me by now there has to be angst dripping through the plot

Also this is not proof read because I have a fever, but I will correct any mistakes I come across xx

“You always fucking cheat,” you pouted attempting to swipe the cards from Sihtric’s hands and his eyes glistened with mischeviousness.

“Do not,” he laughed incredulously, pulling them away from your hands, to which you physically attempted to wrestle them out of his grasp, his laughter bouncing off the walls.

Uhtred had bored of the game ten minutes ago and was lying sprawled out on the sofa, his head resting on Gisela’s lap, bottle of beer resting on his stomach, and rolled his eyes at the exchange between you and sighed.

“Are you seriously telling me you two are not fucking?” he swiped and Gisela gave him a warning look over the hand of cards she was still holding.

Sihtric completely stilled in your arms and you immediately retreated.

“Oh come on!” Uhtred urged looking to Finan to back him up “I can’t be the only one who thinks this right?”

“We’re just friends,” Sihtric stuttered and Finan and Uhtred laughed.

“I’m your friend and you don’t look at me like you want to take all my clothes off,” Finan teased and Uhtred smirked his way.

“Leave them alone,” Osferth chimed in and you were grateful for a second, “I’m sure they’ll tell us when they are ready,” he smirked.

“It’s not like that-really, we’re just friends,” Sihtric tried to persuade, absolutely refusing to meet your eye.

“I’d like Eadith to be my friend,” Finan winked to Uhtred’s raucous laughter.

“In that case me and Gisela are just friends,” Uhtred chimed along too and you couldn’t help but shrink at being the cause of everyone’s laughter in the room.

“Uhtred!” Gisela warned with a stern look, to which he shrugged in surrender.

“C’mon, you’d be such a cute couple,” Finan added and Sihtric was rising from his spot on the floor, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment and made his way outside to light a cigarette.

Gisela booted Uhtred off her and tutted “Now look what you’ve done.”

Your stomach was uneasy as you made your way into the kitchen to get another drink, you could hear Gisela and Uhtred arguing. She was scolding him for being such an arseling and you were grateful to her.

“You know how shy he is!” she chided.

You watched Sihtric outside, pacing up and down as he smoked. He ran his fingers through his hair and your heart skipped a beat, when he suddenly looked in through the glass and into your eyes.

You made your way outside and he offered you a cigarette which you gladly accepted, and ducked down to meet the flame of his lighter.

“Are you alright?” you tried after a few minutes of uneasy silence.

“I just wish they would cut that shit,” Sihtric sighed “I don’t want things to be awkward between us.”

“They don’t have to be,” you said softly “Sihtric we know what we are, nothing they say matters, okay?”

He nodded, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

“Are we good?” you asked, bumping his arm and he laughed a shaky laugh.

“Always,” he replied.

Uhtred appeared sheepish after a few minutes, scratching the back of his neck, and Sihtric laughed.

“Did Gisela send you out here?”

“No-Yes. Kinda.” he sighed “The bottom line is I was joking. You’re my friends and I love you both and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Forget it,” you smiled kindly, squeezing Sihtric’s hand in yours.

Sihtric tossed and turned on Uhtred’s sofa, you were sleeping soundly on the pull out bed on the floor beside him but Sihtric was sick with anxiety.

He cursed himself for being so weak. It was getting hard to deny to his friends that there was nothing between you both when he couldn’t even deny it to himself any more. He was ashamed at the tears pooling in his eyes, threatening to spill but he swallowed the lump down and willed them away, just as his father had taught him to.

Be a fucking man, it was drilled into his head from as soon as he was old enough to comprehend and he turned his back to face away from you.

Despite his father’s beatings, despite how much he tried to stomp it out of him, Sihtric was soft and he was so painfully in love with you that sometimes his chest physically hurt with longing.

It was pathetic- he was pathetic.

Sihtric drove you back to your apartment the next morning and he was unusually quiet the whole ride back. Usually he would come up for a coffee, but when he didn’t unbuckle his belt and left the car running, you uneasily retrieved your overnight bag from the trunk of his car.

“Thanks for the ride,” you smiled, testing the waters and he gave a tight lipped smile in response.

“Of course, it’s what friends are for,” was all he offered but he didn’t get out to hug you the way he usually did and you climbed the stairs to your apartment with a feeling you couldn’t quite place brewing in your stomach.

You and Sihtric did everything together. You had a weekly cinema date without fail once a week, every week, since you met. Sihtric was a film fanatic, he consumed movies both in the theater and on his own in his apartment. You suspected it was because he was never allowed to watch films as a kid and now he was making up for lost time. You knew just enough about his childhood to know that it was not a happy one. His mum had died, leaving him to be raised by an abusive father and an older half brother who relished in torturing him. Sihtric never went into specifics but you knew that he had gone hungry and dirty for periods of time and the thought of it broke your heart. Because Sihtric was an absolute light in your life, whenever you were with him you were carefree, his joy for the little things in life was absolutely contagious, like the first time you had made him try cotton candy and you watched his eyes widen and a huge grin broke out over his face as he devoured it. But your absolute favourite thing you did together was the spontaneous late night drives in Sihtric’s car with the windows rolled down, singing along to whatever playlist was on, and on so many of those rides you wondered what it would be like if Sihtric were to put his hand on your thigh, or throw his free arm over your shoulder while you snuggled into his side, but you had to quickly dismiss these thoughts, because he had made it abundantly clear time and time again that you were his best friend and you would never risk losing him because of your little fantasies.

Except it felt like you were losing him already since the night of the party...

You collapsed onto your bed and checked your phone for the thousandth time, to find nothing, no memes, no song recommendations, no silly pictures, Sihtric had sent you absolutely nothing in the last four days and you were trying not to let it upset you, but you couldn’t help but feel hurt. This was the longest you had ever gone without hearing from him, he always texted you multiple times a day, and now you were getting radio silence.

You picked up the stuffed bear that Sihtric had won you at the fair a few months back and gave it a squish sadly, it still smelled vaguely of Sihtric's cologne after you had begged him to spray some on him.

You quickly snapped a pic of you kissing its cheek and sent it to Sihtric.

‘We miss you x’

Sihtric opened the message and sighed, how was it possible to be jealous of a damn stuffed toy.

You bit the inside of your cheek, you could see he had opened the message but no little dots popped up to indicate that he was typing back.

You let thirty minutes pass, feeling sick with anxiety the whole time, and when he still hadn’t replied you climbed under your sheets and switched out the lights.

Sihtric felt bad opening your message and not replying, but he sipped his drink as Osferth returned from the bathroom, face briefly lighting up when Osferth announced this round was on him.

While you lay in bed trying to figure out why you were crying.

‘Wish it was me there with you x’

He typed after a few hours, and deleted and typed again, before he accidentally pressed send in it his drunken stupidity. He fumbled to quickly unsend it, but the blue tick lit up indicating that you had read it.

Your heart hammered in your chest, as you considered what you wanted to say, once you crossed this line, you weren’t exactly sure you would be able to put the genie back inside the bottle.

‘I wish so too x’

After what seemed like an eternity he replied,

“Goodnight, y/n, Sweet dreams xx”

Sihtric was avoiding your messages and dodging all your calls. Your heart broke even more when you saw an insta story that Osferth shared of him, Finan and Sihtric at the movies, your stomach sank down to your toes because you had always thought that was yours and Sihtric’s thing.

You messaged him for the umpteenth time that week, ‘Have I done something wrong?’ But just like the previous messages you had sent, he opened but never replied.

Your heart was breaking, you were getting up going to work, and coming straight home and getting into bed. Your anxiety was the worst it had been in years and you kept a hold of your phone, willing a notification to come through anything at all that would show you Sihtric was still your friend. You were going insane at night trying to figure out what you had done wrong, had you offended him somehow? Or worse, had he sensed your feelings for him that night at Uhtred’s and just didn’t want to have the awkward conversation, or let you down gently.

But the final nail in the coffin came when Gisela texted you late on the Saturday exactly two weeks after the night Uhtred had decided to stir the shit.

‘I’m so sorry you couldn’t come tonight. It’s not the same without you!’

Your head was whirling, and you felt like you were going to be sick, until our phone lit up again.

‘Sihtric did invite you didn’t he?’

You could have landed Sihtric in the shit by telling her that he hadn't, but you knew Gisela would gut him from the inside out if she knew he was treating you like this, so to protect him you replied.

‘Of course! I’ll catch you next time xx’

Sihtric sat on his reading chair, the lamp in his living room the only thing lighting his apartment. His stomach was twisted up in knots and it wasn’t from the alcohol, it was because of you. He’d been avoiding you for weeks now. Dodging your calls and making excuses to not meet up and when that wasn’t enough he just stopped replying to you altogether. Radio silence.

He knew you didn’t deserve to be treated this way, and if it had been any other man treating you like this he would have offered to kick the shit out of them, but he couldn’t risk you seeing him this way. He had tried for so long to pretend that he had no feelings for you, to act as if you could just be friends, but ever since the night Uhtred had spoken his feelings out loud it was like a damn had burst and trying to bury his feelings now felt like trying to stop the tides with his bare hands.

The crippling fear of losing you sent him into an avoidant survival state, he had never been shown a healthy way to navigate conflict or loss and so he did what that scared little boy had always done. He hid.

He sipped his brandy,enjoying the way it burned. The ‘what ifs’ swimming around in his mind. What if I were just honest with her? What if she turned her face away in disgust? What if she cast me aside? What if she couldn’t overlook his confession and ever be his friend again. Or, and his heart picked up speed, what if she felt the same?

He was pulled from his thoughts by a gentle knocking on his door, he was tempted to ignore it until the knocking progressively became more insistent.

Finally relenting he opened the door to see you before him, face a mixture of hurt and anger, and red eyes a dead give away that you had been crying.

“We need to talk,” you shook and Sihtric mindlessly stepped aside and allowed you to come in, but he remained frozen to his spot by the door when you reeled on him.

“I don’t understand Sihtric, you’ve been avoiding me for weeks now. You are my best friend and I feel like..I feel like I’m losing you, and I don’t know what I’ve done!”

“Nothing!” Sihtric choked, shaking his head furiously “You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s me. I’m going through some shit and I just- I needed to deal with it alone.”

The anger softened from your face but the hurt remained, “You know you can talk to me Siht, so you don’t have to go through anything alone. You can tell me anything. Including- if you don’t want to be my friend anymore.”

He didn’t.

He didn’t want to be your friend anymore, he wanted to be so much more, but the fear of rejection kept him rooted to the spot.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, voice wobbling. “I’m still learning how to communicate, I will try to do better for you I promise.”

“Sihtric,” you cried crossing the floor and pulling him into a hug, “You don’t have to try. You just have to be you,” you muttered as your arms locked around his shaking form.

“I just really missed you,” you whispered into his hair, the smell of his apple scented shampoo that you loved filling your senses.

“Gods, I missed you too,” he replied, shaking, but grasping on to you.

And so things went back to some form of normality but the weight of two unspoken confessions were hanging over the friendship.

You were officially invited to group outings again and you and Sihtric slipped back into a somewhat familiarity with each other.

Except Sihtric felt like he was trapped in a snare. Every time you spoke, his eyes lingered on your lips imagining what they would feel like to kiss, what they would look like wrapped around his- he shook his head before his mind could even wander down that path. He was consumed with longing for you, day and night it was all he could think about, but fear of losing you always knocked whatever bravery he had within him to tell you the truth.

Until the night he saw you across the dancefloor, dancing with another man, head thrown back in joy as he moved his body in time with yours to the beat and before he could even think straight he was marching across the floor and grasping your arm.

“Sihtric?” you questioned face full of worry.

“Please, I need to talk to you?” he begged and you followed him in an instant outside, completely ignoring the call of the man you had been dancing with moments ago.

Sihtric paced back and forward in front of you and you tried to reach out a hand to steady him but he swatted it away.

“I have to tell you the truth,” he finally rushed “I can’t hold this in any longer. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried so hard to- but I can’t do it anymore.”

“Sihtric?”

"-I’m in love with you y/n. Painfully. I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember, and I’ve been avoiding you because I know you don’t feel the same and you just want us to be friends, but I can’t pretend anymore.”

You were silent for a moment, considering him, “Who said I just wanted to be friends?” you asked bewildered.

“What?” Sihtic reeled, mismatched eyes boring into yours in surprise.

“Sihtric Kjartansson," you sighed "It is you who wanted us to stay friends. I have always wanted to be more.”

“What? He repeated face scowling trying to understand.

“At Finan’s birthday last year, you took the forfeit over the dare to kiss me, because you said you didn’t want to kiss a friend. From that night on I tried to put my feelings to bed.”

Sihtric pinched the bridge of his nose in disbelief “I didn’t kiss you that night because once I kissed you I would never have been able to stop.”

“Then I really wish you had kissed me that night,” you smiled and took his hand “In fact I think you should kiss me now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice , he surged forward, cupping your face in his hands and kissed you.

You looked up at Sihtric through hooded eyes, his naked torso glistening with a sheen of sweat. His slender body and muscled arms looked like a god carved from marble in Ancient Greece and you were willing to get down on your knees and worship.

He placed his thumb on your bottom lip, sliding your lips open as he inspected your waiting form below him.

“So beautiful,” he mused, dark eyes raking over your body “So beautiful and mine.”

You hmmd against his thumb, and he moved to hook his finger under your chin forcing you to look up into his eyes “Say it,” he commanded “Say that you’re mine.”

Your eyes fluttered with adoration and the hazy smile that crossed your face had Sihtric’s pulse racing “I’m yours Sihtric,” you promised, “Only yours.”

“Let me show you,” you begged and you moved with him towards the bed, where he sat looking unsure for a moment, until you pressed a gentle hand to his chest, motioning for him to lay back. Others who did not know Sihtric like you did might have expected a dominant, possessive lover but you knew him better than anyone else in the whole world.

What he needed was to be taken care of, to be shown he was worthy of love and given it freely, and reassured that you were going nowhere and now that you’d had this taste of him you truly would never leave him again.

You were lovedrunk as you kissed down along his neck, collarbones, his chest and followed down the length of his abdomen, before finally taking him in your mouth.

He was a whimpering, moaning mess beneath you and he surprised even himself when he eventually found the strength to stop you, picking you up and flipping you over before slipping inside you with a gasp.

He picked up a pace that had you gasping and grabbing at his strong back for something to hold on to. Something to stop you falling off the edge. When you could finally not hold on any longer, urged by Sihtric’s whispers for you to let go, you did, seeing stars as you gripped him through his own release.

If there was one thing you had learned about Sihtric it was that he truly meant what he said when he told you that he would never have been able to stop with one kiss, the man was insatiable. His lips or hands were always on yours and you did not know where he found his stamina for in the bedroom but one thing was for sure, he had never felt this kind of love in his entire life and he was never letting it out of his grasp again.

Tagging: @canyonmoon-2@sihtricfedaraaahvicius@whitedarkmoonflower@shamrockqueen@thenameswinter99@foxyanon@acdassenza@thatawkwardlittlefangirl @gemini-mama

#sihtric x reader #sihtric x you #sihtric smut #sihtric kjartansson #sihtric kjartansson x reader #sihtric fic #the last kingdom fic #volklana writes

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unnerving-presence · 3 days

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Hello! I absolutely love your writing it's so much fun. Could I please request any three killers of your choosing who has the reader, s/o or not either way would still be funny, over their shoulder and on the way to a hook and they just yell out "Can I get a please before you treat me like a common whore?"

i feel bad whenever i get asked to choose the killers because then i will most definitely just make them the killers i’m interested in at the moment 😭

𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹𖦹

Chucky:

Gives you a big laugh and argues that you already are a whore (affectionate) and that he doesn’t need to say please to begin with. It cancels out. PEMDAS or something..

He doesn’t take most of what you say super seriously anyways and quickly puts you on a hook, telling you he’ll take you on a nice date after all this. He’ll figure something out.

“You still pretty much called me a whore” “Yeah, yeah. You know I would never mean it that way, sweetheart”

Next time you’re in a trial with him he’ll mockingly ask you if he has to say please before doing anything involving killing you.

He still has yet to set up that date..

Pyramid Head:

Given what he represents he partially wants to take you up on that offer. That much is clear when his usual hand on your ass holds you tighter to his shoulder ever so slightly while he carries you. He’s genuinely thinking about it, something he doesn’t really do when you try to bargain with him during trials.

Give him a couple hooks and he might make a decision.. or just stare at you for a second as his way of telling you that you won’t be getting an answer. He’s needlessly complicated at times..

..Which is why you would’ve never expected him to listen to you a couple days later. however long that is in The Entity’s realm. To be fair, your trials lately have been laughably short and he knows you’d probably appreciate some not so TLC before he puts you on a meat hook.

Tarhos Kovács:

He didn’t think of you as some of the ‘workers’ he would see in Italy but he supposes he occasionally treats you as one in the heat of intimacy. Clearly you speak jokingly, but he finds the proposition amusing nonetheless.

He’ll scoff at your words in which he’s met with your fists relentlessly beating on his armored back, doing virtually nothing to him. He feels you should know by now that no matter how attractive he thinks you are that he won’t treat you differently during trials but he knows you won’t really be giving up on your acts of resistance any time soon. It’s a bit cute to see you try anyways. Makes him chuckle.

Don’t worry, he treats you much better outside of trials. At least he actually listens to your complaints.. but instead of putting you on a meat hook he tends to solve your incessant yapping with exactly what you asked for in the first place, minus the ‘saying please’ part..

#dbd x reader #dead by daylight x reader #chucky x reader #charles lee ray x reader #pyramid head x reader #tarhos kovács x reader #the knight x reader

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missuswalker · 1 day

Text

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 || 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𐙚 summary: donnie asks you on a date, (to his room) and, of course, you can’t resist those eyes

𐙚 warnings: pointless fluff + brief smut because i love him, donnie being too cute, maybe too long + not proofread (aged up, obviously, let’s say seniors in hs) not proofread oops

𐙚 notes: i’m obsessed with him can somebody talk with me about this subject matter

Donnie, while not shy, wasn’t the most courageous boy out there. At least, when it came to you. His brain stopped working when you were near and he’d overshare until there was nothing else to say. You stuck around, though. You liked his stories. You liked spending time with him. He liked spending time with you, too. He’d pass you a note in class, pretending to stretch so he could drop the folded paper on the desk behind him. He loved to hear the crinkle of the paper as you unfolded it, your quiet giggles following. Every time you would write back, he’d pocket the paper and take it home.

The teacher loved your little ‘budding relationship’ quite a bit less than the two of you did, though. In fact, Donnie had gotten detention twice now for his constant whispers and laughs he shared with you. He didn’t care. As long as he kept you hooked on him, he’d take any punishment. Besides, Ms. Dulwich was exactly what her name described her as. A dull witch. She was a miserable, lonely woman who had nothing better to do than move Donnie as far away from you as possible. He always managed to get a note back to your desk, despite the newfound circumstances of having a desk at the very front of the room.

It was today, though, that he decided he needed to finally step up to the plate. He couldn’t just wait around forever. You’d lose interest or someone else would get to you first. The thought plagued his mind more than Frank, it was a constant bother.

It was 11:05, his, and your, lunch period. After debating on whether or not he go through the lunch line, he ultimately decides he was too nervous to eat, so instead, he begins to search for you. He eventually spotted you at the end of a table full of girls, the lot of you laughing and gossiping, as one does. He rubs his sweaty palms on his pants, and begins his journey towards the crowded table. He didn’t believe you fit in with those girls. They were loud, obnoxious and so… plastic. You were real. They didn’t deserve you, but Donnie definitely did. At least that was what he believed.

“Y/n,” he interrupts, ignoring the girl who he’d just cut off, rubbing his hands on his pants once again. As soon as you look up at him with that smile, he thought he might as well just marry you. He just couldn’t seem to get his words out, his mouth falling open and closing, over and over. The girls around you began to quietly snickers, giving glances and eye rolls. “Do you wanna eat lunch with me?” He finally spit it out, finally asked. Now the hard part was over. The girls began to giggle, but you nodded, standing from your seat. “Okay,” you said, your voice so calm. Immediately your friend’s laughter stops, the snobby girls looking on in disbelief. There wasn’t anything inherently wrong with Donnie, the group just thought he was kind of a freak, to say the least.

You had never thought of Donnie as a freak. You saw him as the smart guy he was, which was a boost to his ego, considering he found you rather intelligent as well, though your smarts didn’t always show through a test. Maybe he just thought so highly of you because he liked you, but either way, he knew he enjoyed talking to you. “I hate them, I’m sorry. They’re just brats. They weren’t laughing at you, they were laughing at me,” you tell Donnie, sitting across from him at an empty table. Donnie furrows his brows, watching you pick at your lunch. “Why would they laugh at you,” he snorts, his eyes trailing back to the girls who were staring right back, poking each other and whispering. “I talk about you a lot,” you say vaguely.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Donnie decided he couldn’t take it anymore. If he didn’t ask what had been driving him crazy for so long, he’d never be able to sleep at night. “Do you wanna go with me? Like, do you wanna, like, I don’t know. Never mind, shut up. Not you, me,” he rambles, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut in disbelief. You stare at him, seeming so bewildered for a moment, before you simply begin to laugh. “Yeah, I wanna go with you.” Donnie nodded in response, biting his lip. “I like you,” he says, eyes flickering all over your face. “I know,” you snort.

“Will you come over after school? We can just hang out, or I can read you this book, it’s… I think you’d like it,” he blurts, his heart pounding. He could hardly process everything happening right now, his mind going haywire. “Yeah, okay, that’d be cool,” you nod, leg bouncing under the table. “Okay. Cool,” Donnie sighs. The rest of lunch wasn’t so bad. The two of you just talked like you normally did and the awkward tension went away completely. It was like nothing changed, though both of you knew something did, indeed, change.

𐙚

As the two of you stepped into his bedroom, successfully having gotten passed his mother’s questions and his fathers jokes, you dropped your book bag on the floor. “You can sit on the bed, I’m gonna grab that book,” Donnie tells you, kicking off his shoes. When he joins you on the bed, he hesitantly wraps his arm around your shoulder, opening the book. You look up at him, giving a grin. “What are you doing,” you ask, putting your hand on his elbow. “I’m not doing anything,” he says, looking down at you as he bites back his smile. After a moment of silence, he looks down at your lips. “You know, you’re my first girl,” he says, his voice quiet. “Oh, so I’m your girl?” You rest your head on his shoulder, Donnie giggling. You loved his laugh. It was so airy and silly. “I meannn,” he trails off, looking away for a moment.

“I think I like being your girl,” you hum, raising a brow. “That makes one of us,” he jokes, causing the both of you to laugh. Then, again, there was silence. He slowly moved down, his lips dangerously close to yours. “Donnie,” you snort, grabbing his face and pushing him away. He gently pulls your hand away, sticking out his bottom lip in a dramatic pout. “What?” You think for a moment, giving a shrug. “I dunno.” He scans your face for a moment, brows furrowing. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have tried anything. I’m not expecting anything from you, I just, I was thinking… I don’t know, I thought maybe you wanted to kiss me, so,” she begins, only to be cut off by your lips on his.

It didn’t take long for the kiss to get a little too passionate, your shirt on his floor and his hand hovering over your bra. You move his hand onto your tit to give him the extra push, and then he’s all over you. “I really didn’t plan this or anything, I swear. I really like you,” he rambles on, sliding his fingers under the white fabric of your bra, his inexperienced fingers playing with your nipple. “Stop talking,” you say softly, hand fiddling with the button on his pants. “Gotcha,” he mumbles, reconnecting your lips until your hand meets his hard cock, covered by his boxers. “I’ve imagined this before, actually not to long ago, but this is better,” he tells, not able to stay quiet because he just always had to say whatever was on his mind. You almost laugh against his lips. “Donnie, you’re really cute, but shut up.”

He nods, grunting at the feeling of your fingers grazing the skin of his stomach. “Sorry. You’re so pretty, can’t help it,” he huffs, pushing his nose into your hair. He pushes your hand away, pulling his dick out of his boxers, because he just couldn’t wait any longer. “You don’t have to do anything, I-” He’s cut off with a moan as your head ducks down to take him into your mouth, tongue flat against the head of his cock. “Oh, shit, you’re gonna make me cum,” he tells you. You look up at him, one hand moving to make a ring around the base of his dick, slowing moving it up and down, the other finding his balls, squeezing gently. His fingers fly to your hair, gripping at the roots. He rewards you with heavenly moans, twitching in your mouth. You slowly drag your tongue around his tip before moving down. As soon he dick his the back of your throat and you hollowed your cheeks, he cums down your throat, tossing his head back as if his soul left his body.

You make sure he’s looking at you as you swallow, pulling away to let him take a moment. “You never had your dick sucked?” You question, running your fingers through his hair. She shakes his head, putting his thumb in between your teeth, pulling your mouth open. Letting his finger trail back down to your lip, letting it bounce back, he places a sweeter kiss to your lips. “I think I just came into next year,” he breathes, hands finding your tits again. “You’re so romantic,” you say sarcastically, Donnie giving you a dopey smile. “What, you didn’t like it?” He moves his lips to your neck, testing the waters. “No, I liked it.”

“You wanna do it again?”

𐙚 he’s such a virgin, idc, he’d be so awkward and chatty the very first time he did something slightly sexual and it would be so cute and annoying at the same time i want to kiss him

im so tired why’d i stay up so late writing smut about this man

#x reader #donnie darko #donnie darko x reader #donnie darko x you #jake gyllenhaal #jake gyllenhaal x reader #jake gyllenhaal x you #donnie darko smut #donnie darko fluff #jake gyllenhaal smut #jake gyllenhaal fluff

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