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godslino · 3 months

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2:45a.m. | minho established relationship. fluff. dad!minho.

pairing: minho x fem!reader word count: 2.5k summary: when a storm hits, minho makes sure your daughter is able to fall back asleep

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You’re not sure what wakes you first: the crack of thunder or the resulting cry.

Your entire body jolts, the room painted in a flash of white that disappears just as quickly as it came. The weather report had stated that there would be a storm, however ones this bad were uncommon, especially in Seoul.

Another cry. It crackles through the baby monitor on the nightstand at the same time it echoes off of the walls of the other room. You move to kick the covers off when an arm stops you, warm and heavy where it’s thrown over your waist. You instantly relax into the touch, sighing when the tip of a nose brushes against the shell of your ear.

“I got her,” Minho mumbles, his voice raspy with sleep.

“It’s okay. You have an early morning, I can do it.” You argue, but make no move to get up.

Minho doesn’t respond, instead he knocks a kiss to your temple and tightens the blanket around you once he’s out of bed. You hear the soft pads of his feet against the floor and crack one eye open just in time to see him slip out of the room, his voice floating into the hallway, ‘Uh oh, what happened to the princess?’

The way the crying stops almost immediately is proof enough that it was a good thing Minho went in place of you. Seola is a fussy baby; she cries loud and wants incessantly—more than the usual ten month old. She can’t go anywhere without her elephant binky and hates wearing hats, if she doesn’t like a food she’ll snap her lips shut and turn her head until her face is pressed into the back of the high chair, when she’s angry she shakes a tiny fist in your direction and pounds it against your arm. But perhaps the most difficult thing, the one that has you wanting to pull your hair out most of the time, is that sometimes the only way to calm her down is if Minho is the one to do it.

A part of you always knew that your baby would favor Minho, as funny as it sounds. When you first got pregnant, one of the things the two of you were most excited for was being able to feel the baby kicking. Minho sang to your belly every night after you first broke the news, even as you laughed and told him that he or she didn’t have ears yet.

“So?” he questioned, glaring at you from where he had his head pressed against the bare skin of your stomach.

“You also know you don’t have to lift my shirt up, right?”

“Yeah? Well then I can’t do this,” he’d said before blowing a raspberry straight onto your belly button. His laughter then quickly turned into a string of apologies as he came to the realization that the sound might have been too loud, his hand rubbing soothing circles along the lower part of your stomach while you watched with fond eyes.

Minho never missed a night. He made sure that he was always home before you went to bed when he could be, oftentimes fighting with his manager to be let out early or skip practice entirely, promising to show up early the next day and put in the work on his own time. On the nights where he couldn’t make it or the two of you were separated by distance that made him want to give it all up, he called and made you press the speaker into your gradually hardening baby bump.

You and Minho found out that you were having a girl on the day of the first snow. The two of you watched with tear-filled eyes as the ultrasound technician pointed to the monitor in excitement, her smile detectable even beneath the mask she had covering her face.

“Congratulations! It��s a girl!”

Minho called his mom first. Her shouts of joy were so loud that he had to hold the phone away from his ear, his smile the brightest that you’d ever seen. Pride. He was so proud of his little family that he thought his heart might burst.

You called your parents next, and Minho held the phone up so that the two of you could give them the news through the camera, his free hand squeezing yours tightly as you cried and told them that you couldn’t wait for them to come visit once the baby came.

The members were last, all seven of them piled on top of one another on the couch in the practice room, Hyunjin and Changbin fighting over the fact that ‘I can’t see, asshole!’ and ‘You’re tall enough just stand in the back!’

Finding out the gender of the baby made everything more real. Bows and dresses and frilly socks—every time Minho came back to the apartment he had a shopping bag hanging from his arm. He spent most of the time on his phone looking at baby things and stuff that was completely unnecessary.

“What about this?” he asked, pointing his phone down to where your head was resting in his lap.

“Minho,” you scolded, glancing up at him with furrowed eyebrows, “I am not buying a booger straw for the baby.”

“It’s not a booger straw—”

“That is one hundred percent a booger straw. You literally have to suck the boogers out of their nose. Can’t we just buy a nasal suction like normal people?”

“What if it’s not efficient enough? I hate when my nose is stuffy, what more our baby? She won’t even be able to communicate with us, I feel so bad for her.”

“Oh God,” you groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over your face as Minho continued to explain in thorough detail why a booger straw was a necessity in that very moment, even though your due date was still months away.

As time passed and your stomach grew, so did the nerves Minho had about not being present enough. With the nature of his career, it was hard for him to not feel like he wasn’t excessively absent most of the time. Stress took a toll on him, mentally and physically. It wore him thin until the circles under his eyes were the worst you’d ever seen and his mornings couldn’t start without a mandatory dosage of ibuprofen to dull the headache he had the minute he woke up.

Minho was doubtful. He had dreams that his daughter wouldn’t know who he was and that his moments with her would be spent through a phone call rather than with his arms wrapped around her tiny body. He felt like he had already failed a million times without ever even having the chance to prove himself.

On the night the baby kicked for the first time, Minho came home late.

Pregnancy fatigue had taken its toll on you that day. You’d remained in bed, too nauseated to move and aching throughout the entire expanse of your back. Minho worried the moment he woke up, but you’d urged him that you were okay and sent him on his way to the company, practically begging him to leave rather than to deal with another earful from his manager about absences. Luckily for you, his mom was able to come over, and you let her dote on you as well as cook and clean as much as she pleased.

You’d fallen asleep early, your stomach full of homemade food and blankets freshly washed, leaving Minho in a frazzled state because you hadn’t picked up his calls for his nightly belly-singing session. To top it all off, dance practice ran late because of a last minute formation change that needed to be perfected before the next day’s performance.

When he finally made it home, Minho booked it to the bedroom, dropping to his knees next to the bed to place his hands on your stomach as you slept peacefully on your side, your head tucked into the crook of your elbow.

Sometimes, unbeknownst to you, Minho would wake in the middle of the night and talk to your stomach, talk to the baby. It was a little self-indulgent, some alone time for him to speak all of his worries, fears, hopes, and dreams out into the world. That night, it was just them again. Just Minho and the baby.

“I’m home,” he’d said quietly, rubbing soft circles into the material of your shirt, “Daddy’s sorry he’s late. It’s snowing outside, so I couldn't drive too fast.” He waited a few seconds before starting to sing, his voice soft, quiet enough that he wouldn’t wake you up:

펄, 펄, 눈이 옵니다

peol, peol, the snow is falling

하늘에서 눈이 옵니다

the snow is falling from the sky

하늘 나라 선녀님들이

the heavenly seonyeos

송이 송이 하얀 솜을

the white cotton

자꾸 자꾸 뿌려 줍니다

it keeps sprinkling

Minho had moved forward once he was done, resting his cheek against your stomach as gently as possible. He let his eyes focus on the snow falling outside the window, the city covered in a thin blanket of white.

“You’re gonna need a name soon, huh?” he asked, lightly drumming his fingers against your belly. “We found out you were a girl on the first snow, did you know that? My little snow girl. My—wait. Seola means snow girl. That’s pretty, right? Do you like that?”

Minho, not expecting a response, nearly screamed when he felt the softest of thumps against the skin of your stomach, just beneath the palm of his hand.

“What—” Kick.

“B-Babe.” He said, louder this time, sitting up straight to stare at your stomach with wide eyes. You stirred awake, shifting slightly to crack an eye open.

“Minho? You’re home? What are you—”

“Has she been kicking?”

You shook your head, pushing yourself up to rest your back against the headboard. “No, of course not, I would’ve told you if she did. Why? Did something—” You were cut off by the strongest kick yet, your hand flying to your stomach.

“Seola.” Minho had said again, his voice cracking halfway through when another kick came before he could even finish speaking.

From that moment on, Minho knew in his heart that your daughter’s name was always meant to be Seola. He’d talk endlessly about how he would always treat the first snow of the year like a second birthday, and he’d always make it a point to say her name whenever he was talking or singing to your belly.

Much like now, with his back turned to you, Minho’s voice is still as gentle as ever.

“Sometimes when the air is angry it makes electricity,” he says, swaying back and forth as Seola rests her cheek against his shoulder. Her eyes are droopy, heavy with sleep as Minho talks to soothe her back to bed. “And then the lightning makes the air really really hot, and it goes boom.” He pats her back a few times, shushing her when she brings a fist up to her face to rub it angrily. He hums a soft melody, something nonsensical, quiet enough to lull her to sleep but also loud enough to overpower the sound of heavy rain hitting the window.

You watch as he lays her back in her crib, black hair fanned out around her head as he places a warm hand on her stomach to keep some added weight on her body until he’s certain she’s sleeping deeply.

“Oh look,” you say from the doorway, making him jump, “You bored her back to sleep.”

Minho laughs, light and airy, walking over to wrap his arms around you and rest his cheek against your head.

“Jealous that she likes my voice more?”

Minho’s voice, still deep with sleep, rumbles beneath his chest, right where you have your face pressed into it. You take a deep breath, inhaling him as best as you can, his cologne mixing with the smell of baby powder and Seola’s soap.

“No, I just wish you would come back to bed now and bore me to sleep too.”

A hand runs up and down your back, Minho’s adam's apple bobs when he swallows too hard. “I wouldn’t have to if you stayed there like I told you to.”

“I just wanted to check on you,” you sigh, “Also it’s nice to see the two of you together. I don’t get to see it a lot, y’know?”

Minho stills on his feet, and you pull back in time to catch the ghost of a frown on his face.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, “I know. I’m—fuck, I have to be gone tomorrow too.” He runs a hand through his hair, and you can practically see the guilt worming its way into his head.

Determined to stop the inevitable self-loathing, you bring your hands up to cup his face, your thumbs running gently along the corners of his mouth. He melts into the touch immediately, closing his eyes and exhaling out of his nose.

“That’s not what I meant. I just like to cherish the time we have when all three of us are together, that’s all. This isn’t a ‘you versus me’ thing, okay? This is me and you making do with what we have.”

“Yeah,” he nods, “Yeah I know. Me and you.”

“Always.” You smile, leaning up to press your lips together.

With the thunder no longer rumbling overhead and the rain lighter than it had been earlier, you and Minho deem it safe enough to retreat into your bedroom without running the risk of Seola being woken up again.

“Do you want me to explain the force of gravity?” He whispers, playful but weak where his fatigue is starting to seep into his bones.

You laugh and tuck your face into his neck, his arms tightening around you on instinct. When you don’t answer, he knows that he doesn’t have to speak for you to drift off to sleep; knows that no matter what you’ll always be at home tucked into his side, and eventually lets sleep overtake him too.

When morning hits the sky is cloudy and the room is painted in a pale gray. The spot next to you is cold, sheets still tousled from sleep where Minho had been. You frown, glancing at the baby monitor on the nightstand that’s oddly quiet. It’s not normal for you to wake without the sounds of Seola beating your internal clock to it.

Your confusion only grows when you step into the hallway, the sounds of light snoring drifting out from the nursery. When you breach the doorway, you stop short, your heart doubling in size at the sight before you.

Minho is there, slumped against the side of the crib, his head leaning on one of the slats of wood and his arm shoved through the gap, Seola’s hand wrapped tightly around his finger. He must’ve gotten worried at some point in the night, scared that the rain would wake her again.

You inch forward to kneel beside him, running a hand through his hair and smiling when the touch makes his nose twitch. Seola’s own does the same when she sleeps, a little mole on the tip of her right nostril, just like her dad has on his left nostril. A direct reflection of one another; of love in its purest form.

On the floor beside him, Minho’s phone lays open:

To: Chan [2:45a.m.]

I won’t be in later

Find a way to manage without me

#lee know x reader #lee know fluff #lee know angst #skz x reader #skz fluff #skz angst #lee know fanfic #lee know fanfiction #lee know fic #skz fanfic #skz fanfiction #skz fic #stray kids fic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #dad lee know #lee know as a dad #dad!minho #dad!leeknow

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munson-blurbs · 5 months

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Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

Day 1 of TUI-Mas

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), unprotected p in v, breeding kink and lots of it, fingering, oral (f! receiving)

WC: 2k

Divider credit to @saradika

October 1998

Your head rests on Eddie’s thigh, cheek pressed against the cotton sweatpants serving as his pajamas. His fingertips dance along your shoulder in comforting circles, the other hand digging into a bag of peanut M&Ms and dropping several into his mouth at once.

Harris is sleeping in bed, his little eyes having drifted closed halfway through his second bedtime story. You’d laughed softly, kissed his forehead, and closed the door as quietly as you could.

On the TV screen, Phoebe Buffay prepares to give birth to triplets while Joey’s learned that his sympathy pains are actually kidney stones.

The candy shell crunching ceases as Eddie speaks over the characters’ dialogue. “You ever think about that?” he asks, jerking his chin towards the monitor.

“Having three babies at once?” You wrinkle your nose, tugging the fleece blanket up a bit higher. You adjust your position so you can see his chocolate-smudged lips. “Only in my nightmares.”

Eddie laughs, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his doe eyes. “N-No, just, like…having a baby?” His front teeth scrape his lower lip nervously while he awaits your response.

You shrug. “Yeah, I mean, I definitely want to have kids with you. And I know Harris is dying for a sibling to play with,” you add teasingly, though your words are true. He’d come home from school last week claiming that his friend Joshua’s mommy was having another baby, lamenting that it wasn’t fair because Joshua already had a sister. “I can’t wait to add some more Munsons to our little family.”

“Okay, yeah,” Eddie nods, swallowing thickly. “So, um, what exactly are we waiting for?”

The question makes you sit up, pushing yourself with your palms, so you can look him in the eyes. “We’ve only been married for a few months…” you trail off, unsure what to say next, but it doesn’t matter because Eddie leans in and silences you with his lips on yours. Tiny, passionate kisses, his smile rendering him unable to draw them out longer.

“I’m ready whenever you are,” he murmurs, nose gently bumping yours. Four fingers are tucked behind your ear, his thumb delicately grazing your cheek. “There’s no rush, ‘kay? No Baby Munsons until you’re totally on board.”

“What if I’m ready, too?” You kiss him, body buzzing with nerves just from having this conversation. An excited giggle slips out, and you drape your arms over his shoulder to straddle his waist. “What if I want to start trying?”

Eddie throws his head back and laughs; he swears he’s hit the jackpot with you. “Then I say…to hell with those pesky birth control pills.” He kisses you again, peppering them all over your face and neck. “C’mon, Sweetheart. Let’s make a baby.”

It’s a few weeks later when Eddie breezes through the apartment door after work, kicking off his Reeboks in the general direction of the hall closet. His weary expression shifts to a joyous one when he sees you walk out of the bedroom with a knowing grin on your face.

“What’s that little smirk for, hmm?” he teases, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you towards him. An autumn chill sticks to his leather jacket; you shiver as the cold fabric brushes your bare arms. “And where’s the other troublemaker?”

“Harris is at Wayne’s for the night,” you tell him, stepping back slightly and briefly lacing your fingers with his before grabbing something from the back pocket of the jeans you immediately changed into after work. “This little line means that I’m currently ovulating,” you quickly explain, not wanting him to confuse it with another important test.

Eddie’s grin could split his cheeks in half. “So…so that means…” his eyes shine bright with anticipation. “It’s baby-making time?”

You giggle at his phrasing. “Yes, Eddie,” you confirm through peals of laughter. “It’s baby-making time.”

Eddie’s lips crash onto yours in an instant. He groans into the kiss, hands instinctively grabbing your ass to pull you closer. Your own fingers grasp his jacket by the zipper teeth, tugging it off of his body and letting it fall to the floor unceremoniously. His hands snake underneath your sweater, eyes widening when he touches supple skin rather than the underwire of a bra.

“Mhm,” you bite your lower lip and nod, gasps of pleasure caught in your throat as his thumbs brush against your nipples, giving them a small tweak. He grins at your reaction, more than satisfied to be catching you off-guard.

“Y’know,” he muses, not straying from your breasts, “I won’t be able to be so rough with ‘em once I knock you up. They’ll be extra sensitive, and I gotta take care of my girl.” The sweater is a hindrance, burying the treasure he so desperately desires, so you shed it without a second thought.

He stares at your bare torso for a moment, enthralled with your body even after all this time. Like a vampire lusting for blood, his teeth sink just below your areola, nipping and sucking sloppily until the underside of your breast is dripping with his saliva. “C’mere,” he growls, taking a breath and leading you into the bedroom.

You’ve never seen Eddie this hungry for you; his lips and tongue and hands trailing along your curves and leaving goosebumps in their path. It’s as though he can’t decide where to touch you and with what.

All articles of clothing–both yours and his–are long gone by the time your bodies tangle in the bedsheets. The only word you can manage is his name, so you whisper it over and over again.

Eddie. Eddie. Eddie.

His body towers over yours, middle finger gliding up and down your folds, gathering your slick and rubbing deliberate circles on your clit. Your trembling legs fuel his own passion, his erection flush against his tummy and leaking pre-cum.

“You need me inside you, Sweetheart?” Eddie coos, letting his finger drift down towards your wanting hole. When you nod pathetically, unable to string together a sentence, he laughs. “I’d normally make you beg, but seeing as you’re gonna be carrying my baby, I’ll let it slide.” He lays down, hissing at the glorious pressure against his cock. “In fact, I’m gonna make sure my girl gets everything she needs tonight.”

Soft lips wrap around your swollen bud while his middle and ring fingers stretch you deliciously. You buck your hips, using his face to draw you towards what you suspect will be your first of multiple orgasms.

The only sound lewder than your wanton moans is the schlick of his fingers pulsing in and out, soaked with your arousal. You let yourself float away, relishing in the comfort of his control.

“F-Fuck, Eddie…” you sputter, arching your back and hooking your grasp into his curls. He smiles against your pussy as you clench around his fingers.

“Thassit, honey.” He breaks his rhythm for a split second to encourage you, resuming his pace like he’d never stopped. Maybe it stems from his musical prowess, or maybe he simply knows your body that well. You love this man, and you swear you’ll do anything to give him a baby.

You come undone moments later, taking everything you need without hesitation. Eddie lowers you from the high and kisses down your thighs, your arousal smeared on his pursed lips.

“Need you to do me a favor,” he says, shifting his body so his eyes gaze directly into yours, pupils blown out with lust. “Need you to bend your legs and hold onto your knees. Can you do that for me, Sweetheart?”

You nod, bringing your knees to your chest and hugging them tight. Eddie’s breath hitches, taking in the view of you, glistening and on display just for him.

“Fuckin’...perfect…” he groans, running his hardened length along you, slowly pushing in. “Gettin’ to watch your pretty pussy cream my cock…shit…’s my favorite fuckin’ sight, I swear.” He grips your hips so tightly that it pinches a bit, pain indistinguishable from pleasure.

He’s entranced in a way you haven’t seen before, despite the multitude of times he’s already had you in this position. Your eyes fill with emotion when the realization hits: you and Eddie could make a baby right now. A little being that’s half-him and half-you.

“‘S everything okay?” he asks, one hand moving from your waist to gently brush away a rogue tear slipping down your cheek.

“Mhm,” you answer, laughing and crying at the same time. “I’m just really happy that this is for real. No more pretending; we’re actually doing this to expand our family.”

Eddie swoops down to kiss you, a few soft pecks punctuated with a long, intimate embrace. “I love you so much.” He says it as a promise, not a simple statement. “You’re mine and I’m yours, and I never want you to forget that.” He resumes thrusting, pulling almost all the way out and leaving just the tip inside you, before sinking back in. The movement draws a whine from deep within you, and he wears it as a badge of honor. “That’s my girl, my sweet girl, gonna have my baby.”

Sweat trickles down the bridge of his nose and drips onto your chest between your breasts. He bites his lip in determination. “Shit, ‘m close already,” he mumbles, smiling as he adds, “kinda wish I didn’t have to cum so we could stay like this, but, uh, that would defeat the purpose, huh?”

Your eyes crinkle at the corners as you giggle, which only further spurs him on. “You get tighter when you laugh, fuck, babe.” But he’s laughing with you, stopping for a second to get his bearings. “I gotta stay focused! Trying to make a baby over here!” His palms flex on your knees before gripping them again.

“I’m sorry!” You’re not, and neither is he, the two of you soaking in the comfort of being with the person you trust completely and love wholeheartedly.

“Okay, okay,” he says, wiping perspiration from his brows with the back of his hand. “Let’s get back on track.” His thrusts resume slowly as he once again grows harder within your walls, gradually quickening in pace.

Everything is overwhelming; the way he feels inside you, the sweetly possessive hold he has on his legs, the unexpected comedic interlude, the potential to create a new life. Passion sweeps you up into its embrace and you come with a strained cry of your husband’s name.

“Want your baby, Eddie. Please.”

Eddie’s brown eyes shine at your desperate plea. He nears his own climax, hair sticking to his forehead and his guitar pick necklace thumping against his chest. “‘M right there, Sweetheart; you’re milking my cock so good.” His biceps tremble as he gives a final few pistons of his hips, spilling into you harder than he ever has before. “Fuck, gonna give you a baby, take it.”

You shiver when he growls the last two words, savoring the movements until they abruptly stop. With panting breaths, Eddie slides out of you.

“Don’t move,” he gently commands, holding up one finger and using the other hand to hold his softening dick. He scrambles for a free pillow and tucks it underneath your hips. “Helps ‘em swim faster,” he sheepishly explains. “Or, like, hit their target a little better.”

“Hit their target?” You ask through a bemused grin. “Is that the proper medical terminology?”

Eddie rolls his eyes playfully, returning to the bed and nuzzling into you. His frizzy curls tickle your chin when he rests his head on top of one breast. You both lay in comfortable silence for a few minutes before he speaks again.

“Can’t wait to see if it worked,” he muses while fighting a yawn. “Whatever happens, it felt special, y’know?”

You know. Your hand flutters over your abdomen; Eddie drapes his over yours soon after. The two of you fall asleep wrapped up in one another and an intoxicating blanket of hope.

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui #smut

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01zfan · 4 months

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second | j. sc

boyfriend!sungchan x fem reader | 3.4k words

second base - petting above the waist, including touching, feeling, and fondling the chest, breasts, and nipples.

contains: barely public car shenanigans, touching above the waist, fluff, smut

base series: first | second | third | homerun

you and your boyfriend are in the front seat of his car when you two should be seating in the theater. you had plans to see a new movie. the barcode sitting on his phone that should’ve been scanned fifteen minutes ago.

instead of watching a movie and eating popcorn, you two made the executive decision to eat eachother’s faces in the leaned back driver’s seat of sungchan’s car. you two are lucky you’re in the back of an abandoned parking lot, away from anyone who could possibly see what you two are doing. you didn’t have a chance to even make it to the theater, ruining the “date day” sungchan had intricately planned out for you. it was a surprise, sungchan first saying you two were going to the store. you should’ve suspected more when he told you to dress nice and to be fully prepared for a “day of errands”.

the date had started out at a pottery painting place. you remember in the back of your mind showing sungchan a tiktok of cute date ideas, something randomly popping up on your for you page. you had no idea he had paid attention much less booked you two an appointment to paint ceramics. you were surprised that he remembered something you showed him so long ago that even you had forgotten. you learned that although sungchan was talented with his hands, painting was not his calling. you learned that hands learned to hold a hockey stick didn’t transfer to holding a paint brush. you can’t say sungchan didn’t try his best. the idea was cute and well thought out, it was just that towards the end something along the way was lost. the finished product was allegedly supposed to be you two holding hands on a grassy field. you did everything in your power to hold back a laugh when he showed you the finished product.

“babe don’t laugh at me.” sungchan said pouting. you were two stick figures with gigantic hands. “it’s because i’m emphasizing that we are holding hands!”

when it was done you left it with the pottery staff so they could glaze the finished product. it would be awhile until they were taken home so you took a picture of your finished products. you thought the day was over, getting ready to go home. sungchan wasn’t done with you just yet. you were confused once again when sungchan parked in front of a cafe you’d never seen before. you guys went to lunch at the cafe that also had boardgames. the food was alright, and the games were okay, but the pictures that sungchan took of you was the highlight.

“you know how much i love taking pictures of you, babe.” sungchan said. it was funny seeing him take photos of you. he would contort his comically large body however he could to get the perfect angle of you. sungchan called you his muse, yelling compliments from behind his phone camera that made you blush. it was a nice change of pace too, since you were usually the one taking pictures of others. you always thought you were awkward in front of the camera, which is why you preferred to be behind it. but sungchan took the time to coax you out of your shell by showing you pose ideas and always complimenting you no matter how the photos turned out.

after the impromptu photo session you were spent. you knew your boyfriend knew you well when he took you to the park. he carried the blankets while you looked for the perfect tree with shade underneath it.

you two were camped under the trees, people watching and listening to music that reminded you of one another. sungchan laid on your stomach while you played with his hair. it was a position that you guys always found yourselves slipping into when together.

“this song reminds me of you.” sungchan said, turning up the volume on his phone. it was a cute song, one about being young and in love.

you added the song to your secret playlist, the one you had been compiling since you first met. songs that you were afraid to show him at first, songs you think he’d like, songs you liked. it had a little bit of everything and you had the plan to show it to him on some sort of anniversary. while you were playing with his hair, you wondered what brought this all on. sungchan planned dates of course, but something in the air felt different.

“is there a reason for all of this?” you ask sungchan. he looks up from your stomach to smile at you.

“just as a celebration.” sungchan says. he looks up through the leaves of the trees filtering harsh sunlight. some of the light filters through, showing a beautiful highlight on your face. sungchan was tempted to take a photo of you but instead he opted to save the mental image of you being bathed in sunlight.

“celebration of what?” you ask. some hair from his bangs had fallen into his eye so you move it out the way.

“hockey season is over now so i just wanted to show you that we can still spend time together.” sungchan says happily.

you smile while continuing to play with his hair. you would be lying if you didn’t have your hesitations for the season ending. you and sungchan had spent nearly every single dat of the season together as the teams’ photographer. now that it was over you thought you two would drift apart or even break up now that close proximity was no longer an option.

“i appreciate that. but i think you might be stuck with me now.” you say. sungchan smiles at you and continues to watch people around the park.

you guys stay at the park for a majority of the day. sungchan eventually ends up joining a game of volleyball as you watch from the shade of the tree. you would’ve loved to join but you didn’t want to think about sweating in your nice outfit. you also wanted to be fully seated for the show sungchan was about to give you.

your boyfriend took it upon himself to play for the both of you. sungchan was jumping, hitting, and passing with ease. you wanted to remind him that it was an innocent game of pickup volleyball. you thought it would be useless to mention it when he took off his shirt and rolled his jeans up to his knees to give him more mobility. you laughed at how much effort he was putting into the game. during breaks or in between plays sungchan would face to where you were sitting and make a show of flexing his muscles and posing for you. each time you cheered loudly like a fangirl, making sure everyone playing heard you.

when the game was done sungchan had worked up a sweat, to the point that you both had to go back to his place so he could shower. you sat on his bed, expecting for your day to be done. you couldn’t help but be excited at the fact that you two were conveniently at his place while his parents weren’t here. you had gotten comfortable on his bed and even found on of his shirts that you could wear to sleep. you were searching through netflix looking for the perfect movie to be background noise when sungchan came out dressed in a casual outfit. you had expected to see him in his pajamas or sweats, something that would make him ready for bed. sungchan revealed the final part of your date. it was a double date, with anton and yunjin at the movie theater.

sungchan drove you both around town for a while, not sure what to do while waiting for the movie. sungchan had made the mistake of getting movie times mixed up, so now you two had thirty minutes to spare before having to be there. the whole time while he was driving you had to fight hard to ignore his hand that was on your thigh. when sungchan parked in the back of the movie theater parking lot you tried your best to sound shocked.

“we are really far away from all the other cars.” you say innocently.

“we got some time before the movie starts,” sungchan says. he moves the seat backwards with the automatic button on the side and makes use of the extra room, spreading out his body and legs. “wanna come over here?”

sungchan helps you over the center console with ease and you are on his lap. you could never get used to the feeling of him underneath you. his athletic legs were like cushions underneath yours and his legs spreading made you extremely pliable. this position always makes you feel antsy in the best way. the way sungchan has to look up to you makes you feel like you are in charge but you both know his strength has you completely at his mercy.

before making a move to kiss your lips, sungchan plays with an earring hanging from your ear.

“sungchan,” he pulls away from your ear to look at you in your eyes. “i had alot of fun today.” you say.

he nods as you press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“but can we have a little bit more fun? before the movie starts?” you say, looking down at him.

sungchan is more than happy to pull you into a kiss. this one is different from the one you gave him. he wastes no time to tilt your head with his hand and drag his tongue along your lips. you open your mouth wider and you let him in. you can’t get enough of the feeling when he grips the back of your neck to get you you open your mouth a little wider. he’s having the time of your life kissing him, feeling him move under you and against you. when you pull away from sungchan and you see a string of spit connection your lips to his. sungchan holds onto your hips, massaging the skin in his hands.

“we are going to be late for the movie.” you say looking at your phone. the movie starts in twenty minutes.

“let’s go then.” sungchan says back. neither of you make a move. sungchan smirks, moving a hand going back to your neck.

“just five more minutes.” sungchan brings you in and you oblige, immediately catching his lip in your mouth. you suck on his bottom lip, the soft skin sweeter than any confections the theater can offer.

sungchans’ hands roam up and down your body, unsure of where to put them. this is when your position above him works perfectly. it gives you just enough sense of authority to make the move to his hand and put it over your breast.

you can instantly feel sungchan become distracted, his kisses had become delayed and his tongue freezes in your mouth. his legs that were making a game of spreading yours stop. you let him rest his big hand on your chest and use your hand over his to squeeze. sungchan took this as permission to kneed your breasts over your bra. you let out a sigh of relief when he brought his other hand to the other side to do the same thing.

“i thought you’d never do it.” you say. you lean back exposing as much of your chest as you can, giving him the entire expanse of your chest to roam.

“didn’t wanna move too fast baby.” sungchan says.

he has completely abandoned trying to kiss you, fully focused on making up for lost time with your breasts. even over a bra and blouse your skin felt soft and yielding underneath his hands. sungchan was slowly losing himself in between the valley of your mounds and he wanted to stay there. the movie was the furthest thing away from his mind.

“do you want to see them?” you ask quietly.

sungchan nodded like a idiot, afraid that if he said yes he would be confess that he had been thinking about your boobs like some hormonal teenager. he was ashamed to admit that he wondered if they would fit in the palm of his hands or be smaller, if your nipples were the same color as your lips, or if you played with them when you thought of him. he thought about your boobs the most when you were button up blouses like these, or on the days you’d go braless. when sungchan could see your hardened nipple through your shirts he always had to avert his eyes. he hoped you never noticed when he’d be staring at the shape of your boobs through your shirt. sungchan never wanted to pressure you to show him, but when make out sessions would get heated he wanted nothing more than to feel your chest the same way you were letting him feel them now.

you were slow and steady with each button. even though the pace was agonizing, sungchan used the time it took with each button to try and compose himself. he was liable to cum in his pants at the first look, and he absolutely had to focus on not embarrassing himself if he wanted to feel you up like he had been dreaming to. when you were halfway up, revealing the outer trim of your bra you put your hands down.

“wanna do the rest?” you asked, with a smile playing on your lips.

sungchan brings hands up to your blouse. they have a slight tremor to them and sungchan almost laughs at how ridiculous he’s being, how nervous he is for no reason. you must’ve seen his red cheeks because you put his hands over his reassuringly.

“don’t be embarrassed. i take it as a compliment.” you say.

you both work together to undo the remaining buttons. sungchan helps your arm out of your sleeves. when the blouse is finally off of you, you are the one who’s shy. as a reflex your arms come up to cover your bosom. before you can, sungchan thumbs the fabric of your blue lacy bra in his fingers.

“i think blue is my favorite color now.” sungchan said. you would’ve taken it as a joke but the way he stared at you made you think he wasn’t kidding. sungchan looked to you with wide eyes, like it was his first time ever seeing the color blue.

“do you want me to keep it on?” you ask. seeing sungchan so enamored by you gave you confidence.

“can i see all of you?” sungchan asked.

you nodded as he was reaching behind you for the clasps of your bra. it only took him two tries before he was able to undo the clasps. you let out a gasp when you could feel your bra loosen on your body. there was no going back as you let the straps fall forward off your shoulders.

sungchan thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. even his greatest imagination fell short of what he saw before him. he felt like a teenager seeing boobs for the first time. when you used your arms to bring them closer together he had to clear his throat to focus on something else. he looked at you looking at him and was extremely aware of the tent in his pants, and how close your thighs were to it.

“baby. can i touch them?” sungchan asked. he was pleading and desperate, as if you could ever say no to those eyes.

he was careful and attentive when he first put his hands on you. sungchan almost felt like he was tainting your pure beauty with his hands. did he even deserve to touch you? he didn’t think he was worthy to touch the supple skin, or to flick your hardening nipples. when you held him a little tighter sungchan was driven by the idea of making you feel good. when he experimentally pinched your nipples between his thumb and index finger you nodded your head vigorously.

“keep going.” you whispered. sungchan started pinching a little hasher and you let out a new sound sungchan hadn’t heard you make before.

“does this hurt?” sungchan asked worried. he rolled both your nipples in his fingers, feeling the buds get harder and harder.

“it hurts in a good way,” you laugh. you seem to be getting carried away on your own, moving your hips slightly on sungchan’s lap. “take off your shirt.”

sungchan is upset he has to pull away from your chest to expose his. sungchans’ shirt is off in a second, thrown the backseat unlike yours that was neatly placed in the passenger side. sungchan flexes for your enjoyment and your hands go to his chest slowly. you do the same pinching motion he did to you and sungchan is shocked at the new sensation.

“wow you were right.” sungchan says. the pain is there, but it’s a type of pain that gives him a little bit of excitement. it’s the type of pain that has him reaching for your chest a little more aggressively, kneading the fleshy parts a little harder.

you arch your back towards sungchan’s face, straining into his hands. you close your eyes as he gets more into feeling your chest. sungchan has his hands full of you now.

“sungchan,” you moan. sungchan looks at you instantly. “can you suck on it?” you ask a little louder than you meant to.

you think you may explode from the heat you feel everywhere. the car feels like it’s crackling with electricity, like a bolt of lightening is about to touchdown right beside your car. sungchan’s cold tongue on your nipple cools you down, and you lean so far back lay on the horn of his car. the blaring sound doesn’t stop as he sucks on you, and it fails to drown out your moans that fill the car. sungchan has to sit up and use his free arm to pull you into him and off his horn. it isn’t until he adds the pinching motion to your free nipple that your digging your nails into his back.

sungchan doesn’t stop, looking at you react to his every move. he wants to tell you that you’re addicting and the softest thing he’s ever touched, but all he can do is nod and bring his mouth to your other nipple when you say you’re close. you finish when he nips a little bit, adding a new wave of pleasure coated in pain. you ride out the wave on his lap, amazed that you are having an orgasm without any stimulation in your pants.

when you finally pull your hands off of sungchan you can see crescent moon shapes from the impression your nails left. you can barely mumble out a sorry as you slump against him, chest to chest. you are so sensitive and out of it that you almost don’t notice the wet spot where sungchan finished in his pants.

“that’s never happened to me before.” sungchan pants into your hair. it’s relieving that he’s just as shocked as you are.

you both stay in the drivers seat of his car trying to regain composure. when sungchan finally pulls back he lets his body rest on the back of his seat. you don’t know he means to but his bare chest and new exposed view of his neck already has your body winding up for more. you look at sungchans’ arms as he reaches to the passenger seat for your clothes. he slowly helps you back into your bra, letting you lay against his chest so he can peer over your shoulder to make sure he clasps it correctly. it isn’t until he buttons your blouse up and smoothes out your hair that he reaches to the backseat to put on his own shirt. you feel at ease even in the stuffiness of his car, so at ease that you almost fall asleep until you jerk up from sungchans’ chest. you see your phone light up with a text notification and several missed calls from yunjin.

“we are definitely going to miss the movie.” sungchan says while leaning the seat even further back.

#01zfan: sungchan #seriez: bases #sungchan smut #riize smut

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kingkatsuki · 8 months

Text

— sleazy

Everyone thinks Red Riot is such a nice hero, but really he just loves fucking his cute, unsuspecting fangirls.

Pairing: Kirishima Eijirou x f!reader.

Warnings: 18+, not proofread, non-con/dub-con, implied!drugging but could just be seen as intoxication, unprotected sex, teeny tiny bit of assplay, Kirishima promises to wear a condom but doesn’t, creampie, public sex.

Word Count: 2.5k.

“You’re so lucky!” You heard the voices around the table when the Red Riot had offered to buy you a drink.

Suddenly finding it difficult to speak when you gave him a nod in response, grateful that he’d looked down at your glass of wine as an indication of what to order you because you weren’t sure you would’ve been able to answer if he’d asked.

You felt hot as it seemed as though every set of eyes in the vicinity were on you now— from the women who wished that he’d picked them, to the men that he’d come in with standing around the bar. The angry blond more formerly known as Dynamight seemed to be glaring at you from across the room, shaking his head slightly before downing the rest of his whisky.

“Don’t worry about him,” Kirishima grinned softly at you as he handed you a glass, “He always looks like that.”

Kirishima had this perfect way of making you feel at ease, the friendly tone to his voice paired with kind eyes made it easy for you to melt into him. Silencing any objections you’d usually have if a guy leaned down to tug your chair closer to him, or wrapped their arm around your waist during a first date. It was different when it was Red Riot— you felt like you already knew him. From your television screen to the huge billboards that were up all over the city to promote his latest collaboration. The man that you followed on social media and religiously liked his posts, not that you’d told him that— although with another few drinks inside you, you might.

“You look gorgeous tonight, you know,” His warm lips brush the shell of your ear as he leans closer to talk to you over the loud bass of music in the club, “I just had to come and talk to you.”

You don’t even question it when he lays a huge palm on your bare thigh, his thumb disappearing beneath the hem of your dress. Ghosting against the lace of your panties as you give another glance around the bar to see if anyone is looking— the only set of eyes that match your gaze are the same crimson ones from earlier, Dynamight still watching intently as he nurses his drink.

The fact that the Red Riot has asked for your number, bought you countless drinks and given you his undivided attention has you bursting with glee. Certain that none of your friends will believe you, instead wishing they’d come to the bar tonight to see for themselves when you tell them that you’re courting the number twelve hero.

“It’s so loud here,” His palm squeezes your inner thigh and you can’t stop your heart from pounding against your ribcage, making it difficult to breathe as his warm breath fans your skin, “Do you want to go somewhere quieter?”

“Yeah, sure.” You find yourself nodding as he helps you stand, certain you weren’t this drunk before.

“Whoops—” He grins as he grabs your hips, his fingers brushing the curve of your ass as he keeps you upright, “I’ve got you.”

And it’s that moment you feel his hard bulge pressed against the small of your back. Even in heels he dominates your size, towering over you as a pure wall of strength and muscle as he guides you through the crowds. Stepping down a quieter hall that leads towards the bathrooms as he presses you against a wall, large palms still planted firm on your hips.

“I’ve wanted you all night,” He sighs, pressing wet open-mouthed kisses against your neck, “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“This is too fast,” You mumble, already feeling his fingers dipping beneath your skirt to grab your ass.

“Aw, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” He seems so sincere when he looks down at you with worried eyes, “Shall I call you a cab home? I just thought you wanted to have some fun.”

“I do, but—”

“But you’d prefer Dynamight or someone, huh?” His eyes droop, “I get it, that always fucking happens when it’s someone I really like—”

“No! I like you too,” You panic when he takes a step back, trying to step forward as you stumble into his arms.

“You do?” He coos, holding you tight, “I’m so lucky I found you.”

It’s embarrassing when he tugs you into the men’s bathroom, sets of eyes watching you with knowing looks from the urinals as he opts for a stall. Locking the door as he presses you against the sink, allowing you to look at him through the reflection in the mirror as he pulls your top over your breasts.

“You’re fucking stunning,” He groans, cupping your breasts as you grind yourself back against him. Alcohol inebriating your senses as he strokes your body, wondering whether you should just tell him to slow down now.

“It’s too much,” You mumble, unsure whether he put something in your drink as your head pounds.

But this is Red Riot, he wouldn’t do that, would he? He’s a Pro-Hero tasked to protect you from sleazy people like that, to make sure you’re safe.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” He coos, “I’ll take good care of you.”

“We shouldn’t,” You slur, “Not here.”

“Oh? But I bought you all those drinks,” He mumbles against your neck, “I thought you liked me.”

“I do!” You panic, catching the forlorn look on his face.

“You do?” His eyes immediately brighten, “I’m glad because I like you too, sweetheart. A lot—”

He has you feeling like a giddy, lovesick schoolgirl as he reaches under your skirt to pull down your panties. Letting the fabric settle around your knees as he works on unbuckling his jeans. A large palm splayed on your back to push you over the sink as he guides the leaky tip towards your slit.

“Wait,” You mumble, trying not to slur your words, “Condom.”

You miss the look of annoyance that flashes through Kirishima’s eyes in his reflection in the mirror as you turn to look back at him before that same smile spreads on his face.

“Of course, sweetheart. What do you take me for?” He’s cooing at you as he reaches into his wallet to retrieve a large foil packet, ripping it with his teeth as he leans down to put it on, “Safety first, yeah?”

And the tip of his cock nudges against your ass, feeling the slickness of lube from the latex smear against your bare ass as you cling to the porcelain. Holding on as you watch him in the mirror as he slides the condom onto his cock.

“There,” His hand smooths along your ass, rubbing the lube against your skin to get it off his hand as he pushes his hips forward.

He’s big. The swollen tip enough to have a lump in your throat as you forget to breathe, wiggling your hips in a feeble attempt to reduce the ache.

“Shh, baby. I know, I know.” He coos, pulling back to fist his cock, “Let’s try again, yeah?”

But you don’t notice the devious smirk on his face, or the way his eyes glint with intent as he slides the annoying latex off his thick cock. Discarding it to the floor like trash as he wraps his cock in a large fist again, tapping the leaking tip on your slit before sliding it through your folds. Letting it catch against your tight entrance again as he can finally feel you without a latex barrier.

“Is this okay?” He hums, keeping his tip pressed against your quivering hole.

You nod in response as you try to remember to breathe, taking in large gulps of air as you feel him slowly push his hips forward.

“I’m gonna need to hear you say it, sweetheart.” He pushes.

“Yeah, I want it.” You groan as he immediately pushes forward, feeling the tightness between your thighs.

“Oh, shit.” His eyes roll back as he groans at the feeling of your walls sucking him in. He’s far less kind now he can truly feel you as he cants his hips forward without a moment for you to adjust, the pain comes sharp and fast as he stretches you out on his cock.

“Ow,” You choke, your head lolling forward as you try to breathe, the ache between your thighs throbs sharply as Kirishima feigns sympathy.

Telling you what a good girl you are for him, what a good job you’re doing, that you’re his favourite. Clever lines he’s rehearsed time and time again, and it just so happens that they’re working on you just like they have a hundred times before on other girls.

You think you’re special, and in this moment you are. He’s picked you.

“God, your pussy feels so fucking good.” He grunts, warm palms heavy on your ass as he spreads you apart to see his cock buried deep inside your walls. The messy tuft of hair at the base tickles your skin as he pulls his hips back to give an experimental thrusr, “Taking me so well.”

You’re a mess as he fucks into you, your tits bounce with every rough buck of his hips as he presses you into the porcelain sink, your cheek leaves a messy streak of foundation against the mirror as he sets a brutal pace. Telling you it’s because he’s worried someone could come in and see you like this, that he wishes he could have you for longer to really take care of you.

And you believe every line.

“God, sweetheart. Your pussy feels amazing,” Kirishima groans, his thumb brushing the tight rim of your ass as your body jolts in surprise. Embarrassed and terrified at the same time.

“Not there, please—”

“Oh god, baby. I would never.” He shakes his head, but presses down harder against your tight hole, “Relax, Red Riot’s got you, yeah?”

His words are soothing as you try to focus on the pleasure, trying to block out the sound of footsteps outside and the way your cunt clenches around him every time someone rattles the door handle.

“Fuck, you’re clamping down on me, sweets,” He slurs, drunk on pleasure, “You’re tryin’ to milk me.”

He sucks air sharply through his teeth as he bends his back to watch his cock disappearing inside you, the slap of his balls against the swell of your thighs sounds inside the dingy bathroom as your legs shake. Balancing yourself in heels as you try to stop the sink from digging into your hips uncomfortably, certain you’ll have bruises in the morning.

“Gonna cum, shit— gonna fill this little pussy up.” He groans, and you’re certain it’s just words. Dirty talk to help get himself off as he prepares to cum inside the condom, “You want that, baby? Want me to fill you up?”

“Yes,” You find yourself playing into it, your walls throb around him as he works you towards your own release.

“That’s my girl,” He grins, reaching around to press messy circles against your puffy clit, “Gonna stuff you full of my cum.”

“Oh my god,” You repeat, clinging to the sink to keep yourself upright as you feel yourself on the edge of your release. The familiar pleasure building between your thighs as Kirishima leads you into bliss, “Kiri—”

“Red Riot, call me Red Riot—” His fingertips dig into you bruisingly as your cunt begins to convulse.

“Red Riot!” You mewl, “I’m cumming, Red Riot—”

“Oh shit, you want the entire bar to hear you, don’t you?” He grins, spanking your ass as your cunt spasms around him.

Kirishima fucks you through your climax, roughly thrusting into you as you feel the tip of him as deep as he can go. Kissing your cervix with each forward motion as he focuses on his own pleasure, his own desire.

“Hurts,” You choke out as you try to ignore the throb between your thighs or the way your skin digs uncomfortably into the porcelain.

“I’m almost there, sweetheart. Almost there—” He groans, ignoring your pleas, “Gonna fill you up.”

It doesn’t take him much longer to find his own release, his balls tightening as they begin to empty warm, hot spurts of cum into your pulsing walls. His hands smoothing down your back before reaching around to palm your naked breasts before pulling back.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” He groans when he pulls out to see strings of your slick connecting his softening cock to your folds.

And that’s when you feel it.

Warm globs of his cum slowly seeping out of your quivering walls, dribbling down your inner thighs and dropping onto the dirty floor.

“Did you— the condom?” You ask in confusion as you turn your head to face him, noticing the shiny gleam of his cock in the fluorescent lights of the bathroom as he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Oh, it must’ve ripped,” He shrugs, sticking himself back into his boxers with no care about how messy he is, “Sorry about that, sweetheart. You’ll be okay, I’m clean.”

Kirishima has just enough manners to pull your panties back up, even though you don’t have a chance to clean yourself up. Feeling his warm cum continue to drool out of you and collect in the lace of the crotch as you shuffle uncomfortably. Tugging your skirt back down as you fix your top, hearing Kirishima buckle his belt again as he checks himself out in the mirror.

“I’ll call you yeah, sweetheart?” He presses a lingering kiss to your cheek before unlocking the door to the men’s bathroom stall and stepping outside. Leaving you standing alone in the room as you stare back at your disheveled reflection.

It’s only when you look down at the ground where you notice the drops of his cum that had fallen to the floor, and beside them the discarded condom still in the perfect roll from the pack.

That he hadn’t even bothered to put on.

#Kirishima smut #tw:noncon #trigger:dubcon #red daddy riot

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monzamash · 1 year

Note

Would love to see no. 13 with Daniel

holy shit those prompts are spicy

sheeeeesh, got carried away again with this one and combined it with another suggestion that was sent in because it felt too hot not to use 🔥

daniel ricciardo x you (femreader) | 900 words 18+ minors dni

prompts used — "how many times can i make you cum?" & "i’m not going to stop until you’re dripping with my cum"

It was his birthday, after all. Thirty years on the planet, making the lives of the people he loved better each and every day while appeasing the masses with his sunny disposition. It wasn’t a huge party by his calculation, under a hundred guests of his nearest and dearest, all vying for the opportunity to wish their gorgeous Daniel a happy birthday. But there was really only one gift he was chomping at the bit to unwrap.

You.

“This dress is my favourite,” Daniel whispered into your ear as his large hand slid across your abdomen, pinning you to his chest.

You hummed in response, cocking your head to the side with an appreciative smile, “Well I did wear it for you, birthday boy. You having fun?”

Daniel turned you in his grasp and wrapped you up in a tight hug, his pearly white smile sparkling under the pretty party lights above. There was something in his honey brown eyes when they connected with yours; a deviant glimmer that you knew all too well.

“I am but–” He paused, pressing a barely there kiss to your pouting lips, “I’d rather be home alone with you.”

Your eyebrow quirked with intrigue, “Oh yeah?” You weren’t surprised but that didn’t mean you couldn’t have a little fun with him while you had his undivided attention for the first time tonight.

“What could you possibly be doing alone with me, huh?”

It was a loaded question and Daniel took very little time to answer it, “You wouldn’t be wearing this dress for starters,” He whispered, fingertips trailing down the tight silk clinging to your skin – dark eyes scanning every inch of your body.

“Or whatever’s underneath it…”

The sly smirk across your lips spread as you toyed with the loose curls on the back of his thick neck, “Presumptuous of you to think that I’m wearing anything underneath…”

Daniel couldn’t control the low growl bubbling deep within as he tilted his head back, nor did he want to – his throat tightened as he imagined peeling off the thin material obstructing him from the one thing he really wanted right now. He was insatiable in your presence, greedy to see if you were telling the truth, hoping to god you were, and your words weren’t helping him – you were killing him.

“You can’t say that shit to me, sweetheart,” He snarled, tugging you even tighter against his warm body while his lips brushed down your exposed neck, "Not here."

Daniel’s mouth was heavenly and selfishly, you let yourself enjoy it for a brief moment before inching away – you were in public after all.

“Give me a list of things you want to do to me and I promise I’ll make them happen when we get home, baby. Please,” You begged with a whimper, wanting to hear all of the naughty thoughts racing through his brain; right here, right now.

Your name slipped through Daniel’s gritted with a whine as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck, swaying you both to the music so your closeness didn’t raise any alarms. His lips brushed along the shell of your ear, voice deep and low as he scolded you; ‘you are so bad, you know that?’ and of course you did. It’s how you caught his attention in the first place.

“But because you’re begging me I guess we can workshop together,” He sighed, happily giving in to your mischievous request.

“The first thing I wanna do is taste that sweet, sweet pussy and make you come all over my tongue – fucking love it when you ride my face, baby. And maybe we can see how many times I can make you come like that, huh? You’d like that, yeah?”

It was a rhetorical question but you nodded anyway, chin resting on Daniel’s shoulder as he whispered into your ear, “Thought so," and pressed a butterfly kiss to the top of your exposed shoulder.

“I’m always so fucking hard after watching you come undone like that, screaming my name so I reckon after that we just get down to it; maybe I'll fuck you from behind 'cause I know how much you love having me pound into ya, head buried in the sheets while I’m playing with your ass and overstimulating your precious little cunt too. Can’t forget about her, ey?”

A breathy moan slipped from your lips when Daniel’s tongue slid across the soft spot behind your ear. His booted foot nudged your feet apart and instinctually, your separated them as his tensed thigh nestling in-between your clenched ones. The contact wasn’t enough to ease the taut knot in the pit of your stomach but it was something to clutch onto as he moved you slowly from side to side, a low chuckle reverberating against your chest.

“You asked for it, baby; I’m just telling ya what I have in mind.”

“Keep going…” You whispered weakly, “Are you gonna let me come again like that?”

Daniel scoffed, “Course I will, honey. You’ll be seeing stars by the time I’m finished with ya,” He sweetly cooed as he guided your circling your hips into his, creating that friction between your thighs you so desperately needed.

“And I promise you that I will fuck you until you’re dripping with my cum because you take it so well, baby. And I know how much that turns you on, filled to the fucking brim while I fuck it deep inside you. God, I'm bloody hard just thinkin’ about it,” He shakily exhaled into your hair, dick stiff and twitching in his trousers against your thigh.

“You need to take me home right now.”

Daniel didn't need to be told twice.

the ol' smut muscle has been nicely warmed up after this one 🔥 — thoughts? feelings? let me know! askbox masterlist if you want to read more x

#daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo smut #f1 smut #f1 imagine #monzamashmasterlist #spicy prompts

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jobean12-blog · 8 months

Text

Make Me

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader (Pre!outbreak Joel)

Word Count: 1,075

Summary: You're a brat and Joel acts like he doesn't like it but really...he loves it.

Author's Note: I saw the photo below and just caught fire...between the hands, fingers, forearms, open shirt, his hand in there, his face, the whole man. Dead. So here we are because I would love to rile this man up and then have him punish me for it. Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the loveliest @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰

Warnings: flirty teasing, tension, brattiness from reader, Joel is still soft but it's super s-ex-y.

Joel Miller Masterlist

“Get dressed.”

You kneel on the bed and toy with the buttons of his flannel that’s draped over your otherwise naked body.

With one last warning glance he turns to walk into the bathroom.

“No.”

When he hears your defiant answer he swings back around and stalks toward the bed.

“Darlin’,” he growls.

“I don’t want to get dressed and I don’t want to go…”

Your voice trails off into a softer tone as your bottom lip sticks out in a pout. “I want to stay home and in bed with you.”

His eyes soften slightly but his jaw clenches with the grind of his teeth. “We spent all morning in the shower. It’s time to get ready or we’ll be late.”

“Joel,” you whine, shifting closer so you can plant your hands on his chest.

Your fingers slip into the open buttons of his shirt and graze over his warm skin. You slowly work your way down to the first closed button and pop it open.

He grabs your wrist, stilling your movements.

“Don’t.”

You lift your eyes and bat your lashes, still pouting.

“Don’t give me that look darlin’.”

“But…”

“But nothin’. Get. Dressed.”

You sit back with a frustrated huff, crossing your arms and arrowing your eyes at his receding backside.

After several minutes of lazily laying on the bed you finally drag yourself up, shrugging off his flannel and shuffling to the closet.

You’re still shifting through your clothes when he walks back in.

“You’re still not dressed,” he says.

“I can’t find anything I want to wear,” you explain, looking over your bare shoulder with innocent eyes.

You turn back around, purposefully bending over as you continue to pretend to search for a dress.

His large hand lands on your ass cheek, the sting making you moan out his name and when his arm wraps around your waist to pull you up and against his hard body your lips lift into a triumphant smile.

“Behave,” he murmurs, his breath just a whisper along the shell of your ear.

“Make me,” you counter, turning in his arms to face him.

“Fuck,” he rumbles. “You’re such a brat.”

You circle your arms around his neck and curl your fingers into his hair.

“It’s your fault,” you purr. “You won’t give me what I want.”

He presses his full lips together and his eyes darken. “I always give you what you want darlin’.”

You release one hand at his neck and slide it down his chest, slipping your finger into the waistband of his pants. With ease you pop open the button and pull down the zipper.

His eyes close for a second, his dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks when he inhales with a gasp of your name.

“If we’re late I’m never goin’ to hear the end of it,” he groans. “Now be a good girl and put some clothes on.”

Your hand closes around him with a light squeeze.

“Just give me what I want Joel.”

With another muttered curse he pulls free of your grasp, leveling you with a pained look. “Get. Dressed. You’ve got five minutes.”

He holds up his hand, his long and thick fingers splayed out.

You let out a longing sigh. “Don’t tease me with those.”

His expression transforms into a smirk as the corner of his mouth lifts and his eyebrows raise.

“Tease you?” he chuckles as he starts to walk away. “See you in five darlin’ and don’t make me come get you.”

“Don’t tempt me with threats,” you say back with a stomp of your foot.

You decide on a dress and throw it on then put on your jewelry and grab your shoes.

When you walk out of the bedroom and into the living room he’s leaning against the wall by the door.

His brown eyes slide down your body appreciatively. “You look perfect. Now, let’s go.”

With a sweet smile you saunter over, your heels dangling from your fingers.

“One sec. Just have to put my shoes on.”

You place your hand on his chest to steady yourself and bend down to start and slide the shoe onto your foot but he stops you and gently pushes you back toward the couch.

“Sit,” he commands.

He kneels and takes your foot in his hands then carefully slips on your shoe before starting to buckle it.

“These things are so damn small,” he mutters as he fights with the tiny clasp at your ankle.

“That’s just because your hands are so big,” you giggle.

He looks up at you with amusement dancing in his eyes. “Just how you like it.”

You hum in agreement and wiggle your toes.

He finally gets your shoes on then stands and holds his hand out for you.

With his palm at your lower back he leads you toward the door but as you reach to open it he pins you against it, pressing the hardness in his pants to your lower back.

Without a word he teasingly smooths his hand along your thigh and when he reaches the hem of your dress he lifts it until it’s above your hip.

The cool air hits your skin and his hand glides between your legs.

“I knew it,” he murmurs as his fingers continue to move at a torturously slow pace, tracing your bare skin where your panties should be.

“Isn’t it time to go?” you ask sweetly, feigning innocence as you try to wiggle free of his hold.

“Mm I don’t think so,” he croons, “you’re not going anywhere darlin’.”

When the calloused pad of his finger finds its mark you arch your back and whine out his name.

“Were you going to spend the whole party soaked like this…with nothin’ on under here?” he rumbles in your ear.

“Not if you just…”

Your sassy answer gets cut off when he grabs your chin with his free hand and turns your head to silence you with a kiss. It’s deep and rough even as his fingers are teasingly soft between your thighs.

You moan into his mouth and grab his wrist, sliding his hand lower until it stops at the base of your neck. He wraps his fingers around your throat as he trails his lips along your jaw and tightens his grip.

“I’m goin’ to fuck the brat right outta you darlin’. You’ll be lucky if you can walk straight when we leave this house.”

@hiddles-rose @pedritosdarling @littleseasiren @lorilane33 @kmc1989 @lizette50

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #pre!outbreak joel miller #pre!outbreak joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #pre!outbreak joel #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader

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luvryeo · 10 months

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crazy for you — jeong yunho

0.1K MILESTONE EVENT ⟢ OPEN gn!reader , afab!reader , smut , cw : lil bit of dirty talk, making out, fingering , wc : 0.6K , thanks for the req nadia !! your mans has me drooling a little (a lot) ngl @justhere4kpop MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI

the moment you’re in the protected confines of your home, he’s all over you. you barely have time to process your boyfriend pushing you up against the wall of your apartment, one hand on your waist and another haphazardly pinning your wrist against the wall above your head. and of course, there’s his soft lips on yours, desperate after waiting to have you to himself all night.

given, you’re more than happy to kiss back, just as enthusiastically. it’s not as if you hadn’t been eyeing him up all night as well. his hands on you like this have always sent a rush of heat to more places in your body than just your cheeks, so it doesn't take anything more than his knee wedging itself between your legs to have you moaning into his mouth. the feeling of your body up against his drives him so crazy he has to pull his lips away from yours to catch his breath. he's still pressed close to you, his lips now by the sensitive shell of your ear.

“i’m crazy for you,” he whispers, still breathless from the kiss and the pure want tugging at his voice. his words alone send a shiver through your body, and it’s almost overwhelming with the hot breath that tickles your ear as he says it. now you feel crazy.

“god, yunho, please, just fuck me,” you beg, unable to think of anything else to say, as that’s all that’s on your mind now. your hips buck against his leg, trying to feel something where you need it most.

the sound he makes at that is almost a growl, you can feel it with his lips still brushing at your ear. a second later his lips are on your neck, sucking and nipping at the skin he knows is the most sensitive, pulling more soft moans from you.

“gonna fuck you so good, baby, don’t you worry,” he promises, his hand dipping down to your waistband, because god knows you can’t take his cock before you take his fingers. his other hand releases your wrist in favor of threading his fingers through yours and pulling you across the short distance to the couch. he sits as you make quick work of pulling down your pants and underwear, and not a second later, you’re pulled onto him, straddling his lap. you moan lightly at the feeling of the rough fabric of his pants and the growing hardness underneath your bare core. his large hands find purchase on your thighs, his thumbs putting pressure so close to where you want him, but not close enough. again, his lips are on yours, the kiss sloppy and desperate, but soon you pull away.

“i need your fingers, baby, please,” you whine. he throws his head back in a groan, because he really meant it when he said you make him crazy. ready to give you everything you want, he pulls you off his lap for a split second, only to spin you around and pull you back to him. now your back his flush against his broad chest and his legs are inbetween yours, keeping you wide open for him. he doesn’t waste a second in reaching around you to put one hand over your pussy, cupping it just to see you buck your hips at the contact. “please,” you continue begging him.

“i’ve got you, sweetest,” his voice is deep in your ear. this time he follows through, one hand up your shirt and the other teasing at your slit before letting his fingers slip into your wetness.

#cromernet #pLEASE HAVE MERCY i'm still a novice at write smut LOL #yunho #ateez yunho #ateez smut #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez yunho smut #ateez yunho x reader #ateez x gender neutral reader #ateez #yunho smut #ateez fic #ateez imagines #ateez drabbles #yunho drabble #kpop smut

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 5: The Haunted House]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Adventures With Aegon, Targ family dysfunction, bodily injury, no Willis this time yay!!! 🥳

Word Count: 7.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

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Every house is haunted, not just by phantoms of the past but by the ghosts of what could have been. They live in shadows, in doorways, in the periphery of your vision; you walk through them like smoke or mist. Their blood—pooled and pulseless—is a cold spot in a sweltering room, their fingerprints are the woodgrain swirls of floorboards. If you listen closely, you can hear them at night in the chorus of the cicadas and the owls and the wet westbound wind. They whisper questions you’ve never been able to answer: Have I made the right choices? Have I done the best I could? Is love a myth or does it only exist for other people? Am I a prisoner of the past or the future or myself? Why have I never been chosen?

In the bathtub, you stare at the pale blue walls veined with cracks like the legs of a spider. On the tree swing in the front yard—here long before you moved in, inherited from the effort and care of another family’s hands—you skim your bare feet over emerald blades of grass and watch the lightning bugs appear at dusk. In Cadi’s room, you play the Nintendo when she asks and try to forget who gave it to her; and when she asks about Aemond, you say he’s busy with work, because how else can you explain his absence to a child? In the kitchen, you break eggs into glass bowls of vanilla, sugar, flour, butter, baking powder, but you keep getting pieces of shell in the mix, something that almost never happens anymore. You snap, grab an egg, pitch it against the refrigerator where it explodes into calcium carbonate shrapnel and sterile yellow gore.

Amir looks up, startled. Behind his rectangular tortoiseshell glasses, his eyes dart between you and the viscera that stains the refrigerator door. At last he says softly, seriously: “What is it you liked so much about him?” Implicit in this statement are others: You’ve never liked a man this much. You’ll never see Aemond again.

You study your palms, tools of creation, tools that destroy. “I spend every second of my life consumed by responsibilities. The house, the car, the bakery, the bills, Cadi, Willis, myself, even you. There’s no one to tell me what the right thing to do is. There’s no one who can carry the weight for me. I can’t show it when I’m tired or frustrated or scared. And so to have someone who—even for an hour, even for fifteen minutes—could take care of me, and make all the decisions, and convince me to trust him…it’s the closest I ever get to being at peace.”

Amir gives you a sad, vanishingly small smile. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.” And you wet a dishcloth so you can begin to clean up your mess.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Thursday, and you’re coming home after delivering cakes for a birthday party down in Thibodaux. Your car radio is blaring Message In A Bottle by The Police. When you roll into the gravel driveway, the red Audi Quattro is waiting for you: parked right beside the house, like he belongs here, like he owns it. You throw open the door of your Chevy Celebrity and rage up the sloping, groaning steps of the front porch.

The first thing that hits you is the cold. There is an ambient humming, a chill that raises goosebumps on your bare arms. When you rush to the kitchen, you find an air conditioning unit in one of the windows, a metal box that turns the Fall-Down House into a tundra. They’re sitting at the hastily-cleared counter: Aemond leafing through the ledger book containing the financial records for the bakery, Amir beside him sipping a glass of sweet tea. Aemond glances up at you and then back down at the pale green pages, the lines of his face intense, focused. Amir greets you with a nervous titter, hiding behind his sweet tea. Ice jangles in the glass.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Our new air conditioner!” Amir says, overjoyed. “The customers are going to love it. No more waiting around in a stifling kitchen. You know how miserable it gets in here during the summer. We won’t be able to get rid of them! They’ll be purchasing cupcakes by the dozen just to have an excuse to get out of the heat!”

Aemond is still scrutinizing the ledger. “Why aren’t you buying more things in bulk?” he asks Amir. “The shelf life on things like sugar and flour has got to be six months at least.”

“We don’t have the liquid capital. We can’t spend cash if we don’t have cash.”

“And all these business expenses—mixers, coolers, pans, blenders, knives, the gas you burn when you make deliveries, the water you use to wash dishes—those are all tax write-offs, right?”

Amir hesitates. Aemond is aghast, his eyebrows shooting up into the blonde hair that shags over his forehead. The strands are damp with sweat and curling at the edges; he’s been working hard. He’s the one who heaved the air conditioner up onto the window ledge. His Marlboro jacket is draped over the back of his barstool. He’s wearing jeans, a black MTV t-shirt, and his Adidas sneakers.

“Please tell me you haven’t been paying income tax on money you aren’t actually keeping.”

“I didn’t know what we were allowed to write off, I was petrified to make a mistake! I don’t want to end up in Rikers!”

“They don’t put people in Rikers for tax evasion. You’d only go to minimum security.”

Amir rolls his eyes. “Well now you’ve convinced me.”

You are betrayed, furious. “You’re showing him the book?”

“He’s very bossy,” Amir says, slurping his sweet tea. “As you know.”

Aemond asks you, making notes on a legal pad he’s commandeered: “Do you have an IRA?”

“A what?”

“An IRA,” Aemond repeats slowly, emphasizing every syllable. “An individual retirement account.”

Should I? Could I? What the hell is that? “Um. I don’t think so.”

Aemond sighs, exasperated. He jots down another bullet point on his legal pad. “You need one.”

“I need you to get out of my house.”

“Shh!” Amir pleads. “He bought us an air conditioner!”

“Do you know how much that’s going to cost us in electricity? The bill is going to go through the roof. We’re not going to be able to afford this. And he doesn’t care, because he hasn’t even thought of it. Drop an oil rig into a lake and solve the unemployment crisis. Throw an air conditioner in a window and buy someone’s loyalty. He doesn’t understand us. He doesn’t care about us. He’s not capable of it.”

“I’ll pay for the electricity,” Aemond says. Now he’s looking at you.

“Get out,” you demand.

He seems—perplexingly—to be genuinely wounded. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Get out!”

Aemond stands, walks to you, backs you up until your shoulder blades hit the refrigerator. The metal door is cluttered with Cadi’s drawings, secured there with multicolored alphabet magnets: dinosaurs eating people, Rambo, astronauts rocketing to the moon, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Aemond is so close you can smell the cigarette smoke and cologne and sweat on him, see the smudges of ink on his fingers. His right eye travels all over you, defiant and hungry. His left eye—and you only notice when there’s no space left between you—is an impassive, glassy, not-quite-identical blue that never moves. It’s an imposter, and a very good one; but it’s not him. You think, unable to say it: What happened to your face? Who hurt you? Instead you strike out to shove Aemond away with both hands.

“Get out of my house—!”

“You want to get rough with me? Will that make you feel better?” he murmurs darkly, ignoring your palms when they collide with his chest, his collarbones, his jaw. Your flesh can’t hurt him, it can only graze his skin like stray bullets. “You want to hit me? Go ahead. I’ve had worse. I promise you I have.”

“I hate you!”

But you haven’t said the right word, and you both know it. He grabs your wrists, holds them still, whispers low and menacing into your ear as you struggle to rip your hands out of his grasp. “I dreamed about you all night. Tying you down, stretching you open. I want that. I think you do too.”

“I don’t want it,” you hiss; but already you’re imagining him on top of you, inside you, in control of you, and to resist that is like trying to fight the instinct to seek water, sleep, sunlight.

“Then tell me to stop.”

You glare up at Aemond, raging, burning. His gaze locks with yours and stays there. You are suddenly aware of the heat of his fingers linked around your wrists, of the pressure of his hips against yours as he pins you to the refrigerator. You can’t say it. I don’t want him to stop touching me. I don’t want him to leave and never come back.

Again, Aemond dares you: “Tell me to stop.”

From the kitchen counter, Amir is gawking at you both, his eyes huge, stunned, painfully uncomfortable. Nonetheless, he doesn’t look away. “I’m not leaving,” he informs Aemond. Just in case you’re weak enough to agree to something you’ll regret later; just in case you need a friend.

The spell breaks, the curse lifts. Aemond releases you and takes several steps back. He breathes deeply, running his fingers through his damp hair, composing himself. “You’re a good person,” he says to Amir.

“Thanks. I’m afraid I can’t return the compliment.”

Aemond turns back to you. Now he’s penitent, measured. Already, a part of you misses the weight of his bones on yours. But that’s not why Aemond is here. “Let me talk. Let me explain.”

No, you almost say. I’m not interested. I don’t want you anymore. There’s nothing you can tell me that will make me feel at peace with you again.

Instead, after long moments colored by waning sunlight and the whirring of the new air conditioner in the window: “Okay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re on the tree swing, gripping the ropes and swaying slightly back and forth as you push off with your bare feet, rocking from your heels to your toes and then back again. Aemond lights a cigarette and takes a drag as he sits cross-legged on the grass in front of you. Amir keeps peeking out from between the blinds of the living room windows. Aemond glances around the yard, and you realize he’s searching for the alligator. His Marlboro jacket is folded neatly on the ground next to him.

“The gator’s not here right now, Aemond. She’s probably over in the trees. She’s not going to hurt you.”

He nods, but he doesn’t seem convinced. He fidgets restlessly with his cigarette.

All that money, all that power, all that ecological ruin, and he’s petrified of a five-foot gator that’s probably never eaten anything bigger than a pelican. It’s ridiculous. You smile weakly. “I think you have a phobia.”

He gestures to his scar, to his ruined left eye. “I’m afraid one will sneak up on me and I won’t be able to see it.”

He’s never spoken like this to you before, acknowledging his limitations, his impairment. He’s trying to be honest. He really is. “Where’s Christabel?”

“Back in the U.K.”

“When are you getting married?”

He shrugs, uninterested. “A few months from now, I guess. July. August. It doesn’t matter. I’m not really involved in the planning.”

“You’re a cheater,” you say. It comes out less accusatory than mournful. Why did you have to disappoint me? Why did you have to ruin this?

Aemond is dismissive. He puffs on his cigarette. “Everyone cheats.”

“No they don’t.”

“Everyone from my world cheats,” Aemond amends. “You marry for money or status or land or whatever, to prove you can snag someone who should be above you, to make your parents proud of you, to make sure your children have the right last name and titles. Then when the novelty fades—and it does, it always does—you find passion elsewhere.”

“That’s barbaric.”

“That’s aristocratic. Poor people get divorced two or three times. They have public brawls and call the cops on each other. We just have a different solution to life’s inevitabilities. My mother cheats with Criston, Daemon and Rhaenyra cheated with each other, I cheat with you, Aegon cheats with…I couldn’t even list them. A lot of people.”

Aegon. So that’s the debaucherous brother’s name. “Not all fancy rich people cheat. Prince Charles doesn’t cheat.”

Aemond bursts out laughing. “Of course he does! He’s been fucking Camilla Parker Bowles since like 1970!”

Your stomach sinks. Poor Diana. “I thought they were just friends now.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s what the tabloids say.” He inhales smoke—cancerous, lethal—and then exhales it in a grey gale like fog. “I think they stopped for a few years after he got married. But presently they spend as much time as they possibly can rendezvousing at all their friends’ country estates. Charles and Diana are miserable, but they’ll never split up. She’s entertaining herself with a cavalry officer named James Hewitt. Who looks suspiciously like Prince Harry, by the way.”

“And who does your father fuck on the side? Nancy Reagan?”

“He prefers the memory of a dead woman to my living mother. I’d say that counts as infidelity.”

The photograph Aegon showed me on the Targaryens’ refrigerator. Rhaenyra’s mother. And what else had been on that refrigerator? Pictures of the rest of the family? Old sketches and report cards? Souvenirs? A calendar with upcoming birthdays circled or starred? No. There was nothing. You consider Aemond with a disorienting blend of pity and barbed, venomous frustration. “I’m sorry Viserys has never been a good father to you. But that’s not an excuse to ruin other people’s lives.”

“Look, what you did…” Aemond begins with sizable effort. He puts the end of his cigarette out on the sole of one of his Adidas sneakers. “To walk away from something you believe isn’t right when everyone else is telling you to stay…that’s not easy. And maybe for you it didn’t feel so insurmountable because you’ve had to learn how to survive painful things on your own before. But all I’ve ever done was break my own bones so my father would notice me. I don’t mean that as a metaphor. I’ve fractured my ribs, my hands, my skull. And it’s still not enough. Love isn’t given in my family. I have to earn it. It’s all I know.”

“You could learn something new.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I won’t. That’s not a language I speak.”

Exactly how bad of a father was Viserys Targaryen? “Aemond, what happened to your face?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

You study him. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to be my Camilla,” Aemond says.

“No. No way.” But you’re amazed by how badly you want to say yes. One word and he’ll touch me again? One word and I can have him back the way we were before? It doesn’t seem possible to resist that. It’s not something that should be expected of any mortal.

“I want to be around you. I want you to keep making me feel the way you do, because it’s…it’s…it’s not something I get from anyone else. And I want to make your life better. I have the ability to do that.”

“Because you’re an oil tycoon.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees. “I was born to be one, and so I am. But even if I wasn’t—if I refused, if I died—it’s not like the trillion-dollar industry would just disappear. There’s Jade Dragon, sure, but there’s also ExxonMobil, Shell, British Petroleum, Chevron, Valero, Marathon, a hundred others. Someone would be drilling on Lake Verret regardless. But the person in charge might be less scrupulous than I am. I’m doing the best I can here.”

“Were you in Ketchikan when the spill happened there?”

“No. I’ve never been to Alaska. That was someone else’s project. It was a fuckup, it was Jade Dragon’s fault. But my father is the one fighting it in court. I have no control over that.”

Someone else’s project…

“Come to my house tonight,” he says.

“No, Aemond.”

“Then come over on Saturday.” And you think: He remembered which days Cadi is usually with Willis.

“I don’t want to be your mistress.” I want to be more than that, oh God, I want so much more. You think of Christabel touching him and wrenching nausea cuts through you like a blade. You imagine Aemond’s hands taking off her clothes—zippers, buttons, ribbons, belts—and you feel like there’s almost nothing you wouldn’t do to stop it from happening.

“We’re from two very different words,” Aemond says calmly, sensibly. “And it’s going to be impossible for us to understand each other unless we make an effort to learn about where we’ve come from. You’ve invited me into your home, your business, your family, and I’m very grateful for that. Now I need to do the same. And I think if you see more of my life, you’ll realize why I make the decisions I do and what it would mean for us to be together. Because in my experience, husbands and wives aren’t soulmates like they are in books or movies. It’s someone else who you actually…” He breaks off, then continues once he’s decided on the phrasing. “Spend most of your time with.”

Part of you knows that this arrangement would be hopelessly inadequate; you would feel like you were settling for less than you want, you would feel unchosen. But the louder part of you is clinging to it like a life raft. I want him to touch me again. I want him to make me forget about everything else. “I’ll think about it. Visiting the house, I mean.”

“Please do,” Aemond says. “How was Cadi’s weekend fishing?”

He really does listen to you; he remembers things. Even things you mention once and then never again. “She loved it. Willis knows more about the bayou than I’ll ever know about baking. They caught three catfish, four breams, and a bass, and then they made them into fish sticks. Thank God she has one parent who can cook. Even if Willis thinks Hungry Jack mashed potatoes are a vegetable. You know what he puts in the pot instead of milk? Coffee creamer. Cups of it.”

Aemond doesn’t seem pleased to be reminded of Willis’ existence. He says, rather mechanically: “I’m really glad Cadi enjoyed herself.” He grabs his Marlboro jacket, rises to his feet, scans the yard for the alligator. She’s made an appearance at last: she’s sunbathing about ten yards away, nowhere near close enough to be a nuisance. Still, Aemond frowns. Then he clears his face and looks back to you one last time as he strides towards his Audi Quattro. “And Cupcake?”

You peer up at him, shielding your eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “Yeah?”

“When you come to the house…” He grins. Not if. When. “Bring your swimsuit.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You cut the engine and survey the grand entranceway of the house that the Targaryens call The Last Desire, words in Greek that you couldn’t pronounce. The blue merle Great Dane—Vhagar, you recall, yet another bizarre foreign name—is lurking between the towering white columns of the wraparound porch. “Fantastic,” you mutter, stepping out of the car. It’s Saturday, 2 p.m., hot and muggy and cicadas screeching in the southern live oaks. Green anoles dart across the cobblestones and freshly-painted white wood of the porch. Whooping cranes, haughty and fragile, ogle you with reptilian yellow eyes.

You pause when you reach the bottom step of the porch. The Great Dane growls at you, her lips curling up to show long fanglike teeth. You’re carrying two bakery boxes stacked on top of each other: one contains a dozen blueberry pie cupcakes, the second filled with fresh Cap’n Crunch Treats. You glance around for someone to assist you with the hostile dog situation. You have no interest in attempting to shove her away like Alicent did on the day of the engagement party.

Blessedly, the head butler materializes in the doorway and beckons you inside. When Vhagar snarls as you approach, the butler pulls a small plastic water gun from the pocket of his black dress pants. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” he tells you, and then squirts the dog several times. Vhagar reluctantly lopes away. “Please allow me to escort you to the pool. Mr. Targaryen instructed us to be on the lookout for you.” Then he breezes into the house without checking to make sure you’re following him.

You trot after the butler through the white-and-gold foyer, the deep red living room, and then out into the garden. There is a long row of neon green lounge chairs on the side of the pool opposite of the water slide. Three of the chairs are occupied. Helaena is stretched across one wearing a frilly one-piece, floral with ladybugs; her chameleon is perched on the top of the adjustable backrest. Alicent is in the chair beside her, dressed in a turquoise blue coverup that matches the pool water and reading The Silence of the Lambs. They both wave nonchalantly, seemingly unsurprised by your presence. And then there’s Aegon. He’s smoking a joint as a black boombox beside him plays The Cure’s Why Can’t I Be You? You place both bakery boxes on a table shielded from the sun by a large green umbrella.

“What’s in there?” Aegon asks. He’s wearing pink plastic sunglasses, a radiant fuchsia sunburn, and a Speedo patterned with pineapples. His ferret is curled up in his lap and napping.

“Blueberry pie cupcakes and Cap’n Crunch Treats.”

“Yes! Pass me one of each.”

“Don’t be rude, Aegon,” Alicent says dully, turning a page of her book. “She’s not a servant.”

“She’s a literal baker. I’m asking for baked goods.”

“Dear, I’ve been singing your praises to every single person I cross paths with in this jungle of a town,” Alicent tells you, ignoring him. “Have you noticed yet?”

You hand Aegon his treats; he marvels at the miniature blueberry pie placed atop the cupcake frosting before scarfing it down. “I think we’ve had more customers than usual this week, now that you mention it. Thank you so much! Amir and I are more grateful than we could ever express.”

“Oh, it’s the least I could do, love,” Alicent says. Criston appears with a strawberry daiquiri and gives it to her, complete with a swirl of whipped cream and a little pink toothpick umbrella pierced through a wedge of lime. Criston wears a pair of roomy Hawaiian board shorts and his single gold earring. Alicent takes a sip. “Heavenly! I am completely revived.”

“Helaena, would you like one?” Criston asks.

“Yes please.”

“And one for Aemond’s friend too, please,” Alicent says. Criston nods and hurries off again. Nobody asks if Aegon wants a strawberry daiquiri. He gnaws moodily at his cupcake and then when it’s gone moves on to the Cap’n Crunch Treat. Helaena’s chameleon snatches a dragonfly out of the air with its tongue. Alicent shudders.

Aemond’s friend? Friend?? You sit down on the lounge chair next to Aegon, still wearing your pale pink coverup. He tells you: “Aemond should be back soon. He got a phone call and had to swing by the rigs after lunch but he didn’t think it would take long.” Then Aegon smiles toothily, and you notice he has residual white powder around the corners of his lips and just inside his nostrils. “It’s good to meet you properly this time, now that I’m aware of all your talents.”

“You know about Aemond’s…uh…preferences?”

“Oh yeah, and I knew he had a girl. He always has to have a girl. I just didn’t know it was you. He doesn’t usually bring them around the family.”

You steal a glimpse of Alicent and Helaena. If they’re listening in, they’re doing an excellent job of not acting like they are.

“I think we should address this,” Aegon says.

You are stymied. “Address what?”

“It would never work, me and you.”

“I hadn’t even thought of it.”

“Sure you haven’t,” Aegon says. He flourishes a hand melodramatically. “You need a dom. I am, lamentably, an irredeemable sub. I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”

“Okay, Aegon.”

“I just needed to break the tension.”

“I think you’re imagining that.”

There are footsteps, the slapping of flip flops against the cobblestones, and then someone who looks like a younger, more cheerful, more sober Aegon arrives at the pool. He is dressed in royal blue swim trunks that stop at his mid-thigh; his wavy blond hair is down to his shoulders. Like his family members, he also does not seem at all surprised to see you. “Hi,” he says, shaking your hand. “I’m Daeron. I didn’t get to introduce myself at the engagement party. I’m sorry about that. I was entangled in a very competitive tennis match on the courts out back for most of the day.”

Alicent asks: “Daeron, love, would you like a strawberry daiquiri when Criston reappears?”

“Yeah, Mum, that would be great.” He parks himself on the available chair beside her and begins asking about her book. As they chat, a blue macaw flaps through the garden and uses its long, leathery talons to claim the backrest of Daeron’s lounge chair.

“It’s so sweet of you to take an interest in my reading, Daeron,” Alicent gushes. “None of my other children ever do…”

Aegon groans loudly. Everyone ignores him. Criston arrives with two strawberry daiquiris, one for you and one for Helaena. You take a sip through a plastic straw with several loops in it: icy cold and jarringly sweet.

“And one for Daeron too please, Criston,” Alicent requests. “Did you hear that he just got another article published? It’s about evaluating rock wettability.” Her tone suggests that she has no idea what this means; nonetheless, she is ardently enthusiastic.

“That kid is going places,” Criston says admiringly.

Aegon counters: “That kid’s had phone sex with Michelle Pfeiffer.”

You laugh, thinking that it’s a joke. Daeron just gives you a sheepish smile. Oh, you think. Not a joke.

Criston hustles back inside the house. An old man passes Criston as he strolls out to the pool. He looks around blearily, like he’s hungover or has just woken up from a nap or both. His bloodshot eyes skate over you without much interest. He squints at the pool floats that bob in the rippling, crystalline water, sparkly rings and an assortment of foam noodles and a giant cartoonish alligator.

“How was Kiribati?” Aegon says.

“Much better than here. This goddamn humidity!”

“I can’t believe you missed the engagement party, Father,” Alicent says glumly.

“Oh no, how could I! I’ll never have any way of knowing what transpired!” He plops down onto a chair near the end of the row. His bare feet are gnarled, his toenails long and yellowed. “Let me guess. Cake was served, champagne was toasted, people bragged about their stupid hobbies and their ugly children, that girl scuttled about with her perpetually-startled eyes and asinine comments. Do you remember when she tried to give me her condolences when she learned your mother passed away years ago? Why would I want some moonstruck idiot’s condolences? She didn’t know your mother. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Christabel is very young,” Alicent offers gently.

“She’s very something, that’s for sure. Very useless. Very irritating. This family would be in a much better state if Viserys wasn’t the one making all the decisions. His judgment has declined precipitously.” He casts a poisonous glare at Aegon. Aegon pretends not to notice.

“I like Christabel,” Helaena says. Her chameleon gobbles up a butterfly that ventures too close.

“Yes, I’m sure you do.” The old man’s voice is kinder now. “You see the best in everyone. But dear Helaena, we are in for a lifetime of insipid simpers and vapid conversations.”

“A lifetime?” Aegon says. “So not much longer for you, Grandfather. What a comfort.”

The old man glowers at Aegon. “We should have left you in Alaska to have your throat slit by those animals.” And you hear Aemond’s words reverberating in your skull: I’ve never been to Alaska. That was someone else’s project.

Aegon is rolling himself a fresh joint, accidentally spilling sprinkles of weed on his slumbering ferret. He snorts. “I don’t care what Alaskans think of me.”

Daeron says: “Aegon, you poisoned 1,000 square miles of the ocean.”

“The fucking ocean,” Aegon mutters. “What do we even need the ocean for?”

“Vacations,” Otto says.

Helaena adds: “Sushi.”

Daeron is distressed. “Actually, the ocean is super important.”

“Why are we talking about the ocean?” Aemond asks as he strolls through the garden and pauses by the edge of the pool to dip a foot in to test the temperature. He’s wearing black swim trunks and nothing else, just his skin, just his scar and his glass left eye. He sees you, smiles, goes to the bakery boxes and lifts out a cupcake. He sits down on the edge of your lounge chair as he licks off the wave-blue frosting. No one makes any comment, and no one brings up Aegon’s role in the Ketchikan oil spill again.

Criston returns once more with a strawberry daiquiri for Daeron. “Well, I’ve just about killed the blender, so hopefully we don’t need any more—”

“But Criston!” Alicent cries. “What about Aemond and my father? Perhaps they are in need of refreshments.”

Criston sighs. Crestfallen, he looks at Aemond. “Do you want a strawberry daiquiri?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just have a few sips of hers.”

Aegon says: “Can I get a pina colada?”

Criston turns towards the old man. “Otto? Daiquiri?”

“No, but if you could immediately teleport me back to the South Pacific, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Pina colada??” Aegon says again.

“Okay, Aegon,” Criston snaps. “Calm down. Let me figure out if we have any more coconut cream.” Alicent’s part-time bodyguard and personal assistant, part-time babysitter, part-time affair partner vanishes into the house yet again.

Aegon lurches to his feet. “No one listens to me,” he tells you morosely. “You see that? No one remembers. That’s how you know they don’t care.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Alicent tells Aegon, not looking up from her book.

“Wait, someone is missing…” Otto muses, stroking his beard.

Aegon staggers to the edge of the pool, drags over a sparkly turquoise inflatable ring, and flops onto it. He paddles himself out towards the center of the pool. His ferret bounds after him, leaps into the water, and swims until it reaches Aegon, wriggling through the blue like a golden-furred snake. “Hey Sunfyre, you wanted to come too?” Aegon lifts the soaked ferret from the water and places it on his chest, soft and sunburned. “My bad. I assumed you’d prefer dry land.”

Otto—cantankerous and grating—looks around, baffled. “Wait, where’s Viserys?”

“He’s inspecting some of the rigs out in the Gulf of Mexico,” Aemond says as he finishes the cupcake and takes a slurp of your daiquiri. “He won’t be back until the end of the week.”

“Thank God,” Aegon exclaims from the middle of the pool.

Alicent changes the subject. “How long have you been baking, dear?” she asks you.

“Forever, basically. But I started getting serious about making it a business when my daughter was really young, about nine years ago. Now Amir and I sell hundreds of items a week, sometimes thousands.”

Daeron is nodding along, but he appears a little confused. He has gotten himself a Cap’n Crunch Treat and is feeding pieces of it to his blue macaw. “And you do that because…you want to?”

“Well I have to pay rent.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

“And I could have been a checkout girl at the Doller General, or worked seasonally harvesting soybeans or sugarcane, or begged my ex-husband to get me a job in the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office…but I wanted to do something that didn’t make me miserable. And something that was really mine, that I chose.” Aemond is watching you thoughtfully. The other Targaryens are a tad interested but far more perplexed. They can’t understand work the way you do. They can’t understand money as something that must be counted.

“Brilliant!” Alicent declares at last. “Well, maybe one day we’ll have you making six cakes for Helaena’s engagement party, who knows!”

“It would be my absolute pleasure. Do you have a potential husband hanging around, Helaena?”

She giggles, covering her blushing face with both hands. Her chameleon creeps down to cling to her shoulder, as if to make sure she’s alright. Its conical eyes flit in random directions, an unmitigated freak of nature. You should have more compassion for it.

Aemond grins. “Helaena is responsible for no less than three broken engagements. She can’t commit.”

“And she’s only into guys who look like Aegon,” Daeron adds.

“No!” Helaena objects. “That is such a lie, that’s not true!”

“Evander?” Daeron says.

Helaena pauses to think. “Okay, yes, he looked kind of like Aegon.”

“He did, didn’t he?” Alicent frets, nibbling at the fingernail of her pinky.

“Dimitri?” Aemond says.

“Oh no,” Helaena moans; but she’s laughing too. “Oh no.”

“Sebastian?” Aegon says, and now they’re all howling.

Otto shakes his head. “Freud would definitely have some thoughts about this.”

“Bloody hell,” Helaena whimpers, swiping tears from her face. Her chameleon nudges her jaw with its shimmering, blue-green muzzle. “I totally only date guys who look like Aegon.”

Aegon shrugs from where he’s floating in the pool with Sunfyre. “Good taste, I’d say. Fuck them all, homegirl.”

“Aegon!” Alicent shouts, scandalized.

Criston dashes out of the house and to the edge of the pool, clutching a pina colada that is swiftly melting. “You better paddle yourself over here, kid. I don’t offer in-water delivery.”

“You’d do it for my mother.”

“Probably. But you’re not her.”

Aegon groans as he splashes around without making much progress. “Okay, okay, give me a second…”

Aemond turns to you. “How do you like the house? I realized I never got the chance to ask last weekend.”

“I like all the stained glass, and I like that every room is a different color. The living room is red, the dining room is yellow, the kitchen is teal, Aegon’s bedroom is black—”

“Wait, how do you know?” Aemond is alarmed.

You chuckle. “No, no, not like that. I was lost and looking for a bathroom.”

“Didn’t do anything,” Aegon announces from his pool float. “Didn’t do it, didn’t try it, didn’t even think about it. Well…maybe I thought about it. But I definitely did not do anything.”

“Okay.” Aemond exhales, relived. “Close call.”

“What color is your room?”

He’s not going to waste the opportunity to extend an invitation. “Let me show you.”

On the same floor as Aegon’s punk rock bedroom and the lilac bathroom, you trail Aemond to the end of the hallway. At last he opens a door to reveal a room that is a deep, vivid blue like sapphires. The bookshelves that touch the ceiling are filled not with texts on engineering or the energy industry but histories of people whose names you don’t recognize. He has a massive wooden canopy bed swathed in dark blue velvet patterned with circling koi fish made of stars. He has a writing desk, a wardrobe full of suits, a television with an extensive VHS collection. The stained glass windows are a whirlpool of cerulean, navy, aquamarine, indigo, steel, azure. When you peer through the glass, you can see the gleaming currents of Lake Verret and the twisted dead ends of the bayou that forms at its edges, treacherous and untamed.

And when you start to feel that if Aemond tried to grab you, undress you, tie knots around your wrists you wouldn’t stop him, you tell him that you want to go back outside to the pool; and Aemond listens, and he doesn’t try to touch you even once.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Monday, two days later, and Aemond calls to ask if he can bring you and Cadi dinner. He shows up with all the trappings of what he insists is real Italian food, doubtlessly prepared by his family’s private chefs: focaccia, caprese salad, ossobuco, risotto, Bolognese, panna cotta. He forgets the red wine, so you drink sweet tea instead, the three of you crowded around the kitchen counter, ceaselessly passing dishes back and forth while the little pink Panasonic boombox plays You Spin Me Round by Dead Or Alive.

“Hey Mom?” Cadi says as she chomps on a hunk of focaccia.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you ever cook dinners like this?”

There’s a tiny little gut punch, something you’re used to swallowing down even if it bruises you to the heart, to the bones. She doesn’t know any better. You can’t cry, you can’t get mad. You shrug, dispassionate. Aemond glances over at you, abruptly tense but not saying anything. “Well honey, it’s probably because my job can be really busy sometimes, and I spend most of the day in the kitchen, so when dinner time comes around the last thing I want to do is cook. But we always have food to eat, right?”

“Yeah. Like Amir’s leftovers or frozen pizza or something. But all my friends’ moms cook nice dinners most nights. Can’t you do that? When I go to Michelle or Erica’s house for dinner their moms make barbeque ribs, gumbo, seafood boils, etouffee, tasso ham, homemade macaroni and cheese, like real dinners. I want us to have that too. What if my friends want to eat dinner here sometime? I can’t bring them over and then just throw some Swanson’s meals at them.”

Aemond has put his fork down on his plate and is clasping his hands together, trying to figure out what to say. But he shouldn’t say anything. It’s not his place.

You tell Cadi, as calmly as you can: “Different families have different kinds of dinners, and that’s okay. I bet your friends’ moms don’t have cakes and cookies around all the time, but you always have tons of dessert options. Our situation looks different than theirs, but there’s nothing wrong with either one.”

“But desserts aren’t even good for kids. Dinner is way more important. You can’t say I get cakes instead of dinner, too much cake will give me diseases or something.”

“Okay, Cadi. That’s enough. Let’s talk about this later.”

“I’m just saying it seems totally unfair that my friends get real dinners and I almost never do.”

Michelle and Erica’s moms don’t work. They have husbands to support them. So they can spend all day babying a fucking tasso ham, but I don’t have that luxury. And I don’t want to be chained to a man. I don’t want to trade having a say in how my life turns out for being able to slave away over dinner for four or five hours. “I regret to inform you that I’m not like Michelle and Erica’s moms.”

“I wish you were,” Cadi murmurs, entirely unaware of what she’s done. You bite your lower lip so you don’t snap at her, or try to explain, or break down sobbing. You taste blood, hot sharp copper that blooms like wildflowers.

Aemond stands up. His barstool squeals against the sloping wooden floor. “Hey, can I talk to you outside for a minute?” he asks Cadi.

“Aemond, what…?” you begin, but he’s already headed for the front door.

Cadi blinks up at him, horrified. “Why?”

“You’re not in trouble or anything. I just want to show you something. Come on. It’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” Cadi says doubtfully, looking at you. You give her your best reassuring smile, and she slides off her barstool and follows after Aemond. The front door opens and shuts. You don’t hear shouting, you don’t hear much of anything except the air conditioner and the boombox and the mourning doves, the long-eared owl, the cicadas, the bayou, the universe. You go to one of the living room windows and part the blinds to peek outside.

What you see is strange. Cadi is sitting on the swing, and Aemond is kneeling in front of her so they’re just about at the same eye level. You can see half of Aemond’s face; Cadi is blocking the rest. He’s explaining something to her with patient yet insistent gestures of his hands. Cadi says something, and Aemond nods and replies. He points to his scar, his glass eye, and says something else. Cadi asks a question, and Aemond hesitates. Then he acquiesces and moves closer to where she is perched on the tree swing. He reaches up towards the scarred side of his face, but you can’t see his eye. When he lowers his palm, there’s a small piece of curved, oval-shaped glass that glints in the dying sunlight.

“Cool!” you can hear Cadi exclaim, muffled through the windows that are now closed on account of the new air conditioning unit. She says something else, and Aemond agrees. You watch her hand extending towards his face, towards the injury he has revealed to her for reasons you can’t comprehend. You rush to other windows, trying to get a better view, but there’s no way for you to get a clear line of sight. Before you know it, your hear their footsteps drumming up the porch steps. The front door opens just as you’re scrambling back onto your barstool.

“Everything alright?” you say, more nervously than you intend to.

“Yup,” Cadi replies. She climbs into her seat and resumes wolfing down focaccia and Bolognese.

You look over at Aemond, bewildered. His glass eye is back in its socket. He appears composed, but you notice the fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead, at his temples, at the nape of his neck. He gives you a casual little smirk and then returns to his barstool. He picks up his full glass of sweet tea and drains it in three massive gulps.

“Hey Mom,” Cadi says, and your throat is suddenly full of embers.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Tonight is really fun,” she says. She twirls her fork in the pappardelle pasta of the Bolognese, splattering red sauce over her cheeks. “This is great. I want to do this more often.”

And the embers in your throat cool, vanish, are replaced by something vast and free.

“You really do need a new house,” Aemond says as he helps you clean up after dinner; Cadi has already abandoned you both for her Nintendo. “There are new constructions a little further down Route 401, between here and Lake Verret. Three bedrooms, two baths. Not a castle or anything, just the right size for you and Cadi. We can go look at them sometime.”

“I don’t need a whole new house. There are midcentury homes all over the place down here. They’re small, and they might need fixing up, but they’re a lot cheaper.” Then you add, because it sounds less pathetic: “And maybe it’s nice to have a house with some history, some character.”

“Old can be charming and quaint, sure. But brand new is better.”

“Why’s that?”

He smiles. “No ghosts.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond #aemond x you #aemond x y/n

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hellshire-harlot · 7 days

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Can’t stop thinking about Childhood Best Friend!Simon Riley. So here.

TW: Mentions of bullying, based heavily off my own childhood, Reader is GN and a child (and presumably American), Fluff and a sprinkle of angst, Autistic!Reader, Simon’s backstory

You meet him when your locker is placed next to his in the second grade. He’s a scraggly little kid, quiet with studious, curious eyes. He doesn’t talk much, like you. You like him almost immediately. Then he opens his mouth, telling the boys who always pick on you to ‘sod off’. He has a funny accent, and you like it.

His name is Simon, which you think is a pretty name. And like all childhood friendships, the bond is as strong as it was quickly sealed. When your teacher calls all of you to the carpet for a lecture or a lesson, you and him always sit together, criss-cross-applesauce like you’re supposed to. When you get fidgety, you bump your knees against each other’s, a silent little language only the two of you know.

Where once both you and him were very quiet, together, you come out of your shells. As much as your teacher likes seeing the two of you blossom, she does have to remind you not to chat during class when there’s work to be done. But it’s hard! You’ve never connected with someone like you have with Simon.

At lunch, you both sit together, always. Usually you sit in a quieter part of the cafeteria, at the end of the long tables where few people sit. During lunch he tells you about his brother, Tommy, and you think he talks so much to distract you from the fact that he has precious little to eat. You don’t like how little he eats, so you parcel out portions of your own (admittedly meager) lunch for him. He insists you don’t have to, but you insist that you do, because that’s what friends are for! He likes being your friend. From that day forward his stomach rumbles a little less each day.

At recess you and him play the wildest games, either just the two of you or with another group of kids. After all, the playground is the neutral ground- all rivalries, all bullying stops the second the recess bell rings and everyone steps out into the mulch. He’s really fast, and a little too strong for his age and size, and you think maybe sometimes he lets you win. Never once do you stray too far from one another; you and him both silently fear that leaving even once will reveal that the other is merely an illusion.

You think differently than most other kids. Simon does too, and in that you find kinship. When numbers jumble in your head, he helps you, solving problems with ease, and when he struggles to get through his writing assignments you guide him through each paragraph. Art class is a favorite you share. Watercolors stain your little fingers, and a dot of pink paint remains on your nose from when he dabbed just a bit on the tip. Together, you make works of art that your teacher is left in awe of.

Where once classes were an endless boring struggle, time passes in a golden, hazy bliss with him at your side. He has the same mind as you, something you’ve never encountered, and it’s magical. Suddenly all the bullies, the cruel kids and the indifferent teachers, cease to matter, because you have the bestest friend in the whole wide world. He takes the bus home, and you get picked up by a parent each afternoon, and every time you have to part for the day you hug and promise to bring him something nice to eat for lunch tomorrow. From the car window, your parent watches on, thrilled that their child has made such a wondrous friend.

Weeks turn into months turn into years. Simon cries when you make him a Christmas gift in class, you hug him so tight he can barely breathe when he leaves a Valentine’s gift in your locker, the only one to do so. You beg your teachers and parents to keep putting you in the same class as him, and blessedly, they allow it. From second to third to fourth grade things remain the same. It’s hard sometimes, but Simon is going through the same things. It’s nice not to be alone, and even when everyone else turns against you, he stays by your side.

It’s in fifth grade that you both finally convince your parents to have him over for a night or two. And when Simon comes to your house, your parents go a little quiet. You don’t know why- yeah, he’s a little scrawny and thin for his age, and he gets banged up sometimes, but who doesn’t? You’re too young, too sweet, to know the truth behind the visible ribs and the endless bruises and scars on your friend’s body. But your parents are keen, and when they realize the extent of Simon’s situation, they know they have to do something.

The next morning, your dad cooks a huge breakfast for all of you, and Simon is thrilled to be eating so much delicious food! Your parents, though worried and protective, are utterly enchanted by your friend. They make sure to keep you and him occupied over the weekend while they do what they need to do. Neither you nor him overhear the endless calls they make in adjacent rooms to various services. The final straw is when you accidentally knock something onto the kitchen floor, and Simon panics. When your parents come in to see if you’re alright, he puts himself in front of you and orders them in a voice far too mature to leave you alone. As if they’d do anything to you, as if they’d hurt you. As if he needed to protect you.

That night, you and him share a sleeping bag because he has nightmares about snakes and men in skull masks. You give him one of your stuffies to hold. Deep into the night, two people, skittish and dirty and scared, are welcomed into your house.

Simon’s mom and little Tommy.

Through the school’s counselor your parents got ahold of Simon’s mother, telling her to pack what she could and come to your home, where she and Tommy would be safe. Simon is both confused and happy to see his family at the table for breakfast the next morning, and you’re thrilled to meet his family. But the talk around the grownup table is all serious, and so you and Simon and Tommy are left in another room to play.

In the afternoon CPS comes knocking, to interview Simon and his mom. They look him over, jot down his address, and leave, and only a few hours later they call your parents again to inform you all that Simon’s dad has been arrested. He’ll never touch Simon or Tommy again.

After that, things are kind of a blur. Simon’s mom gets full custody when his dad gets life in prison for his crimes, which you learn more about as you grow older. When the house next door to yours opens up, you help the Rileys purchase it, and the fence between your adjacent lawns gets taken down. More years pass, as you and Simon and Tommy grow up all together.

Some things get worse over time, but Simon is there. Always. And he’s not going anywhere.

#simon ghost riley #Simon Riley #cod ghost #call of duty #cod x reader #Ghost X Reader #Simon ghost Riley x reader #Simon Riley x Reader #Fluff #kid fic #I feel like if I had grown up alongside him I would have turned out better.#I think we would have been friends. I think that would have been lovely.#From the desk of Lovelace #my writing

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 6 months

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Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 10

Part 1 Part 9

Steve wakes up cuddling Eddie Munson’s calves to his chest. It barely registers over the sharp stab of pain that had jolted him awake. At some point in his sleep, he’d rolled onto his injured side, and his own weight pressing down into it makes him groan.

He rolls onto his back, letting go of his hold on Eddie’s calves. His other arm is pinned beneath his legs, already full of pins and needles, so he yanks it free. Eddie sits up, smacking his face into one of Steve’s hanging coats.

“What’s it?” he asks, nonsensically, batting the shirt out of his face.

Steve follows his lead, sitting up opposite him. Their knees knock together. Steve doesn’t pull his away.

Eddie’s hair is plastered to the side of his face on one side, lopsided and greasy, and yet his curls are still flyaway, wilder than Steve has ever seen them. His eyes are closed as he swipes his bangs out of his eyes.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Steve says.

Eddie’s eyes slit open, scowl already in place as he looks around, disoriented. Steve can see the exact moment the other boy remembers where they are. His eyes widen before he closes them, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head.

“I was hoping this whole thing was a dream,” he says, voice raspy. “No offense.”

Steve laughs. “Why would I be offended, dude?”

Eddie mutters under his breath. Steve doesn’t ask. If he’s over there talking shit, he’d frankly rather not know.

Eddie finally opens his eyes again. “What now?”

Steve looks at the closed closet door. His minds ticking away, but not going anywhere. “There’s no food,” he says, thinking aloud. “We’ve got water. We can’t kill that thing—”

“—can’t get out of here—”

“—so there’s not much to do, is there?”

He feels young and small, the way he always does when he’s hiding in his closet, knows he’s looking up at Eddie, eyes begging him to contradict what he’s saying. Eddie doesn’t.

His gaze looks just as hollowed out as Steve feels, eyes looking through Steve and into a world they’re no longer a part of. “We should stay here,” he says. “If someone comes looking, they’ll know to check here.”

Left unspoken is that no one is looking.

They crawl out of the closet together. Steve hits his face on that same varsity jacket that had meant so much to him only days before. Now, he’d sell it to the highest bidder for a bag of chips.

Eddie’s standing awkwardly in his bedroom, looking around at all the nothing on the walls, the nothing on the desk. The shell of Steve’s life. He thinks of the mugs and hats hanging in the Munson trailer, the signs of life visible in the dishes in the sink and the blanket folded at the bottom of the couch and aches.

“Can we go to your place instead?” He says it before he makes the decision to open his mouth.

Eddie snaps his gaze away from the blank walls, eyes meeting Steve’s own. “Why?”

Steve looks around at all the nothing again, feels his mouth twisting into a frown, feels his fingernails digging into his palms. “It’s cozier.” He doesn’t look back at Eddie, can’t make himself look away from the picture of the car on his wall. Steve doesn’t even like cars.

“Okay,” Eddie says, quiet. There’s an upward tick of a question at the end of the word that Steve chooses to ignore.

It’s an easy journey. They hear no sounds of pursuit, see no twisted monsters. But his lungs ache with panic until Eddie’s shut the front door of his trailer. Steve never realized they lived so close to one another.

It’s almost funny, when you think about the disparate sounds the shutting of their front door’s make. Steve’s close with a wooden thunk, and the quiet click of the metal bolt hitting home. Eddie’s sounds hollow – like styrofoam. It would be funny if it didn’t make his stomach squirm.

Like a repeat of the standoff in Steve’s own bedroom, they stand awkwardly in the Munson’s living room, the silence stilted. Eddie jiggles his feet, looking around the trailer with the same furrowed brow Steve’d had while eying his own empty bedroom.

Steve doesn’t get it. You can almost feel the people that live here by just stepping inside. It’s so full. What more could you need?

“Wanna get high?” Eddie asks, hands flapping at his sides like he can’t help moving.

“…you trust the drugs you find in this nightmare world?” Steve asks, trying to keep the judgment from his tone, sure he’s not successful.

Eddie smiles so wide his teeth show. He swings the backpack of his shoulders in one fluid motion before dropping it onto the couch and riffling through it. He holds up a metal lunchbox like it’s a prize. His face sags when he opens it.

Steve doesn’t know much about weed, but the jaunty angle both the joints Eddie pulls out don’t look quite right. Eddie straightens them futiley with his fingers before bringing them both up to his nose, sliding them both above his mouth with a showy sniff. His nose wrinkles.

“A little water-logged, but they should be okay, right?” He looks up imploringly at Steve. He shrugs. Eddie looks back down at the joints, lips in a pout. “Is chlorine poisonous?”

“Hasn’t killed me yet.”

Eddie laughs, waving Steve to follow him. “You’re not supposed to drink it, Harrington.”

“It just happens sometimes!” Steve says, following closely behind. “You gotta time your breathing right, or you get a mouthful.”

“And then you swallow it?”

“Fuck off, dude.”

Eddie’s bedroom is a marvel. There are so many posters pinned to the wall, he can barely see the color behind it. There are little trinkets everywhere – guitar picks, rings, little plastic guys that remind him of army men, paint supplies, books, cassettes. There are clothes hanging off his desk chair, guitars mounted on the wall, blankets and sheets balled onto the bed in what looks like a very comfortable nest. There are so many things Steve doesn’t even recognize enough to put a name to.

He walks up to the wall, analyzing what look like band posters. They’re predominantly red and black, angry and vibrant. Steve wants to know what that anger sounds like when plaid on the tape deck he sees on Eddie’s desk. He moves around the room, bringing his fingers up to touch the writing on the guitar – THIS MACHINE SLAYS DRAGONS – before thinking better of it and dropping his hand.

It's while he’s bent down, eyeing the little painted dragon on Eddie’s desk that he realizes the other boy has gone alarmingly quiet. When he turns, Eddie is fidgeting with the rings on his fingers, feet shuffling, biting his lip. Steve raises a brow.

“Sorry it’s so messy!” Eddie says, but he blurts it out so fast, it comes out more like, sorryit’ssomessy.

“It’s nice,” Steve says, surprised by how much he means it. “Looks like someone actually lives here.”

Eddie’s cheeks turn pink as he lifts up the ends of his hair to hide the smile Steve can see peeking through like the weirdo he is. He drops the hair to gesture grandly at his messy bed as if it was a limo. Or a chariot. “Well, sit down, my liege.”

Steve does, back against the wall where the headboard would be. Eddie settles down beside him, knees overlapping with the way they’re sitting crisscross.

Eddie holds up one of the joints, licking the edge almost on instinct before grimacing. Steve’s watching his tongue move along the paper, feels something in his gut tense before he looks away.

The first lighter he tries is just as waterlogged as the joints, not even making a spark. Eddie’s cursing up a storm as he leans across Steve to fumble for the lighter propped up on his desk. That one works.

Steve’s been to enough parties to be unsurprised by the skunky musk that quickly fills the room. He’s avoided smoking at all of those parties, though, so the way the smoke fills his lungs leaves him coughing until his throat burns. Eddie slaps his back, hard until he stops choking. It doesn’t help. Steve doesn’t ask him to stop.

“First time?” Eddie asks, clearly teasing. Steve averts his eyes. “Oh, no shit?”

“I play sports, man,” Steve says, reading the titles of the cassettes stacked up on Eddie’s desk to avoid seeing the look on the guy’s face. “Never really seemed worth the lung problems.”

Eddie nudges Steve’s knee with his own. It splays out on top of his and then stays there. “And now?”

He doesn’t want to say it, but it comes spilling out. “You really think we’re going to live long enough to develop lung problems?”

Eddie doesn’t reply, but the weight of his leg grows heavier. Steve revels in the warmth he can feel from his skin, even with the two layers of jeans separating them. It’s so cold here.

“Well,” Eddie starts, and Steve can hear the grin in his voice, so he turns back. His eyes are manic, smile shit-eating and wide. “This is one cherry of yours I don't mind popping."

This time, Steve chokes for a very different reason. He's not sure he minds.

Part 11

#steddie upsidedown au #steddie fic #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #my fic

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nyctophiliq · 1 year

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— 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 (i’m never alone)

— “i can’t sleep no more, in my head we belong”

SYNOPSIS — didn’t your parents tell you to never leave the doors or windows open? PAIRINGS — home invader! ellie williams x f!reader NOTES — DARK CONTENT, dub-con, masochist reader , sadist ellie, pre-established relationship, violence, blood, knives, threats, threats with a knife, injuries, making out, blood tasting, reader is tied and knocked out, ellie eats reader out,

“YOU NEVER LOCK YOUR WINDOWS, PRETTY GIRL.”

it was rather late into the night when you walked down the stairs, shivering even in your thickest zip-up hoodie, but maybe it was the shorts you were wearing that still let the cool air travel across your body and form goosebumps of cold along your skin. you hurried down to look around, hugging yourself as you did so, sliding from room to room in your white socks as you scouted for the open window.

you were confused, why was a window open anyway? last time you checked you closed all of them before going up, even turning the little lock shut that was inside. you were convinced you shut all of them, but to your surprise the kitchen one, above the sink was wide open, letting the night’s freezing wind turn the house into an ice hut.

the dim lights weren’t giving you too much of a helping hand, not even that small light above the counter. you don’t notice the presence lurking in the shadows while you sigh, jumping up and down on your tip toes, trying to reach the window and pull the frame shut. or how the shadowy presence seems to watch your every move, calculating, making sure to make itself known at just the right time.

you do notice it, though, when you find yourself being pushed down onto the floor, heavy combat boots crushing your ribs as the figure leans down. your eyes widen, panicked, as you try to escape from the stranger’s grasp but it’s too strong and you are stuck in place. they are much stronger than you are. it shakes its head, ruffling its short hair before whispering something inaudible, and its hand collides with your face, knocking you cold only in one hit.

when you came to, the first thing you feel is the tingling feeling running up and down your bare thigh, circling your kneecap before taking a quick downfall, following the curve of your calf before climbing back up to your thigh, now grazing the plush part. the cold objects start to sink into your skin, poking you multiple times like it was trying to slowly drain you from blood, and your hazy vision and the bright spots suddenly clear and you see her.

“e-ellie, what are you doing? let m-me go!” you are quick to panic when you see the knife in her hand alongside all your other knives neatly placed on the counter, going from smallest to largest. you wriggle in your place, struggling against the ropes that were wrapped around your wrists and ankles, binding you into a chair.

“fucking stop wriggling around you stupid bitch.” she grits her teeth before sinking the knife into your thigh. you let out a scream, your head falling back while your knuckles turn white as they grip the armrest of the chair. blood messily drools from the wound as ellie leans closer to you, inhaling your scent, moving the knife side to side in your wound before biting down on the shell of your ear. “now you have something to whine and move around for ungrateful bitch.”

“i’m sorry, i’m s-sorry…” you cry, shaking your head and clutching your eyes as you bask in the heat of your body because of the pain. it’s suffocating, your head spinning alongside the room as you take a glance at the knife in you and another fit of whines leaves you.

ellie scoffs at the pathetic little whines and sobs you are letting out, the sight of your blood trickling and your cries are not enough. so she drops to her knees, on the left then the right slowly, pulling the knife out of your leg and tossing it behind the chair, her other hand already looking for a new one to hold in her grasp.

you are too scared to say anything now, just muffled sounds of distress leave you as she tries to part your knees, trying to fit both her head, hand, and the knife between your thighs. “i own you and i’m gonna make sure you can never pretend otherwise, m’kay?” ellie murmurs when she finally lines up with the plush of your thigh, without hesitation starting to engrave her name into your name. she is messy, definitely making a lot more cuts of her name than necessary and it makes you wanna vomit when you figure out she is adding a little bloody heart onto the ‘i’ in her name.

this has to be a maniac’s hopes and dreams, the way she is so focused on cutting her name into you, her mouth agape and her tongue out as if she is ready to lick away the blood that gets in her way to complete her signature on you. you swallow thickly, her head between your legs… your mind has to be sick to be turned on right now at the sight in front of you, watching her as she uses you to her psycho fantasies. with each cut, be it smaller or larger, you can feel your heat trickling and you don’t even have panties on… how embarrassing this is?

“what do we have here, huh?” it’s barely visible, but it’s there, a small wet patch of your shorts. you thought it would take her a little more time to notice, or not even notice it at all, but mostly you believed you could hold it back just until she stops groping and cutting your thighs.

ellie takes one last glance at the inside of your thigh, moving her thumb over the red skin before standing up. “you’re just as sick as i am.” she laughs through her teeth while she takes your chin in her grip. ellie’s blown pupils gape at your erratically moving ones, her heavy breathing stealing the oxygen away from you.

lips trembling, thighs shaking as she drags the tip of the knife up your neck, dragging it along your jawline before tapping it against your lips a few times. “open up and stuck your tongue out for me bitch.” her eyes are no longer watching your eyes, rather are fixed on the knife as she slowly pushes it into your mouth.

“what did i just say?” she screams into your face, her free hand coming up to slap you before roughly holding your head in place by pulling your hair into a tight fist. she didn’t think you would dare try anything funny, to ruin your alone time with her the one she is gifting you. she is disappointed, she knew she had to be careful when it came to you but she didn’t think she would have to do this to get you to agree. “do as i say now and open your mouth you cunt.”

another heavy gulp goes down your throat, huffing as you part your lips wide and stick your tongue out for her. ellie carefully places the knife onto your tongue, her face lighting up as she runs it across, slicing it here and there. “this has to be the sluttiest thing you have ever done, right?” ellie asks with a wide grin, for a second taking her eyes off of the blade that leaving small cuts that leave your blood on the knife.

“mouth wide open, ready to do anything i ask because you are so excited to be this scared.” she looks high and sleepy at the same time as she struggles to hold her head upright, continuously licking her lips as her own mouth is ajar. ellie pulls the knife away from

she doesn’t even flinch as she cut her own tongue, slowly licking the bloody knife clean. she maintains eye contact, unblinkingly staring at your teary eyes as she doesn’t let a drip of blood go to waste. it feels like hours as she toys with herself before throwing the blade away,

“i didn’t mean it when i called you those rude names, ‘kay?” she holds your cheeks softly, looking for your gaze as she strokes the bone under your eye with her thumb. she is at her peak, watching your teary eyes, feeling your hot skin and smelling your blood, she is going into overdrive. “i love you, mhm. i do, so much so.” she sounded like she really did mean it as she said it to you and only you, as if she doesn’t see you for anything else than a person to love. but it’s not true, she is fooling you and you are falling for every sick word of hers.

and then she slots her mouth over yours in an unexpected kiss that sends fire racing through ellie’s veins. for a while you are just a shocked, passive recipient, parting your mouth when ellie probes at the seem of your lips with an angry, insistent tongue, tiling your head back as she forces herself on you. but then she threads a hand through your hair, gently running her fingers across your scalp and you can’t help but let her kiss you, clashing her teeth against yours. the sounds you made were nice, they were so cute. pretty, soft little noises, not quite sighs and not quite grunts, kind of somewhere in between. you are tasting each other’s metallic blood mixed with harsh spit globs from ellie and drool from you.

it’s sloppy, the mess covering both of your chins and while you wince here and there when ellie’s tongue catches onto one of the cuts on your tongue, she seems to be lost in the sensation.

“i’m gonna undo these now okay? promise me you won’t run.” ellie asks and you can’t say no to her, mostly because of the knife she is reaching for and slipping it under the rope. you nod your head, a little too enthusiastically which makes ellie chuckle. “good girl....” she trails off, her eyes now fixed on the knots around your wrists, with one clean cut at your hands are free and as you rub the red marks of your hand she frees your ankles too.

ellie helps you up, giggling like a little kid but she really is a maniac as she drags you out of the kitchen and into the living room. “you’d be in so much trouble right now if it wasn’t me who snuck in.” she hoots into your ear, tugging you along on her side onto the couch. she manhandles you, tossing you around and positioning you as she pleased.

“but lucky it was me, yeah? i saved you.” ellie prouds herself as she gets on top of you, moving some hair out of your face as she tries to take you in. you were sweaty, glowing as your chest heaved, the red stamp of her hand now visible on your cheek. “i deserve a reward for it.” you agree, nodding as you reach out her belt and try to undo it with your weak fingers.

“no, not me. i am fucking you with my tongue, pretty girl.” she says, pushing your hands away from her pants before gripping your shorts and tearing them away from around your waist and hips.

she spanks you, spreading your slick all over your quivering cunt, pinching your puffy clit, and grinning stupidly when a loud moan leaves your throat. without a word or a smart comment about you not wearing any panties, she moved her face in front of your sloppy entrance. she inhaled the intoxicating smell of your arousal, caressing your the top of your thighs before latching her mouth on your bundle of nerves.

ellie doesn’t give you too much, prodding you, alternating between kisses and kitten licks before sucking harshly on your bundle of nerves. your legs twitch, trying to close around her face but her hands work quicker than you can, feeling up the already drying blood of her name carved into your skin, the pain of her grip keeping you from closing them.

“such a pretty pussy for me to devour.” as soon as she finishes speaking, her mouth is back on you, her tongue resting firmly against your aching clit before pushing her tongue into your sopping hole. ellie’s hot tongue flattening against your warm walls, peering up at you through her lashes. you are lovely, hot, and virtually stupid with need and as presses her in further the more of you drip out. you are so so sweet, the salty blood dripping from her tongue mixing in with your hot arousal.

if she wasn’t fucking into you she would be smirking. you were just so cute squirming against her wet tongue, hands undecidedly tugging at the edge of your shirt, trying to figure out whether to push her away or pull her closer. your cries make her even more excited, lapping your cum up as fast as she could, her hands slipping up to your hips to give her a better angle to eat you whole.

there is no way you could be having any thoughts now, the way you mindlessly roll your hips against her face as her tongue fucks you to your climax. high pitched hums escape you as you close your eyes, your breathing frantic as you tighten around her tongue and without even being able to understand or warn her, you come on ellie’s lips.

“you taste so good, almost as good as your blood.”

#📗 — written by moss !#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x reader smut #ellie williams #tlou x reader #tlou smut #tlou x reader smut #the last of us x reader #the last of us x reader smut #the last of us smut #the last of us ellie x reader #the last of us ellie x reader smut #ellie williams x fem reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x fem reader smut

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