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fayes-fics · 8 months

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A Beneficial Arrangement

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: A marriage pact with a Viscount. What could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), loss of virginity, vaginal sex. Bickering, developing relationship.

Word Count: 6.1 k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Anon request fill from HERE (Anthony and a headstrong independent reader make an unconventional marriage pact). Sorry it's taken so long to write this, but I hope you enjoy! <3

It’s a dreary, rather ordinary Tuesday in spring when your life takes a turn.

“The Viscount is in want of a wife.”

That statement is all you hear as you walk past the drawing room where your mother is taking tea with her good friend, the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton.

“My eldest needs a husband,” your mother responds, offering you as if merely chattel; bile rises indignantly as she does so. “But I fear she is far too outspoken to be a suitable Viscountess.”

You sigh in relief, ear pressed to the closed door now.

“Oh, believe me, nothing would be a better match for my darling Anthony than someone who will challenge him, stand up to him,” Violet peals a knowing laugh. “We should arrange a meeting.”

——

3 days later.

He assesses you with a cool eye as your gaze drifts briefly over to both of your mothers, watching expectantly from a nearby table in the tea shop.

“You should know I will only be taking a wife to fulfil my societal duty,” he sniffs airly. “However, I do not expect you to produce an heir. The title may pass to my younger brothers; they are more inclined to form romantic attachments than I. Their offspring can inherit this title; it feels like a curse anyhow,” he adds quieter, his tone mildly embittered.

“Well, on your attitude to marriage, I can wholeheartedly agree,” you state, stirring your tea primly. “I do not wish to be shackled. I wish to remain free. I shall marry, as there is no other path available to me, but I do not plan nor do I ever want to be someone's wife.” You utter the word with disdain as if it is toxic.

His admittedly very handsome face transforms into one of surprise, a faint dot of colour on his cheeks as he peers at you as if assessing you in a new light.

“What?” You frown at him, his silent stare becoming too heavy to bear as his interest and engagement intensify.

“You are the first woman I have ever met who shares my outlook,” he confesses, seemingly caught off-guard. “It is so utterly refreshing… and, frankly, novel.” He pauses to pass his fingers slowly over his lips in a way that makes your stomach swoop, even if you refuse to acknowledge such even to yourself. “I do believe we should meet again to discuss this further,” he concludes.

And thus, you find yourself with the suit of one Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, both of your mothers overjoyed at the prospect.

——

9 days later.

“If I must marry, you are the most tolerable woman I have met, I must concede,” he states nonchalantly as you meet to promenade.

It’s quite an opening line for only your third meeting, even for someone as renownedly blunt as the Viscount.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Viscount Bridgerton,” you drawl pointedly with a raised eyebrow, subtly hinting how his greeting may have been lacking.

He chuckles, a flash of what looks like admiration in his dark eyes.

“As such,” he continues, “I would not be averse to a martial arrangement with you. An agreement, a pact if you will, based on our mutual understanding of what we both want from such an endeavour.”

The speed and pragmatism of his apparent proposal do not surprise you in the least. In fact, you are actually grateful for the lack of ceremony around it. If you must marry, you prefer it be swift.

“Did you mean what you said last week? In the tearoom?” You quiz as you begin to walk shoulder to shoulder through Hyde Park, the early summer air heavy with the scent of roses.

“Every word,” he replies solemnly.

“Then, I suppose this is a beneficial arrangement for me too,” you shrug as if agreeing about the weather, not the very course of your future. But there is something about this man that feels inevitable, fateful, but not in a way you dread. Also, his face is so very pleasing. If you must indeed marry, at least the view across the dinner table will be nice.

“Then it is decided,” he nods decisively, a brusque smile passing over his lips. “I so greatly appreciate your candidness with regard to this matter. It makes the whole business so much easier to deal with.”

He offers a hand to shake, and you take it, bemused, shaking on the deal, pretending this mere touch doesn't make every butterfly in your stomach roar to life.

“I shall make the arrangements swiftly,” he states, again with a short smile and nod.

You are married within three weeks.

——

6 weeks later.

‘‘What on earth is this?” he practically spits as he rounds the corner of Bridgerton House onto the back lawn.

“What does it look like?” you sass, tearing the netted visor from your face.

“It looks an awful lot like my wife is fencing,” his reply dripping with conceited judgement.

“Well, I’m glad to know you do not need glasses, husband,” you respond dryly, nodding to accept the excuses of the butler you were sparring with, who suddenly seems very keen to scurry away now the Viscount has arrived.

“Perkins, do not think this has gone unnoticed,” Anthony calls pointedly after the retreating man.

“Leave him alone!” you bark, taking your husband aback with your ferocity, him turning to you and almost gaping in surprise. “Perkins must do my bidding as lady of the house, and I told him to fence with me,” you elucidate, keen that the innocent party not suffer any consequences for your decision.

“Women do not fence,” he sniffs, changing the subject somewhat.

“This one does,” you riposte, spearing your epee tip into the grass to remove the suede gloves.

“It is unbecoming of a Viscountess,” he adds almost haughtily.

“Good thing such matters hold no truck with me,” you shrug, knowing you are likely provoking him.

To hell with what is appropriate for a titled lady. The title, and all of its stifling rules and expectations, is the very last reason you married the man standing before you. No, the reason is far, far more simultaneously complex and simple than that. He excites you—in ways you don't even want to admit to yourself.

It’s not something you would divulge to anyone, but arguing with your new husband has become your new favourite pastime. On the rare occasions you see him, that is. Since your wedding day, you have mostly been ships passing at the dinner table; otherwise, your lives have been very separate. At night, his rooms are at the other end of the long hallway from yours, and his days are apparently filled with business obligations. While the utter freedom to fill your days as you wish has been a blessing, it’s also been perhaps a touch lonely.

When you do see Anthony, you invariably end up clashing about something. And, well, it’s often the highlight of your week. A thrill zipping down your spine as you do so. The only person you have met who can keep up with your verbal sparring. It makes you excited, breathless, dizzy, a fizz low in your belly that feels entirely beguiling. Today is no different; you feel that same sensation as he stares at you, arms crossed, exasperated.

“Well, if you insist upon this rebellious pastime,’ he sighs after a few beats, snatching your epee, “the least you can do is improve your grip,” he grouses, rolling his eyes.

You startle as he crowds into your back, a warm hand wrapping around yours as he passes you the blade and demonstrates a different way to wield it that you concede feels better. The spike of victory in your bloodstream from winning the argument morphs into something entirely different as he stands behind you, his breath tickling your ear and the tendrils of your hair as he provides instruction.

You try to take the details on board, but your thoughts scatter with his overwhelming proximity. How have you never noticed the stirring amber notes of his cologne before? Or how very broad his chest is compared to his slim hips? Perhaps because this is the closest you have ever been, his body heat seeping into your spine, your heart fluttering hard against your ribs. You can’t decide if this effect your husband can have on you is the best or the worst thing. Somehow, it feels like both.

——

1 month later.

You are both relieved to avoid most of the season on the pretence of being on honeymoon, but inevitably, the time comes when you must debut as a married couple. Speculation about you growing ever since Lady Whistledown breathlessly reported your nuptials, a nearly unknown minor Ton member rapidly snaring the most eligible of perenially eligible bachelors.

So when you enter your first ball as Viscountess Bridgerton, all eyes are upon you. You feel mildly uncomfortable bedecked in jewels and a heavy silk dress, but know refinement is of importance at events such as these. You just cannot wait to get home and get out of them. This will never be your preferred milieu, a sentiment you apparently share with your husband—underneath his calm, unruffled exterior, you sense his dampened disquiet.

“Smile politely, nod in acknowledgement, but don't engage for any longer than necessary,” he counsels under his breath as an inevitable hush falls over the room when your arrival is announced. You are grateful for his steadfast support, his arm looped reassuringly through yours as you follow his advice, knowing he has navigated these waters much more than you have needed to. “The best thing to do is seem frightfully ordinary,” he explains quietly as you complete a circuit of the room. “They are ravenous for gossip; if none is to be had, their preoccupation will swiftly wane.”

Indeed, the initial excitement about your appearance soon dies down as other, perhaps more flamboyant, guests arrive. People approach expressing surprise about your union, but once he economically explains you just knew you were right for each other, they often quickly move on, seeming almost disappointed at the lack of apparent scandal.

As the evening progresses, you school your tongue at some of the barbs you overhear, more out of a wish to be left alone rather than any adherence to social rules. Most of the things that appear to preoccupy the Ton you have little patience for. As Anthony spends some time with business acquaintances, you eventually find yourself in the company of the female members of his family, whom you are quickly becoming very fond of with every passing day in their company. Particularly his benevolent mother and headstrong sister, Eloise. In fact, the latter is the primary witness to the flare of your true nature, fatigue overriding your ability to remain silent.

Cressida Cowper is being particularly venomous about a mutual acquaintance. Eloise is quick with her witty tongue in reply, and you cannot stop yourself from piling on your scorn as well.

“Perhaps if the braiding of your hair were less painful, it would allow you greater empathy,” you retort before you can stop yourself.

Eloise’s responding guffaw sprays lemonade all over Cressida, whose shocked mien is the last thing you see before she turns heel to attend to her ruined dress in private.

“That was sensational!” Eloise wheezes in awe as she blots the remnants of her beverage from her chin.

You sigh.

“It was unwise,” you correct, knowing you have probably just made an enemy of one of the worst gossips of the Ton.

“It was wholly accurate and justified,” a cool, authoritative voice cuts in, and you look up to find your husband before you, a rapt glint in his eye that makes your lungs feel tight. It appears he may have also been witness to the moment.

Eloise’s eyes briefly ping-pong between the two of you, and then she loops an arm into the crook of Anthony’s as you continue to gaze at each other, cataloguing something new about each other that you mutually admire.

“I like her,” Eloise nods at you. “Excellent choice of wife, brother,” she grins.

It breaks the spell between you but seems to further ingratiate you with at least one member of his family. And that makes you feel light as air in a way you don't fully understand.

——

2 months later.

Funnily enough, it’s another random Tuesday when your life takes a complete turn. Yet again, you find yourself in another heated debate with your husband of barely twelve weeks. This time while sojourning at your country estate, Aubrey Hall.

“Must you?” Anthony gripes, standing up from his desk and rounding towards where you stand.

“Must I what? Speak my mind?” you bite back, hands on your hips.

“Be so damn argumentative,” he expounds, hands also on hips, chest heaving a little, “urghh, you are so aggravating!”

“Same!” You shoot back. “I have never met a man quite as disagreeable as you,” you add, not realising as you argue that you have taken steps closer and are now huffing irritated breaths close to each other's faces.

“Why did you agree to marry me then?” he snarls, his gaze suddenly fixated on your bottom lip, unbeknownst to you, it’s glistening and swollen from biting in irritation at his demeanour.

“Right now, I have no earthly idea,” you volley in return, but your pounding heart gives away the real reason. No one makes you feel quite as alive as Anthony, even when he is driving you up the wall, like right now. “Why did you agree to marry me, seeing as I am so very ‘aggravating’?” you spit, parroting the word back at him.

His stare blisters as he draws himself to full height right before you.

“We made a pact,” he huffs, “this is duty, nothing more.”

But the way he breathes and holds himself speaks to something else. A war in his body and mind. The maelstrom in his eyes belying his words… and then it hits you. So singular it knocks the wind from your lungs. This is desire. He wants you. In all the ways a man can want a woman.

And damn it all to hell if you don’t feel precisely the same.

“For me as well,” your tart, mendacious reply is bitter on your tongue.

The tension in the air is taut like a cord, ready to snap. You both toe to toe, noses almost touching, laboured breaths as you stare each other down like some game to see who will capitulate first.

“I do believe we are at an impasse… wife,” the last word dripping with disdain, but he is leaning closer than he ever has, his lips fractional inches from yours.

“It would appear so…,” you concur, “…husband,” you roll the last word slowly, lingering on the end of the first syllable as if it is both a treat and a bitter pill on your tongue.

“I have been raised a gentleman,” he hisses, “but there are times that you test my resolve.”

“I do nothing of the sort!” you decry, knowing you are lying even to yourself now. Somedays lately, you live to simply push his buttons, just to see what he will do. “And resolve of what? To not be a good husband? Because I can tell you, forthright, you are doing a wonderful job of being a terrible husband,” you goad, knowing you are poking the proverbial beast now.

“I give you a wonderful home to run as you please, I give you the freedom to pursue whatever pastimes you wish, I let you speak your mind. As Viscountess, the world is yours. What else could you possibly want in a husband? I do not ask you to do things, wifely things, that I could,” he warns, his voice buzzing low. “I could demand you submit to my will; it is my right,” he growls.

A flame behind your ribs catches fire, even as your eyes flash indignant.

“You do not wish for that sort of wife; you told me as much yourself.” It’s a heated whisper, much breathier than you mean it to be.

“A man can change his mind,” he gravels, “same as a woman can change hers if she wishes.”

“What made you change your mind?”

He fixes you with a hypnotic, weighted stare.

“You.”

The way that one word drips from his lips tilts your whole existence. It’s so loaded you don’t know what to say. Unmoored, your system awash with chemicals, your mind flooding with images of sketches you have seen of men and women together. Of what the marital act can entail. It’s something you believed would not ever be a part of your marriage, your life, even, but now….

Now your handsome husband is staring at you, ragged breaths, face wild, telling you he has changed his mind. Maybe he wants that sort of marriage, that sort of union. Something gallops hard in your chest as he steps away, as if wrongly intuiting you are about to turn down his suit, and something bubbles up from deep inside you.

“Do not dare,” you growl.

His mouth falls open in shock.

“Do not tease me so and leave me wanting,” you continue with a boldness and timbre you barely recognise as your own. “‘Tis crueller to build false hope than to take what you want,” you sniff and stare him down, so wholly decisive in your intentions and desires. If this is the nudge he needs, you’ll give it.

“You want me to exercise my conjugal rights?” he falters, appearing utterly stunned.

You don’t answer; just do one thing, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. You close the last few inches and press your lips to his.

They are soft and plush against yours, making your insides warm and glowing. Then, Anthony makes a noise in the back of his throat, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. So ferociously, you squeak into his mouth as he opens your lips and slides his tongue over yours, his strong arms pulling you into an embrace so you are enveloped by his warm body.

Good lord.

You feel like you are drowning in him as he grabs your jaw, directing the kiss, turning it into something wholly other. Your lips move endlessly together as you both greedily take from the other for what seems like ages. When you pull apart, you are both heaving breaths and staring at each other, almost confused.

“Don’t you dare do that again,” you snarl, wanting to rip every item of clothing from your body and his.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds airily.

And then you crash into each other again. Drinking desperately from each other's mouths, powerless to resist whatever flame draws you together.

He walks you backwards as your tongues tangle, and you startle slightly as your bottom hits his imposing desk. Hands loop around your thighs, and he hoists you into the surface, never breaking the intoxicating kiss.

He tries to step between your legs, but your column dress is too tight to allow it. You attempt to wiggle the hem upwards as you kiss, then, with a frustrated grunt, he bats your hands away and, using a strength that shocks you, rips the silk material asunder from the hem to your hip.

“I loved this dress!” you decry over his lips, unwilling to admit you’d destroy every single dress you own if he just kept kissing you like this.

“I’ll buy you another,” he dismisses, pushing your thighs wide with his hands. “I’ll buy you as many as you want.”

“You had better,” you challenge, scarcely able to believe you even have the wherewithal to debate with him, especially as this is the first time a man has ever touched your bare leg.

He pulls back from the kiss to stare intently into your eyes as his fingertips trace from your kneecap up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You don’t mean to, but you tremble, having never been touched this way before. You gasp as his palm cups the apex of your thighs, his hand feeling so warm through the thin silk protecting your modesty, his fingers swirling circles over your patch of hair as the heel of his palm presses against your slit.

“I can feel your heat,” he hisses.

You can barely process what is happening, your body rioting as he touches and teases you, staring you down. Instinctively, you reach for the tiny buttons at your hip, but your hands fall away as he flicks his middle finger downwards and catches a nub that makes your body buck.

“Anthony,” it falls from your lips unbidden with a halting breath. It may well be the first time you have uttered his first name in his presence.

He groans at the sound. “Please, always say my name like that,” he pleads through gritted teeth.

So you repeat it, the same intonation, even as that finger drags slowly up and down over the swollen pearl between your legs, undone by how good it feels.

“Are you chaste?” he inquires; it’s not judgemental in tone, just pure curiosity, his ministrations lighter.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, “but I do know of the marital act”, you add, wanting him to know you are not entirely innocent.

“Hmm,” he hums, looking at once thoughtful and blistering, his finger moving more insistently again, “I am glad to hear it. Then you shall not be entirely shocked by what is about to happen?”

“So… we are to undertake it? The act?” you stutter, his finger making you feel so good you have to bite your lip.

But he doesn’t answer your question directly.

“Wife, how attached are you to these undergarments?” his tone almost idle, cocking his head to the side as his gaze lingers over them.

You shrug practically. “I have many exactly the same.”

Then, you gasp loudly as the sound of silk tearing fills the room. You are quaking as the warm air of his study swirls around your exposed, damp slit. He shocks you by dropping to his knees before you. Pushing your thighs wide on his desk and looking up at you with burningly intense eyes, he presses his face to your flesh, inhaling deeply, his nose buried in your pubic hair before his tongue peeks out and nudges the swollen nub he was teasing through the silk.

Your mouth drops open, and something inhuman escapes your lungs. Then he does it again, this time enclosing the whole area between his lips and sucking hard on your flesh, tongue curling and ploughing into your folds. The heat, the suction, the muscular swipe of his tongue feels so good your mind blanks out, a tremor in your splayed thighs that he holds forcibly open with warm hands. He keeps doing so for a few moments as your fingernails curl hard into the edge of his desk, scarcely able to do anything but writhe and gently moan. IIdly you think upon all of your curious research, never once had you heard of or read about a man doing as he is now, placing his head between his wife’s thighs and sniffing, drinking from her body.

“You are plenty ready for me, wife,” he huffs, his warm breath tickling your responsive folds, little ripples of pleasure deep inside scattering your thoughts. “Are you averse to me taking you right here?” he waves a hand nonchalantly at his large, imposing carved wooden desk.

“I… I rather thought su-such things could only ha-happen in a bed,” you confess stiltedly, a quiver in your voice.

He smirks up from between your thighs, turning his head to kiss the fragile skin there. “Oh, no, wife. We can fuck anywhere we please…” he pauses and looks sincere, “however, should you prefer a bed…”

“Here is fine,” you rush out, so very keen to have your husband make a woman of you. As if leaving this room may break the spell you are under. Location be damned. You just want to know him. He smirks again, placing a final quick kiss on your flesh, looking very pleased at your response.

“I wholeheartedly concur,” he rumbles as he hoists himself back up to stand, stepping inwards to rock his clothed pelvis against your pulsing nub. There is something hot and swollen in his trousers now, and you realise this must be his member.

“Show it to me,” you enthuse, nodding at the insistent bulge.

“So very impatient all of a sudden, wife,” he scolds with a bemused chuckle, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand over the bump. It feels so hot and steely even through the fabric. “Unbutton me,” he orders casually, pointing to the fastening at his hip.

Exuberantly, you undo them quickly, keen to see if his member matches the sketches you have viewed. As the front of his trousers falls away, he quickly pushes down his white underwear. There, nestled in a thatch of dark hair at the base, is your husband's cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. It seems more considerable than the drawings you have seen, and you are temporarily taken aback by how red and almost angry it looks at the tip.

“Go ahead, touch it,” Anthony encourages, and with a slight tremble in your fingers, you reach forward and make contact with him.

“Oh!” you exclaim without thought, “it’s so soft, your skin, and so hot!”

He chuckles warmly at your assessment. “Indeed,” he huffs as you wrap your hand instinctively around it, feeling its weight and mass in your palm.

“This will not fit inside me, surely?” you blurt out.

“It will, I promise,” his tone mellow, tinged with understanding even as his breath staccatos when you start to move your hand, the instinct to rub inexplicable, but seemingly precisely what he wants. “Yes, perfect,” he rasps, eyes closing and tongue peaking out to lick his lips.

The odd mix of total honesty and soft appreciation between you as you acquaint yourselves with each other's bodies seems very apt, as if this is the only way such a development would ever transpire. And you realise, as you cradle his most intimate parts, that you trust this man with your very being. Despite your bickering, there is a thread of mutual respect under it that makes you feel safe, seen, and known in a way that no other person has.

“Take me now, husband,” you rattle through your teeth, watching a bead of something sticky form at the tip of his cock as you squeeze him in hypnotic, repetitive motions. The sight makes something in your body turn to fiery liquid, wanting him and that substance inside yourself in a way that doesn't make logical sense.

He growls at your words, grabbing your hand away from his cock and bringing it to his mouth, kissing the back of your knuckles as your eyes lock, a chaste, almost romantic interlude.

But then his hands grab your hips and haul you almost roughly to the very edge of the desk, your torn dress framing your splayed thighs, his trousers around his ankles as he takes his cock in hand and rubs the tip over your folds of flesh in a way that makes you moan under your breath.

“Are you certain?” he checks, even as he pants anticipatorily.

“God, yes,” you confirm, craving him in a way you have never felt about anything before. An urgent hook tugging deep inside your loins, calling to him like a siren song.

“Watch,” he murmurs darkly, his other hand rounding the back of your neck so your gaze is tilted down to where his cock nudges your opening.

So you do, as does he. Stare down to where your body meet, hissing loudly as his tip slips inside your soaked channel. Your eyes want to roll back at the sheer overwhelming sensation of it, but equally, it's such an enthralling sight that you can’t look away.

He moans loudly, lewdly, decadently as he pushes further into your heat, pausing to readjust your legs wider and tilt your pelvis more open.

“This next part may hurt, darling,” he whispers quietly, the first time he has ever used such an affectionate term for you, making your heart race.

“It's alright,” you reassure mutely in return, “I have heard as such.”

The hand around the back of your neck slides gently until he tilts your chin up to meet his tender gaze.

“You are quite the woman,” he says, almost reverential, as he leans in and captures your lips in a sweet, soft kiss.

The movement propels his cock deeper into your body, and you cry out into his open mouth at a stab of sharp pain inside.

“That's it done,” he mutters reassuringly into your lips as you whimper gently.

He stills as you adjust to the girth, the heat, and feeling so very filled.

“More…” falls from your mouth spontaneously, the want rising, hungry for a need to be met, a thirst slaked, unlike anything you have experienced.

The smile that breaks out over his face makes your nipples pebble hard in your stays, and he slides deeper as you cling to him, exhaling unevenly as he keeps sinking further into your pussy, pushing you open. Just when you think you cannot take more, he stops, and you feel his body pressing wholly against yours.

You stare at each other, eyes wild and wide, unable to form words but knowing instinctually how good this feels for both of you. He looks untamed, something urgent rippling in his being. And without breaking the gaze, he pulls his hips back until just the head of his cock is inside you, then ploughs back in, in one determined, decisive stroke.

You don't stop the decadent noise that escapes your lungs, your toes curling into the soles of your feet at how wonderful and all-encompassing that feels. Same as you don't miss the victorious smirk on his face at your reaction.

Then it’s a hungry blur of movement as your hands grab his biceps through his clothing, clinging on for dear life as he proceeds to move just like that first thrust. Over and over. Building in pace and with increasing intensity, him sensing your need for such things.

“Anthony…” his name spills over your lips again, and the impact on him is nothing short of extraordinary.

His hands clamp vicelike to your hips, branding heatedly over your skin through your dress, straining the tendons of your inner thighs as he pushes your legs open impossibly wide, his pelvis crashing into yours in a way you are certain may leave bruises. And what shocks you most is just how much you want it. Want him to leave signs of his presence, want to look in the mirror and see the outline of his digits in the globes of your bottom.

He moans your name, hot and desperate, into your ear, his pace never wavering, a drop of sweat forming on his forehead that you can't look away from when he pulls back to tilt your heads together.

“I want to see,” you stumble out, pantingly, as he takes you harder.

“See what?” he sounds almost winded, his thrusts still spearing his cock into your body.

“See you entering me,” you huff into his cheek.

His responding noise is feral and has every inch of your body alight. He bows his spine outward so your bodies only touch where you are joined, and his hand feels heated and heavy on the back of your neck as you tilt your chin down to take in the sight.

His cock, rigid and huge, ploughing repeatedly into your body, shining with a slick substance you can only assume is from within you, the sight making you shudder, but not with anything approaching disgust. It’s something primal. A need to chase a conclusion, the power of the vivid tableau burned into your retinas.

“Don't stop, please don't stop,” you petition, looking back up to his face, your hands sliding up and down his torso now, raking urgent fingernails over his clothing.

He swears, and his lips are back on yours, searing and demanding. This feels like a frantic wave you are riding together, a trickle of moisture running down your spine as you start to push your hips forward as much as you can, meeting his thrusts halfway.

“You are fucking perfect,” he snarls over your tongue, and you couldn't agree more.

Time seems elastic as he lowers you so your back rests on the piles of no doubt important paperwork, not that he pays it any mind, him hunched over you, pulling your hips out over the edge now, the range of motion it allows him making you gasp. He is taking you without mercy now, breath hot on your throat as he moans your name, his hand squirrelling between your bodies and making your vision dance with dots as he passes a slightly calloused tip over your clit.

“Come for me,” he breathes, the request both hopeful and commanding.

“What does that mean?” your question puffed into his lush hairline.

“Oh my darling, just you wait,” his voice dripping with promise even as your skin feels like it wants to vibrate off your very bones as his fingers and cock take you somewhere you never envision. An ecstasy both outside but rooted deep in your being.

He murmurs encouragingly as you struggle for air, your lungs burning, scarcely remembering to breathe, skating some kind of precipice that feels dangerous and addictive. Then, with a flick of his thumb and a gentle bite of your earlobe, you fall into an abyss. Everything all at once quiet and loud, eyes screwed shut as colours burst behind them, and every fibre of your being seems to snap and break, rearranging in a mind-shattering way. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock that now seems impossibly large.

Then, with a deep booming cry, you feel him lance deeper than ever, his whole body tensing and jerking. A warmth spreads inside, and you vaguely realise he is reaching completion, spilling his seed inside you. For what seems like ages, your mind and body float somewhere, utterly sated, suddenly understanding why this act can be so all-consuming and there is so much written of it.

When your mind returns to the room, you are panting into each other's necks, both breathlessly stunned at how animalistic your first intimacy was. Somehow, your antagonistic chemistry transmuting into an explosive, consuming passion.

“We are going to bed right now,” his tone wrecked, rough, so damn irresistible you want to bite his flesh, even while you still recover from what transpired. Fires stoked again just by those seven words.

He pulls up his trousers haphazardly, picks you up bridal-style, and sweeps you out of his office and up the grand staircase, ignoring the shocked looks of staff at your torn dress and his roughly pulled clothing.

“We are not to be disturbed,” he barks at his valet, who blanches and leaves the room as Anthony practically throws you onto his imposing four-poster bed. Then, as you lay there, he strips naked before you, and you want to nuzzle every inch of his toned, magnificent body.

___

It’s three days before you reemerge from what is now your joint bedroom. From that day on, you are never without your husband for more than two days; such is your magnetic need for each other. And when your belly swells with the first of your many children, he confesses his ardent, undying love for you, you returning the sentiment instantly, having felt the same for what seems like forever.

A hurried, naive pact between two proud, independent souls becoming something wholly other—a loving, passionate marriage of equals. You still squabble with unerring frequency, but now it ends in lovemaking, the intensity sweeping you both into an ephemeral bliss.

A beneficial arrangement indeed.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor

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schemmentis · 11 days

Text

La Cosa Nostra - Pt. 8

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7

Cowritten w/ @janeyseymour

Summary: Sunday dinner brings unexpected news.

WC: 2.8k

You practically have to pry both your daughters from Barbara and vice versa after breakfast. You promise the twins they'll see her again soon. Your wife promises Barb to do her best to make it before next Sunday.

You're home for much of the afternoon, unaware of the sudden lack of eyes following your every move. At least, for now. You entertain Cat and Rosie, reveling in the extra bit of twin time as you keep them out of the kitchen and thus out of your wife's way.

Sunday morning means church and breakfast with Barb and Gerald. Sunday evening means family dinner at Melissa’s mother’s. A much different affair than it had been when you'd picked the girls up from there earlier in the week. In the middle of the week, it rivals your own house. Relatively quiet aside from your twins and whatever they're getting into.

Tonight, the house is going to have a small handful of people in every room. Mel's large family is a decent portion of it but plenty of the kind of family neither of you are related to at all will be there too. The kind of family only had by the bond of the life you're all in. In reality, it'll probably be barely a fraction of that type of family too. The Schemmentis don't let just anyone in. A type of attitude that didn't begin with your wife, or even her mother.

Since they had to dress up a bit in Sunday best this morning, you compromise with the twins on their evening wear. You send them off to pick what they want to wear to Nonna's, reminding them that you might have to change a piece or two that they pick if it doesn't match. You mentally correct it to be when they don't match. You know they both will pick things from four different kinds of outfits to make into one. Still, it helps when they have some kind of input when you can let them.

You peek over Melissa’s shoulder as the twins are off in their room choosing. She's still busy packing up what you'll be taking over with you that she's made over the afternoon. As if she hasn't made enough to feed your own family three times.

You wrap your arms around her waist, kissing her cheek. “Lemme guess, the extra container is Sammy's branzino.” You mutter as you rest your chin to her shoulder.

“I ain't gonna let him say I ain't paid him. Not in front of Ma.” Melissa grumbles.

You squeeze your arms lightly around her. “His job ain't over yet, anyhow. I told him to be ready to sue the assholes for tearing up Twelve Tables once everything has been cleared.”

Melissa laughs. “Damn right, amore.”

You smile to hear her laugh. Seeing her a bit more at ease today has healed a bit of the stress and wear you've felt. You steal a kiss or two before you let her focus on making sure she's packed everything exactly how she likes.

“No more business talk, huh?” You say as you pull away. Family might be at the house tonight but Sundays are rest days. The one day of the week you don't have to worry like all the rest.

“Cat, you have to take a coat.” You sigh a few minutes later. Her little coat held in your hands as you all stood in the doorway, attempting to leave. You'd managed to get Rosie's on just fine but her sister refuses.

“Mam, the coat doesn't go!”

You look at your wife, a bit pointedly as you know exactly where this sudden phrase has been learned. Notoriously, Melissa is much more concerned with fashion than you are. You dress well, of course. It wouldn't do to be who you are and not dress well. Still, the phrase your daughter is echoing definitely didn't come with you.

“Sweetheart,” Your wife says, looking at your eldest twin. “You have blue in your outfit, don't you?”

Cat looks down, studying her outfit before looking back up to Melissa. “I do!”

“Then your purple coat goes with it. You don't want to be cold, especially when we leave Nonna's do you?

Reluctantly, Cat holds her little arms out to you to put her coat on. You kiss her small head in affection even if she'd been making you exasperated a few moments ago. “Thank you, A storin.” You whisper before taking both her and her sister's hand to walk to the car.

As much time as it took you to get little coats on is at most half the time it takes for them to be removed and dropped at your feet once you've walked into your mother-in-laws.

“No running!” You call after your girls that already aren't listening as they hurry to join their cousins to play. You sigh dramatically as you pluck little coats from the floor before trailing after your wife who has beelined for the kitchen.

You quickly say hello before putting the girls’ coats in the room that's designated theirs when they stay over. You know better than to linger in a Schemmenti kitchen when you haven't been asked to. Especially with more than one generation of Schemmenti women sharing it already.

You say hello and mingle with those who have beat you to the house already. Business and anything close to it doesn't surface at all. It's only talk of family and what everyone's kids are up to or in some cases what trouble they're getting into for the older ones.

It isn't until after dinner that things really settle. The various rooms of the house with small groups chatting quietly. You're sat on one of the couches in the living room, catching up with Kristen Marie when Melissa reappears, claiming the seat next to you. Instantly your arm wraps around her shoulders and your lips press a kiss to her temple.

“Next week it's your turn to do dishes after dinner.” She says to her sister as she leans against your side.

“It should be Mickey's.” Kristen Marie retorts. “I swear when he gets home I'm makin’ him do it every week.”

“Ya, good luck with Ma lettin’ him. You know she'll catch on a lot faster to him doin’ your chores than me doin’ ‘em. Just like when we were kids.”

“That was only ‘cause he was such a tattle tale, you know.”

“Hey, Y/N.”

You look away from the sisters to the figure calling for you. “Hey, Luca.” You greet easily as you look past your wife. “Did you just get here?” Your brow furrows as you realize you hadn't seen him earlier in the night. “You missed dinner.”

“I'm alright.” Luca assures, waving off your worry. “Can I steal ya for a minute?”

You nod, quickly kissing Melissa before you get up. “‘Course ya can.” You say as you follow him toward the kitchen.

You think he's going to fix a plate of the plentiful leftovers while you talk. It isn't unusual for the extended family of Italians to pick your brain about things. Even just for opinion. Melissa tells you it's because you're Irish. You grew up outside of all of this even if you still grew up in the life in your own way. Either way, you've never minded listening or talking things through with any of them.

Instead of stopping in the kitchen though, Luca keeps walking through it and steps into the family room. You trail after him, your brow furrowing. He really wasn't going to eat? That just wasn't normal for anyone in a Schemmenti house.

Once you step through to the family room, you realize you aren't alone. “Uncle Dom,” you greet the older man sat in one of the arm chairs just as easily as you had Luca. “How're you doin’?”

“Good, good, Y/N. I'm sorry to steal ya away from Mel. This'll just take a minute.” Uncle Dominic assures as he shakes your hand.

Luca closes the door that connects the room to the kitchen. Leaving just the three of you in the quiet room. You suddenly don't believe it will only be a minute. Luca remains near the door, his hands crossing at his waist as he stands patiently.

You sit in the other armchair at Uncle Dom's head nodding to it. You don't ask what's going on or what he wanted to speak to you for. You know not to press or hurry. The information is coming.

Uncle Dom sips from his wine glass before setting it back down. “I'll do this quick, like rippin’ a band aid, since you know I like ya, kid.” He says. His hand moves from the glass set down to fiddle with the head of the cane he's needed to start carrying the last two years or so as he's aged. “We're takin’ you off the salon.”

You blink. “I own the salon.” You answer lamely.

“Ya do.” Dom agrees. “But with everythin’ goin’ on right now, it's been decided that it's best if you ain't so…hands on.”

You sit stock still in your chair as you stare back at the older man. You're at a loss for words.

“You're to start actin’ like a…more silent partner from Monday on. Tony’ll take care of the day to day. You worry about your girls.”

You take a deep breath. “I own the salon.” you repeat, slowly leaning forward in your chair. Until your elbows rest against your knees. “And you're tellin’ me to act like Tony does?”

“For now. There's a lot of eyes, kid. It's better if you just stay home, worry about the twins.”

You bite your tongue, hard. You want to argue. You want to fight. Except you know better than to. It won't get you anywhere. This decision comes from higher than you and from more than one person, no doubt.

You push yourself up from the armchair. You don't bother saying anything else to Dom. “Oh, fuck off, Luca.” You mutter when he moves to open the door for you. You throw it open yourself as you storm past him.

You take your spot next to your wife again, as she watches your little girls play with her cousins, and she can immediately feel the tension radiating off of you.

“Mi amore?” She looks to you sharply, your nails just digging into her hip slightly as you take up your position again.

“We need to go, or I’m going to flip my God damn shit,” you whisper into her ear. “I don’t think you want me doing that in front of everybody.”

Melissa gathers the girls, and the four of you attempt an Irish goodbye- running out and leaving without anyone noticing. Somehow, someway, the only person that you run into is Dominic. You glare daggers at him and all but dare him to stop you. He raises his hands in surrender, and the four of you are in your car no sooner.

You absolutely blast the Disney songs through the speaker as you begin to curse in Irish at a rapid fire speed.

“Y/N,” Melissa squeezes your thigh as you drive. “What has you up in arms?”

“I’m going to fuckin’ kill ‘em,” you seethe.

The redhead rolls her eyes. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

“I’m going to,” you hiss. Then you switch to Italian, having run out of cuss words in your own tongue. And finally, you let out a, “Mother fucker!” as you slam your palm on the steering wheel.

Your wife’s brows raise as you continue to curse under your breath. She knows she’ll have to talk to you once she gets the kids to bed- because tonight you are clearly off of parental duties with the attitude you have now. You’re one minor inconvenience away from taking one of her baseball bats to someone’s car, and with the trouble you’re in right now you can’t afford it.

As you pull in, she sets a gentle hand on your upper thigh. “Let me take care of the girls tonight while you simmer on the couch,” she tells you. “Pour yourself a glass of wine, and try not to explode from your rage.”

You kill the engine and storm into the house, not even bothering to help your wife get the girls into the house.

“Mommy?” Rosie asks as you stomp into the house.

“Yes, my little love?” your wife asks as she climbs out of the car.

“Why didn’t Mam get me out?”

“Mam is a little frustrated,” the redhead tells your daughters. “She just needs some time to cool off.”

“Mam is more than a little frustrated,” Cat notes softly. “Mam is really mad.”

“Just let Mam be for now,” your wife tells your girls. “It’s time for the two of you to head to bed anyway.”

“But Mam is home, and I want her to read a bedtime story,” Rosie whines.

“Mommy can read a bedtime story,” Melissa tries to placate as she ushers the girls into the house and up towards their room.

“But Mam reads better!” Cat groans. “You don’t do the funny voices as good!”

Out in the kitchen, you can hear your girls moaning and groaning, and you sigh heavily. If you can’t have control of your business right now... Dom is right- you should focus on your girls. You do end up reading them a story, tucking them in with a few extra kisses for the night, and then you’re out in the kitchen downing at least two glasses worth of scotch.

“Honey,” Melissa wraps her arms around your waist as you throw the last of the liquor down the hatch, loving the way that it burns. “Slow down. You haven’t even told me what’s happening.”

“Dom and Tony are takin’ the business out from underneath me.”

“What?” Melissa asks, sounding as incredulous as you felt when you were first told. “They can't do that! You own it.”

You laugh as you pour yourself another glass. “The fuck they can't. You know as well as I do they can do whatever the hell they want.”

Melissa's hands reach from your waist to your own hands, still trying to get you to slow down. “Amore.”

You put both the glass and bottle down on the kitchen counter a bit harder than necessary. “I have done everything they asked.” You grit through your teeth. “From day one. Even when Bobby was still there. They trusted me more than him at the end of it. And this is what they pay me back with, huh? The hell do they think this is gonna solve? You think the Feds ain't gonna notice I'm all of a sudden not there?”

Melissa sighs at your shoulder, her hands rubbing along your arms to try and calm you. “You know they have some sorta story to feed them if it's asked about already, honey.” She says softly. She isn't trying to give more fuel to your fire, but it is true. You know it is. Nothing is done without being thoroughly thought through.

“Fuck.” You curse once more as you close your eyes. You let your weight lean back into your wife. Her arms wrapping around your waist again. “Is this what we chose?” You ask, your voice much quieter than it has been in the last hour aside from reading to your girls and kissing them goodnight. “We get taught and spout all this shit about family. You're family. You do it for the family. Nothin’ comes over the family. This don't feel like fuckin’ family.”

Melissa doesn't answer you. There isn't a clear cut one. It's a complicated life for even the average person. Add in the mix of mafia and mob and all that comes with them both and complicated is an understatement. Instead she keeps you close to her. One hand letting go of you in order to cap a bottle of scotch to carry as she guides you with the other back to your couch.

You curl in with her on the cushions. Trading the bottle back and forth. The silence of your home cuts only when your mind whirs back to life, and you're ranting your thoughts at her again. In turn, Melissa just pulls you closer to her each time, humming the confirmation of her listening.

Eventually, you end up laying down with Mel on your couch, tangled up together beneath the throw blanket. You raise your head, blinking at your wife for a few moments. You're definitely drunk. Even still, you think she's the most beautiful woman you've seen. “You're family, y’know? The kind everybody in this damn neighborhood wants to keep talkin’ ‘bout. That you do anything for. Nothin’ else above it, all that. It's you and the girls. That's it. The rest of ‘em can get fucked.”

#melissa schemmenti fanfiction #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #abbott elementary fanfiction

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ahearthoficeandstone · 11 months

Text

You are the first child of the Florinius family, your birth had predestined you to become the next ruler of H'afeara. But it has been ten long years since the Empire of Aea had declared war upon your home. Ten years fighting to keep your kingdom's independence- for your chance to rule- only for it to ripped away from you. And it's your own fault.

You had one more charge to lead against Aean forces, and you had lost that battle. Losing was no stranger to you, but none had been thorough and devastating. This loss had ended with you being taken as a prisoner of war, and the end of the war soon followed.

Now you are "free", a welcomed "guest" in the Aean court. Being executed would have been a fairer fate.

[Contains elements of: court intrigue, romance, mystery, slice of life, and fantasy]

...

This side project is still in the planning stage, and things will be slow to come.

[Demo: TBA]

[Ask Rules][Playlists]

in progress...

- Semi Customizable MC (personality will be fairly set)

- Make friends, enemies, maybe lovers? Still deciding who gets to be an RO

- Decide how you navigate life in a foreign court

- under construction

Aea Royal Family

Empress Dalia Solia Vespera | she/her | 176

Dalia’s reign has thus far been one of tenuous peace, which is relative. Her predecessor had walked the path of conquest of new territories while Dalia prefers to keep the empire’s current territories in line. She is a calculated and distant with a face that is ever neutral.

King Consort Caesario Julius Vespera | he/they | 140~ish???

The reason for the war.

Edela Soleil Vespera | she/her | 37

Crown heir of the Aean’s empire. Edela is a woman who holds her head high, some may call her over confident but she cares little for the words of others. The lives of most around her mean little to her anyhow. She is also known for her highly destructive gravitational magic and is a formidable battle mage you luckily did not have the misfortune of going up against.

Augustus Valentino Vespera | he/him | 30 | RO

The second in line for the crown is the eldest son of the Vespera family. He is a formidable draconian knight, and the very soldier who struck you down in battle. Despite it all, he seems to be the only member of the royal family who wishes to make your stay at least somewhat bearable.

Camilla Junia Vespera + Camillo Felix Vespera | he/him + she/her | 28 (twins)

The Vespera twins are always found at each other’s side, even on the battle field. They are a terrifying duo, even the most twisted members of the court shudder in their presence. Camillo always has a sinister smile on his lips and is the clear leader of the duo while his sister Camilla trails behind him like a ghost. The two take care of criminals of the highest order, thankfully they were not permitted to try any of their information “extraction” tactics on you.

Diedre Vespera | he/him (atm) | 24 | RO

The youngest of the Vespera children. A sickly man with a bitter disposition. He bears no empathy for others and bringing others down with cruel words is the only thing that seems to bring a smile to his face. He takes special joy in ruining his wife's day.

Aea Royal Court

Astra Aurora Valeria | she/her | 27 | RO

Aurora is an confident woman that many look up to. She is gentle, intelligent, and beautiful, a potent combination that makes her a magnet for the court’s admiration. Occasionally you catch glimpses of cunning ambitions in her eyes. She is also the wife of Diedre Vespera.

Arielle Seballius | he/him | 29 | RO

Ari is Lady Astra Valeria's loyal body guard, wherever she is he is not far behind. Ever since she married into the royal family he has been at her side, though he is not a knight in title or in spirit. He has a playful demeanor but the words that can come out of his mouth are as sharp as his sword, or they would be if he ever carried his weapon with him.

Asrani Alim Valencia | they/them | 26 | RO

Cousin to Lady Aurora Valeria and leading inventor in the courts of Aea, many are jealous of the young noble and believe their position as royal inventor comes from nepotism through their cousin. Asrani is a quiet person always lost in thought, so quiet that it is easy to forget they are right next to you.

Ambrose | she/they | 24 | RO

Ambrose is an actual guest of the court, from the kingdom of Vakar. She is sunny and deeply kind, with an earnest and genuine demeanor that is horribly out of place in such a miserable place. Like a candle in the dark, you don’t know how she still smile in this environment. As sweet as she is her attachment to her “god” is a bit disconcerting.

Ira Maenius | she/her | 35

A noblewoman from the coastal nation of Nizath, one of the empire's closest allies. Her family is known for amazing naval navigation and does a lot of foreign trade. Despite her affinity for water magic, Ira can be a bit hot headed. She is stubborn and quick to react, but she always tries to do right to the best of her ability. But that doesn't mean she can't complain a little while doing it.

Laika Aurelius | she/he | 32 | RO

A disowned child of a merchant family from Vakar, you can't imagine why she lives amongst the Aean court. People do not take too kindly to her and make that quiet known. Perhaps it's because he has a penchant to sleep around, or the fact that he has a sharp tongue that always seems to strike at the most sensitive of nerves. Regardless she seems to be having fun.

Volo | use whatever man | ??? | RO

A mysterious court artist, the empress' favorite at that. You don't know how Volo sees well enough through their mask to paint but you know talent when you see it. Painting is not Volo's only skill, Volo tends to jump from artistic hobby to hobby to fill time. Leaving half finished collages, music sheets, and screen plays in Volo's wake as Volo seeks Volo's next muse.

Noel | they/them | 26 | RO

Once a soldier in the Aean army now a medical professional, Noel is in line to be the next royal physician. They train under the current one and love their work dearly. Noel is compassionate and patient, seeking to soothe whatever pains you regardless of if you are their patient or not. They find beauty in all things, but is partial to the primal beauty of the natural world. Their magic allows them to work in tandem with nature to bring their patients the best medicine possible.

Venus | he/they | 28 | RO

An Aean knight with a grouchy disposition, seemingly friends with Lady Ira Meanius. Their tendency for bluntness and straightforwardness can be is both a blessing and a curse depending on who you ask. Venus is never seen without his scowl and a snide remark on his lips. Despite being a lower ranking knight he holds his head as high as any of the top knights, and takes great pride in his duties. His current one being your personal guard.

Yves | m/f (gender selectable) | ???

Your personal attendant, assigned to make you feel more at home. Dutiful and never heard, like every servant should strive to be.

??? | ??? | ???

Fate is a strange thing isn’t it?

??|??|??

Some things were never meant to be...

#interactive fiction #interactive novel #twine game #text based game #choose your own adventure #interactive game #no demo

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galedekarios · 3 months

Note

I let him hit it cause he says stuff like

"By Ahgharion's lost nose - no!"

thank you for your message!

that's definitely one of my favourite gale moments. it's very sweet.

it also led me down a rabbit hole to read more about who ahgharion is (i may have read abt him before, but not in depth) and what happened to his nose (lol); it was actually super interesting to find out more about him.

he was a human wizard and the first of open lord of waterdeep and lived a very long (he died at +300 years old) and eventful life, which was deeply intertwined with the city he lived in and helped shape:

"There shall come a time when our city and its deepwater bay shall grow in fame and fortune across many realms and many worlds. Folk shall know of Waterdeep, our City of Splendors, and sing its praises. I have seen it thus, and I endeavor to make it true." — Ahghairon, circa 1032 DR

Ahghairon was known by several names during his youth, but went by only his first name during his time in Waterdeep. Ahghairon was born on Midsummer's Night, in the Year of Great Riches, 920 DR. He was named after his great-grandfather. Legends say that the symbol of Mystra was glowing in the sky at the time. [x]

he's also remembered with a holiday in waterdeep:

(these are all from volo's waterdeep enchiridion.)

ahghairon also constructed his own wizard tower and it still stands within the city:

a large statue was built in his honour and it's located in the city of the dead in waterdeep:

Ahghairon's Statue was located in the central section of the City of the Dead near the entryway. Made completely from marble, the tall statue depicted a detailed representation of the bearded wizard Ahghairon as an old man in his prime. The smiling statue stood atop a series of concentric steps and faced west toward the entryway into the City of the Dead with hands outstretched. Torches lit the steps at night.

Ahghairon's Statue: This tall, marble sculpture is an incredibly lifelike sculpture of the bearded, robed mage in his prime (at a mere 70 winters). Ahghairon stands atop concentric steps, facing west with his hands outstretched to indicate the City of Waterdeep around him, and the statue has a smile on his face. The steps are lit by night with rows of torches, and are a favorite meeting-spot by day.

the statue is what is referenced in gale's tiefling party dialogue by the devs:

Gale: By Ahghairon's lost nose - no! devnote: This is a statue in Waterdeep's burial district

apparently the statue is missing its nose? i couldn't find the idiom anywhere else and nothing related to ahghairon himself, only this one here:

which i sort of referenced in my 'doth thy mirror crack' meta post.

anyhow, sorry for rambling. this got away from me. 🖤 i just really like the little pieces here and there that show gale's deep connection to waterdeep.

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #waterdeep #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 meta #ch: gale dekarios #vg: baldur's gate 3 #series: baldur's gate #meta: mybg3 #text: asks

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y0ur-loca1-lyr3 · 2 months

Note

Hey could we get your headcannons on Shane gaining a crush on the farmer? How Shane would feel about the whole scenario, how he would address it, the like

Shane getting a crush on the farmer hcs

A/N; omg I’m absolutely fangirling over this rn thank you so much for this request anon, hope you like it :D

As we all know, Shane isn’t really very fond of people

Actually it’s not that he’s not fond of people he just can’t see someone actually liking him as a person

So when he first realized he had a crush on the farmer he just sort of pushed it away, thus in turn probably also the farmer

At first he thought that there was no way someone like the farmer would remotely feel the same

The farmer talking to him, and giving him gifts was probably just out of pity, right?

No need to acknowledge that weird swirly feeling in his stomach, or the fact he always stumbled over his words around them

Not like they felt the same anyhow

But then they show some type of interest in the same way he feels

Maybe it’s a slip of the tongue, or maybe he says something on accident that makes them a little flustered

And now he’s freaking out

He can barely focus at his job

Probably dropped a few things while stocking shelves because he was so in thought he missed the shelves entirely

Internally freaking out in his room later

Cannot sleep. Like normally he’s too drunk or too exhausted to do anything but plop on his bed and sleep away his life, but now? Oh, no, no, no

He’s wide awake pondering what to do

Hell, he’s still having a hard time grasping the fact that someone is willing to talk to him, and now this?

The next day when they talk to him, he’s very nervous

Normally his response is something along the lines of ‘go away’ but now he’s trying to piece together a normal response to them

It wasn’t until that moment he realized how hard it was to simply speak English

He stumbled over his words a few times before finally getting out a “hey, what’s up?”

They’d respond kindly, and for the first time in a while he actually has a good conversation with someone

He had to admit it was nice to actually talk to someone he was fond of

This happened day after day until him and the farmer talking before his shift was just sorta daily

The days they couldn’t talk to him he found himself a little less happy

Of course he’d forgive them the next day and go on like normal

He’s pretty sure that the only time he really ever smiles anymore is around them

He’d begun to trust them a lot, and that little crush that he tried to snuff out only grew more and more

He started to see things at his work that would remind him of them

And he’ll, he had more than enough to buy that and some beer later, right?

They’d given him so many gifts it’s only fair to return the favor

He’d probably be all nervous and awkward while giving them the gift, but it’s still be worth it in his eyes to see them smile

Confessing his feelings would probably take a while

First he has to gain the courage to do so, and on top of that he has to figure out how to confess

After much ‘research’ (interrogating Marnie to see what the best way to confess is) he decides to invite them to share a beer over at the dock by Marnie’s ranch around nighttime

When they get there he gives them a flower he bought from Pierre’s that he knew was their favorite

Sure it cost him a pretty penny, but this was worth it, plus it looked nice in their hair either way

After sometime chatting and whatnot, he tells you how he feels while looking down at his reflection so he doesn’t have to look you in the eyes

He’s probably mumbling a bit but he’s doing his best

If they say no, he’d be heartbroken

He wouldn’t say anything about how bad he feels, but he does let out a small “oh.”

After that he asks if they can still at least be friends

The rest of the time is just rather awkward silence, before Shane gets up and goes home with his head hung low, feeling dejected

If they say yes, however he’s absolutely ecstatic

A part of him still kinda thought you would’ve still said no

So when you confirm that you feel the same way he can’t help but ramble a little, saying how great this is and how he’d love to go out somewhere with you sometime once he raises enough money

The rest of the night is spent chatting away with Shane while he held their hand looking up at the beautifully gleaming stars

And god, how he loves the way they reflect in your eyes <3

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rc-imagines · 6 months

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welcome to the tumblr, bestie!! i'm really excited for your blog 💌

is it okay if i request for flirty luis sierra as your co-worker? like he's so smitten with you but at the same time he's tryna act chill and unbothered with it 🤭

I love Luis sm! You absolutely can request him, because I feel like he needs more love tbh!!

Luis as your flirty co-worker!

Luis is the type of man to just act on impulse all the time, change my mind. He is just used to how he handles things at this point in his life.

Luis always greeted you every morning, sometimes he'd even bring you a coffee. He remembered your favorite, and to say it was a surprise to you would be an understatement.

"Oh, thank you, Luis. You're always so nice to me." You replied, gently taking the drink from him and swivelling around in your old office chair to set it on your desk.

"Ah, well," He smiles a bit when your back is to him, "You know me, Tesoro."

You perked up at the nickname and swloly swivelled back to look at him, "Oh?"

Now, Luis was absolutely no stranger to playfully hitting on you, half-jokingly asking you out, and the works...But it seemed likee he hardly ever gave you a nickname.

"Hmm?" He raised an eyebrow, actling clueless, "Yes? See something you like?"

You quickly look him up and down before smiling a bit, "You're in a good mood today?"

"Always in a good mood when I see you." He realized how soft or awkward that might sound, "Because- ...Ah, you make work feel less like work."

You felt your face heat up a bit- You weren't going to lie, you may have harbored feelings for the goofy man, but you were afraid to tell him. He probably wasn't the type to acting be serious about relationship stuff. You turned away from him again and stared at the drink he had given you.

Luis awkwardly cleared his throat and shuffled over to his little area to look over his notes, "Anyhow...It's...You." He shrugged a bit, gathering himself, "No more horsing around."

He did his best to act normal about it. He figured it really was no big deal. He tried to convince himself that he flirted with everyone. But he didn't.

He put it at the back of his mind so he could focus on today's to do list. But the whole time he was thinking of you. No matter how much he tried to keep his head cleared and focused.

After a few hours of agonizing silence, he backed away from the table he was occupying he decided to check in with you, "Wanna take a break? Lunch is on me."

You looked over at him with a playful smile, "Is that so? So is it like a date then?"

"What? A date..." He scoffs playfully, "I'm a gentleman. I'd ask you to dinner."

You chuckle a bit and look over your notes briefly, "Okay, lunch it is."

Luis watched as you stood up and stretched and his shoved his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, fidgetting with his lighter. He kept scolding himself to just act normal- "Your labcoat looks nice on you. I never noticed that."

You stopped midstretch and couldn't help but laugh, "Whatever you say."

The walk was quiet as Luis tried to act like this was nothing, "I wanted to apologize for being weird."

"Bit of a late apology, Luis." You grinned, "But I accept."

And thus, it's as if the cycle continued.

Day in and day out his flirtatiousness seemed to ramped up more and more with each passing day, yet when asked about why he was doing it- It suddenly became no big deal. He'd shrug off any explaination and resume his work.

That's how it was until one day he'd brought you a miriad of little gifts. Mostly snacks that you mentioned liking, and your usual favorite drink..

He'd set them on your desk, being careful to not disturb you too much, but when you had noticed it, it's as if a switch was flipped. You spun in your seat and just watched him fix his labcoat, back turned to you as he sifted through his papers.

"Luis."

He hummed nonchalantly.

You opted to just cut to the chase, "Do you...Like me or something?"

You saw him visibly tense a bit, and the sound of shuffling papers ceased. He didn't look at you, he stared dead ahead, "What?"

"Do you have a thing for me?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

You shrugged a bit, turning back to your work. Two could play at this game, "Okay, I was going to say I liked you too...Even thought about asking you to dinner."

Luis has never turned around so fast in his life, "How did you know."

You just gestured to the gift he'd left in your workspace.

"Oh." He cleared his throat, "That...That's just.. That's- Okay, okay..You got me."

"Looks like I'm taking you out to dinner after work." You smirked at him a bit.

"I wouldn't mind. I'm paying though. Beca-"

"Because," You interjected, "A true gentleman pays. Isn't that right?"

"Damn. I'm an open book."

"Lucky for you...I love reading."

#luis serra imagine #luis serra x reader #resident evil x reader #resident evil imagine #luis sera imagine #luis sera x reader #l

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tubbytarchia · 28 days

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i think a lot about scott in regards to both jimmy and pearl. like. i feel like not a lot of scott fans want to talk abt the fact that he’s actually very clever and manipulative and cowardly and just not very good!!

and it’s just something abt the fact that jimmy and pearl are some of the most loyal and loving people on earth. and yet they didn’t want him back. when scott asked jimmy to kill tango of all people. he said you should run. when he told jimmy to say i love you he said you have 30 seconds. and then it happened again. in secret life he told pearl he loved her and she wouldn’t say it back

i am just so in love with it. the fact that scott used jimmy and pearl and then tried to win them back after they didn’t need him anymore. the fact that he left his first two beloved partners in the series with a permanent bad taste in their mouth. i think he changed both their characters irreversibly and that they did the same to him and i needddd jimmy and pearl to talk about it

Yeees anon YESSSSSS you understand...

It's nothing I haven't expressed already, but the combination of serious topics like manipulation attributed to a minecraft series and Scott being the culprit of it makes it kinda taboo to talk about for a lot of people so I'm not surprised that people don't! (Scott being part of LGBTQ and thus attributing negative traits to his character makes you "insensitive" and such, unless you turn it into an AU lol, then it's fine apparently) And if these people are here just for something carefree and the CCs more than the characters, that's absolutely fine! And as I've also said before, Scott is a very compelling character to me and I absolutely don't hate him no matter the things I think he's done to change Jimmy and Pearl for the worse. I wanna know who hurt him...

But as far as my perception goes of the characters etc, yeah, it's this. Scott is terribly clever and skilled and frightfully good at manipulating whether he always intends to or not (he's more or less admitted to it anyhow). He's not often explicit but the kind of language he uses around Jimmy makes Jimmy feel talked down to, or that he's to blame for things, etc, and then sweetens it up with claims of caring. Statements that basically go "I do this for your own good" and such. He was obviously more explicit about it with Pearl but that doesn't make it any better haha

Jimmy's attitude towards Scott after third life is such an interesting thing to analyze and I'm so happy of his feelings manifesting more. In Double Life Scott had it out for the ranch and ofc Jimmy did what he could to defend the ranch's image etc, but oh boy, the LimL "you have 30 seconds" moment... Also when Jimmy was about to kill Scott for the time that Scott promised him, Scott said "I love you" again and "it's fine even though you didn't say it back" (paraphrasing) and Jimmy just fucking stays silent before going "appreciate it" and shooting him. Very fire of him. That made me so happy lmao. And him taking gradual enjoyment out of hitting Scott in Secret Life (as he deserves to). And the further moments you brought up, and now what happened in Real Life even if it was a one-off SMP. I hope he keeps going like this lol

There is the time in Secret Life where Jimmy seems to project onto Pearl in telling her to attack Skizz and be mean about it, sigh..m they just need to sit down and talk. I need this so desperately. They just need to get talking and it'll all work out from there, they can do it, I believe in them...

Either way both of them refusing Scott's approaches is the best thing ever. Scott should team up with people like Gem more instead who aren't affected by his bullshit anyway and also just make for fun dynamics

#blabber

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maccreadysbaby · 1 year

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why do y’all love maccready so much, he’s so boring 😫

Are you actually asking? Do you actually want an answer? Ok fine here we go

Why MacCready is a Fan Favorite: A Rant

Familiarity; first time players are swamped by all of these companions who are, hate, or constantly talk about synths and the institute. Piper never freaking shuts up about it, Preston doesn’t stop bugging you about the militia he’s trying to rebuild, Cait is literally a raider, Danse is part of the bigot brigade, Hancock is a literal ghoul, Nick is a literal synth, Codsworth and Curie are robots, Deacon’s a spy, Strong is a Super Mutant, etc etc. MacCready is just a young guy who wants to do right by his son. He isn’t up the players butt about choosing one faction or another. He may be one of the only companions that doesn’t make idle comments about factions or hating the institute. (I know there are some, but not nearly as much as any other companion.) Long story short, he’s just a guy, just trying to help his son, and he doesn’t care what freaking faction you choose because he’s just trying to save his son. Yes, for affinity purposes, he dislikes the railroad and bos, but we all know he actually doesn’t care because that isn’t what he’s focused on. After the initial “Maccready disliked that” it’s hardly brought up ever again. We like him because he’s just a guy who doesn’t care about the Commonwealth’s problems and just wants to save his kid.

He’s reoccurring; another reason players like him is because they probably remember him from Fallout 3, where he was an orphan in the place called Little Lamplight. He is the only reoccurring companion and makes comments on things players might remember from Fallout 3, like “tunnel snakes rule!” And his past in Little Lamplight. What’s more fun than playing with a character you knew when they were twelve? It’s fun to see how his life has progressed instead of him just being another npc that you never see outside of Little Lamplight.

Relatability; MacCready is unashamedly scared, easily annoyed, constantly complains and has all the traits of a normal human being living in the wasteland. Our sole might be a semi-superhero, frolicking through the wasteland with a sledge hammer in the grognak costume smashing every enemy they see, but we all know we’d actually be terrified if we were there. His companion quest is full of emotion that we clearly see, as opposed to Hancock, who just tells us about the emotions he experienced before. He’s twenty-freaking-two and it’s painfully obvious. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’s worried about everything. He doesn’t give the player a gun like righteous authority or the deliverer, he gives them a little freaking toy soldier that his dead wife made for him because he’s sentimental and wants the player to know how much he appreciates them by giving them something with a heavy emotional attachment. Letting them know he trusts them. What’s not to like about that? About a guy being so utterly human in front of other humans?

Empathy; MacCready is really the only companion the sole survivor can empathize with, and vise versa, in terms of their children. They’re both trying to save them. It’s their life’s goal. They both know how it feels to fear for their safety and wonder if they’re even alive. Not a single one of the other companions can relate to sole like he can, thus, forming a bond through something other companions can’t: shared pain.

Emotions; MacCready gets exceedingly angry, more so than the other companions, if the player lowers his affinity too far. Because he’s already lost his wife, been betrayed, and now he’s watching another person he’s grown to care about change on him. It’s just another example of his achingly well written personality and in-depth emotional story.

Tid Bits; these can be quite objective, but I’m gonna include them anyhow. This is probably the bottom line for many players, if I’m being honest. MacCready may look like a rat, but he’s cute. His voice acting is on pointe. Even though he got some bad writing at the end where we never hear anything about Duncan again, his storyline is still gives the player a very rewarding feeling. He’s just adorable.

what’s not to love, anon?

#fo4 maccready #duncan maccready #rj maccready #maccready #fo4 companions #fallout 4 companions #fallout four #fo4

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allbark-no-bite · 2 years

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On His Knees || Elvis Presley x reader

summary: forget your pastor boyfriend, Elvis Presley is the only man who can make you believe in a god

warnings: 18+ smut

word count: at least 1k. I usually write on wattpad but it crashed so idk

authors note: y’all this gif makes me absolutely feral. I’ve only just just watched the Elvis movie so please, if you consider something to be “inaccurate” it’s not my fault nor intention, I literally pulled this fic out of nowhere. it’s not meant to be based off of anything anyhow. also, this was my first time actually trying to write good smut so bear with me

Other people are not medicine, but that boy from Memphis was my opium, my crack cocaine, my Saturday night high.

Now, I was raised a good Christian girl and had never touched anything stronger than a shot of whiskey in my life. My daddy saw to it that I saw the inside of a church every Sunday, and I was even marrying the preacher's son soon as he bought a house. But I'd never known religion until the King of rock 'n' roll got onto his knees for me and kissed a prayer to the flesh of my thigh.

He was fresh out of Germany when we met. His first appearance in the states in over two years. Much to the nation's surprise, the army hadn't changed him a bit. If anything at all, it had made him into a fine young man with ramrod straight posture and a frequent habit of saying "yes suh" in that throaty southern drawl.

And so one Sunday afternoon, at a chapel in my hometown, Elvis Presley was planting himself back down again into the world of music. He claimed he had wanted to return to start his career out ‘the right way’, in the same place where that gospel music had begun coursing through his blood all those years ago.

Truth be told, I hadn't even known he was there, hadn't even realized that we'd already crossed paths until we stumbled across each other at the bar that night, him laughing at me, faking a laugh over some stupid joke my boyfriend had made.

His laugh came boyish and rumbling from beside me; he had caught me in the act, the forced smile dropping off of my face as soon as my boyfriend turned away. Alarmed and unaware of my admirer, my eyes shoot towards him, his body leant against the side of the bar. His mouth tilts into an amused smirk, and he just shakes his head, turning back to face the bar.

Glancing back at my boyfriend once more, who is still turned away chatting, I slip away from his side and make my way over to the other end of the bar.

I am greeted again by careful and twinkling blue eyes, a stark contrast to the flawlessly styled, oil black hair that is disrupted by a singular coil, which hangs over his forehead. A strong jaw line accentuates his perfectly shaped face. His high cheek bones are softened by his full, almost baby faced, cheeks. He was pretty to the point of being girlish, the hard edges of his masculinity softened by an air of femininity.

A dixie boy at his finest.

"My daddy says a rich man's jokes are always funny," I explain wryly.

He looks up at me from where he's sat on the barstool, his mouth half agape in a smile, a tease of prefect pearly white teeth revealed behind the lift of his lip.

"That so?"

I lift an eyebrow and relax against the bar beside him, looking back over my shoulder. Andy, my boyfriend of two years, is utterly unaware of my disappearance. His daddy was the preacher at my family's church (the church we had been in this very afternoon), and thus my daddy, a devote Christian, saw to it that we were destined to be together.

I didn't mind him at first; sure, he was a nice boy, save for his pretentious attitude. Just because he was raised in his house and following in his daddy's footsteps, I was certain Andy thought he was God sometimes. We had grown a part, but with no reason to spoil the match our parents had made, at least not without causing a ruckus as my mother would say, I turned a blind eye to my misgivings.

"You tell me, Mr. Presley."

There was no need for him to introduce himself.

"I'd say I hope his jokes are better than his sermons but from the looks of it you were fallin' asleep then too." The teasing smile on his lips tells me he saw me struggling not to nod off in the pew.

"You think you could do better then?” I kinda of laugh it off, a rhetorical question in an attempt to make small talk.

His cheeks flush faintly, and the heel of his shiny shoes quivers, but he nods softly.

"Yuh, ma'am. I think I could."

I nearly choke on the air I breathe in. Immediately, I begin to sputter an apology, an excuse, obviously not having meant to be so forward.

“Wha— I—“

“C'mon, baby. We're goin' home," a voice interrupts, Andy, beckoning to me. From behind the lenses of his rounded glasses, his whiskey blurred eyes hardly even register the man sitting beside me. Thankfully, he seems to either have missed or been too drunk to have overheard our conversation. He just nods politely at Elvis and tugs on my elbow before turning away.

I turn my face away from him, partially to hide the startled redness of my face and partially to avoid him all together. He smells like whiskey and arrogance.

Elvis, hardly deterred by the intervention of my boyfriend, just nods along back politely, his bottom lip trapped coyly between his teeth. Acting as if he hadn’t just hit on me with my boyfriend inches away. His less than innocent blue eyes remain fixated on me, hardly giving Andy a second glance.

Suddenly, I'm reluctant to go. Reluctant to go back to the future that had been mapped out for me since I was a child, not yet even old enough to understand what it meant to love. I’d been raised on a pretense of love that involved unyielding obedience on my part and the toxic habits of a man playing God in his own house.

Possessed by a sudden onrush of boldness and disdain for my miserable future, my feet remain bolted to the ground, and I watch my oblivious boyfriend leave the bar without me.

Rising up from the stool, Elvis slowly sidles—saunters—over to plant himself in front of me. Now that he's standing, he towers over my much smaller frame. My chin tips back slightly to meet his commanding gaze. The roles of confidence have been reversed, and suddenly I feel like a child despite my likely two years on him.

"Look at you, mama. Needy for some attention,” he tsks. His voice is dark, sultry, honey thick.

I feel my heart stall in my chest. I breathe a quivering exhale though my nose.

Please. Please, please, some voice in my head pleads.

Another part of me immediately scoffs. Please what? You’re dating the pastor’s son.

But I knew the corruption that went on behind closed doors. While I was a virgin and had yet to have been tainted at the hands of a man, I knew the many beds my boyfriend had lain in.

Please, ruin me.

Elvis brings his hand up to touch my cheek, his fingers dragging along the underside of my jaw until my head is tipped completely back, my throat yielding to the expanse of his calloused palm. His hand lays heavy on my throat. He's so close yet so far. So close that I can feel his hot breath on my face, see the dark tint of eyeliner surrounding those doe shaped eyes of his. So far that my body aches for him to touch me.

“What do you want, hmm?”

Anything. Anything that you’ll give me.

Without waiting for an answer, he kisses me against that bar top as though he had intentions to savor every breath and pant that came out of my mouth as his own. It starts out reserved, not hesitant, but demanding at the same time. As he gains confidence, a hand presses to the small of my back, pulling me into his body.

His lips are soft, consuming as he forms his mouth to my own. It’s the sweetest kiss I’ve ever had.

I follow his every movement, pliantly shuffling along as he toddles us backwards, all while remaining entrapped in his arms. His hand moves momentarily from my back, and I hear him push open the back door to the bar. The cool air of the night gushes around us, but I hardly feel it.

Elvis doesn’t stop kissing me until he has me pinned against the side of his pink Cadillac, and only then does he pull away. He grins at me, all boyish-like, looking blissful and pleased with himself.

“You like tha’, mama? Like what these hands do to you? Want me to touch you, huh?”

I whimper. Yes. God, yes.

Then he is kissing me again, his lips gentle but firm and full all at the same time.

My whole body feels as if it's been pulled under the surface. Water is pounding in my ears, dulling my senses until the universe no longer exists outside of the man in front of me and that ridiculous pink Cadillac. Teeth clash together, tongues explore each other's mouths, and I can consciously feel myself sinking, sinking, sinking deeper and deeper.

Elvis pulls away, and I am yanked back to the surface so abruptly that I physically feel myself gasp for air.

“Breathe for me, mama. That’s it,” he encourages with all the tenderness in the world. He dips his head down to the curve of my neck, teeth nipping at my ear, only to be soothed by the lavishing of his mouth.

With one large hand cradling my waist, I feel his other one travel up my thigh. Confidently, all the while with his face still in my neck, he rucks up one side of my dress, his hand sliding up until it reaches his desired destination.

I swallow hard.

Blindly, his fingers trace the edge of my panties. They’re wet, and by the way his breath stalls beside my ear, he can feel it through the fabric.

Shyly, I tense beneath him, but he plants his thigh between my legs to keep them from closing.

“Relax, mama,” he drawls into my ear. “I’ve got you.” The southern drag to his voice goes exactly where he intends it to, and if it weren’t for his body pinning me against the car, my trembling legs would have given out.

His thumb catches the edge of my panties and pulls them aside so that his duo of fingers can rest against me.

The mewl that escapes me spurs him on.

“Want my fingers, pretty girl?”

“Yes, please,” I whine, becoming antsy beneath him.

Slowly, his two fingers venture back. And when he reaches just where I need him, he stops, tapping his index finger just outside my core. “Right here?”

Desperately, I nod, and he laughs kissing the corner of my mouth again. “Alright, darlin’.”

However prepared I think I am, I’m not ready for the stretch of his two fingers as he pushes into me. It burns in the most pleasurable way possible, but I still whimper against him. He peppers kisses to the sides of my mouth until the pain subsides.

When he curls his fingers inside of me, my vision goes blurry, and heat pools in my stomach. I clench around him and Elvis groans heavily. “God, mama. You have no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

I realize that he’s uncomfortably hard at this point. “Here,” he whispers hoarsely.

Still seeing stars, his hand guides mine to the tent that has formed in his black dress pants. Cupping his bulge with his own large hand on top of mine, his beautiful doe eyes shut and his head tilts back.

With me falling a part on his fingers with very stroke of my velvet walls, and his own release close against my palm, Elvis suddenly pulls away.

“Elvis—“ He cuts me off with a laugh, pecking my lips with his own swollen ones.

Ceremoniously, he drops to his knees in the back of the parking lot.

“I’m religious, ain’t I, darlin’? Gotta have you on my knees.”

——————

It’s early. Too early to be awake, and I’m oh so tempted to fall back sleep, but sleep is an impossibly hard task to do when God’s favorite creation is shuffling about the bedroom in nothing but a pair of boxers and a toothbrush in his mouth. Not bothered enough to make myself move into a state of consciousness just yet, my eyes lazily follow Elvis, admiring him as he returns from the bathroom.

That night we had met at Club Handy was months ago, and I’d become all too familiar with the inside of his Graceland bedroom. With my boyfriend on the back burner, Elvis Presley had become an increasingly bad habit. I still went to church, played the part of the doting girlfriend that I was supposed to be every Sunday morning, but there was only one man who could drop to his knees and make me believe in God.

Finally, he catches me staring, and a smile over takes him lips. “I know your daddy raised you better than to stare.”

I huff against his fluffy cotton sheets. “My daddy raised me to do a lot of things.”

Elvis chuckles, crawling across the bed to lean over me and peck my lips.

“An’ look at you now. Naked in my bed.”

I hum, humoring him and my poor daddy as I kiss him again but pull away before he can kiss me a third time.

“Aw, c’mon, mama,” he whines falling dramatically against the bed as I narrowly escape his grabbing hands so that I can pull myself together for Sunday mass.

Nevertheless, he allows me to escape with one more kiss and a promise to see him later.

I rush out the door an hour later so that I can slide into my family’s pew at the front of the chapel and be seated before the church doors close.

“You’re late,” Andy reprimands as I sit down next to him, my mama just beside him.

“I couldn’t find my shoes,” I whisper back to him, keeping my eyes to the front, where his father is beginning the sermon.

It isn’t a total lie. It took me a half hour before I finally found my flats at the bottom of the staircase, where Elvis had helped me discard them the night before.

Andy hums, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

Elvis and I had done a clean job of making sure no one outside of his family knew what we were up to, so the disapproval in Andy’s voice comes as a surprise. But I don’t harp on it for long because the church doors chime again, and in walks the devil himself.

A few heads swivel in Elvis’ direction as he saunters though the doors, carelessly flicking holy water in an unenthusiastic sign of the cross. His eyes catching mine as he takes a seat in the back.

It wasn’t unusual for the king of rock ‘n’ roll to make an appearance at the chapel, but he usually participated no further than to liven up the choir.

Without looking at me, Andy speaks out in a dangerously monotone voice. "Everybody knows."

A few heads turn to stare.

“Wha—"

“Everybody knows that he fucks you."

#elvis 2022 #elvis presley #elvis movie #elvis smut #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley fic #elvis presley imagine

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