#and he's like yes!!!! a day out with my wife | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elaci · 2 days

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Art brings Patrick along to celebrate your entry winning! He also shows off your side-project of collecting intimates, Patrick wants in.

cw; threesomesss! m-recieving oral, spitroasting, consensual voyeurism, more talk of tennis and a man who is not named mary...

Art Donaldson x Patrick Zweig x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!

“You aren’t even playing tennis in it.”

Patrick Zweig, who really does hate formal attire, tilts his head at the print framed in front of him. The glass of sparkling in his hand doesn’t do much to unlock his creative interpretation. To him, it’s a photo of his best friend smiling like a dork with a racket in hand.

Art jabs him in the ribs. “It’s the afterglow,” he parrots, a weird knowing smile pulling at his lips. “You’re just jealous that I won.”

Patrick snorts and leans into Art. “You didn’t. She did.”

The two of them glance around the venue, a makeshift gallery to display the submissions for the face of sport competition . People crowd the place, pointing at prints and talking between themselves about angles and lighting and composition and everything under the sun that isn’t sport. All of the pictures are the same, though: a close up of a sports player as they train. Their face sweaty and angry as they hit a ball or cross a finish line or do a fucking pirouette.

The boys step out of the way to let an older married couple in front of them look at the winning photo. The husband looks puzzled, glancing from the first-day-of-school-esque photo of Art to a photo of a swimmer diving into the water.

“This is the winner?” the husband asks his wife.

The wife, who is sneaking a few pictures on her phone, laughs and says, “Jeff, honey, you just don’t understand art.”

Patrick snorts at that and looks at his Art, one he also doesn’t fully understand. Art rolls his eyes and steps away, motioning for Patrick to follow. The two fall in step with each other, voices low as they walk through the gallery.

“So,” Patrick dips his head down a little as he speaks, a dutiful whisper. “Are you two dating or what? Have you fucked her yet?”

Art stops abruptly, his shoes squeak against the linoleum flooring, karma for wearing sneakers to an event where champagne is served and people say things like ‘what a peculiar angle’. He looks at Patrick with something in his eyes, and the brunette has to take a moment to try and decode his best friend's silent story.

“Ohh,” he grins after a moment. “She fucked you.”

Art clicks his teeth, he wants to object but he ultimately can’t. “She takes photos.”

“What?”

“Polaroids.”

“Of you fucking?”

“Yes, Patrick, not so loud.”

Patrick’s grin is glued to his face. It’s less amused and moreso smug now, maybe a little excited. There's a moment shared between the two before Patrick chimes in again, a tinge of worry lacing his tone. "And you know she's not going to send them anywhere?"

Art shakes his head. "She lets me keep them."

"Holy shit," Patrick laughs, "I have to see these."

Art scoffs and pulls Patrick along. They continue walking through the exhibition halls, occasionally stopping to look at different prints on display but quickly growing bored of the monotony of each shot. Patrick starts to realise, after the sixth shot of a tennis player hitting a ball, that you were right in catching something different. The pair turn a corner and find themselves in a secluded hall of past entries that no one cares to gawk over a second time; Patrick takes his chance and grabs Art by the arm.

"Come on," his voice is low, and he glances through the empty hallway to make sure he hadn't missed someone standing within earshot. “Let me see.”

There’s a pause, and then Art shakes his head. “No way, my eyes only.”

Patrick grins, “what’s so bad about them? She gets you to dress up in a maid's dress and serve her on your knees?”

Patrick entertains the thought for a moment, and then sees the danger in doing so and shakes his head. “I’m joking, Art. If you don’t want me to see, don’t show me.”

Another pause, Patrick knows Art like he knows himself, even more so maybe. Art wants to share, he wants to gloat about the endeavours he’s been having behind a closed door: he's a man for attention just like Patrick is, it’s what makes them such a good team, everyone’s eyes are always on them. They hold eye contact for what feels like a moment too long, and Art finally lets his lips flip into a grin.

“And how would Tashi feel about me showing you these?”

Patrick shrugs. “You know Tashi, she’s not the jealous type,” he puts on a high pitched voice, despite Tashi having the complete opposite, and points a finger in the air to quote her. “I dont care what you do or who you fuck, Patrick, as long as you play a good fucking game of tennis afterwards.”

Monogamy, not a given in the world of competition, unsurprisingly. Art stands still, hands by his side as he squints his eyes at Patrick. He’s always been able to call bullshit on him, and Art must trust his intuition on this one because he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He pulls two polaroids out of the back slot and pockets one of them, not comfortable with sharing such an intimate photo of yourself with express permission. The other one, the one you had taken your first time together, gets slipped into Patricks awaiting palm.

And he has no telling face as he looks at it, studies it. In the photo, Art Donaldson, his best friend since twelve, is laying on his back, expression lost in a mixture of bliss and overwhelming desire. Sweat sticks to his skin, sticks his hair to his forehead. His face is blushed red and his eyes are blown wide open, pupils expanded as if he were looking at God herself; perhaps he was. His mouth is parted lightly, lips glistening with what could be spit or... and Patrick is hard.

“Introduce me,” Patrick deadpans. “I’ll never ask you for anything ever again. I’ll give you so much money. I’ll quit tennis.”

Art grins. “You are a fucking liar.”

“Yeah, one with taste and a semi.”

Art hits Patrick in the arm, but ultimately folds. “Fine, but only because she wants to meet you.”

“I could suck your dick right now.” Patrick takes another hit to the arm, this one harder than the last. He moves to rub the spot where pain still lingers, but stops in his movements when a thought crosses his mind. “So you’ve told her about me, huh?”

Art rolls his eyes and plucks the polaroid from Patricks hand. He looks at the picture for a moment.

“Oh he won't shut up about you," a voice sounds from behind the pair. Both boys jump at the sudden presence and spin to face you, smiling laudingly at the pair- a gold medal with a camera engraved into the front hangs from your neck. Your gaze flits between them, and Patrick is suddenly struck by all the times he’d seen you around before. Though he's not often on campus, only when his schedule opens and visits are worth making, he's turned his head as you've walked past before, he knows it.

Art clears his throat and turns to face you properly, placing the hand with the polaroid behind his back. "This is Patrick," he gestures at Patrick while maintaining eye contact with you. You nod, and then look towards the brunette. Your name falls on attentive ears, Patrick rolls it on his tongue for good measure and decides he likes the taste of it. He introduces himself in turn with an extended hand to shake and his signature smile.

"It's good to meet you," you hum as you shake his hand, though your head nods to Art's hidden hand. "I do autograph my originals, if you want."

Art's face falls slightly, caught in the act. Patrick smiles and nods, to which Art mutters an embarrassed apology. Your eyes soften, and the corners of your mouth tug upwards in response. You hold your hand out, and Art sheepishly places the polaroid in your hand. You turn the polaroid around and examine it for a few moments before plucking a permanent marker from your pocket and writing something on the back of it. You waft it through the air a few times to allow for the ink to dry, and then grin at Art as you hand the polaroid instead to Patrick.

Patrick takes it with a dumbfounded half-smile, his eyes darting from you to Art and then back to you and down to the writing you've left behind--- THE ART OF MAKING LOVE, it reads, and Patrick snorts at the pun. Your smile widens slightly.

“Very nice.” Patrick comments softly, holding the polaroid between his fingertips and glancing down to it pointedly.

"I know," you reply simply. "Thank you for coming, by the way, both of you. I would have skipped it myself if I didn't win."

Art chuckles. "It was our pleasure, this place is nice."

You laugh in response and Patrick thinks he's heard heaven's bells. "Some lady asked if I'd read the part about the entry having to be sports-related."

Patrick pushes in before Art can speak. "Ah, don't listen to them," he takes a step forward and glances down to the polaroid still between his fingers, you don’t know if he’s talking about the photo he’s holding, or the winning entry. "I think you really captured the... afterglow."

If Art could roll his eyes completely into the back of his head he would, he can't hold his laughter in at Patricks attempt to sound like he knows the first thing about photography, and your laughter sings out too, picking up on the parroting of your own words to Art. The sound echoes across the empty hallway, bouncing off the walls and filling the space like music.

"Patrick doesn't know what he's talking about," Art runs a hand through his own hair, eyes settling on you in a dorky grin you've grown to adore.

"I'm better in front of the camera than behind it," Patrick offers.

Silence meets his words as you look between the boys, committing both of their features to memory. You imagine, only for a moment, getting them both in front of your lens. The imagined sight is enough to press an offer to your lips. Patrick and Art stand in silence, staring at you as you watch them.

"I already got my medal" you toy with the award around your neck. You tilt your head to the side, "wanna get out of here?"

"Yes," said in eager unison by the best friends, fire and ice.

You smirk, turn on your heels and lead the way down the hall. Patrick and Art fall in step behind you, Patrick still holding your polaroid between his fingers-- Art plucks it from him in a quick movement and pockets it. Patrick, in childish turn, shoves Art against the corridor wall. He hits a framed photo of an elderly woman with a feeding tube in her nose, titled 'the woes of age', and it crashes to the floor with a loud clatter. The frame's glass shatters across the floor, and you whip your head around to find Patrick and Art both staring wide-eyed back at you.

"What was that?" A voice from the main gallery calls out, thudding footsteps follow.

And you stifle a laugh, looking down at the broken frame of a probably now-dead elderly woman's portrait, then up to your two accomplices. Art and Patrick look between each other, a silent agreement between them. All of a sudden, they're sprinting past you, and both grabbing a hand of yours to pull you down the corridor.

Your shrieks of laughter fill the space between you. You run faster than you've ever ran before, your heart pounding in your chest and blood rushing through your veins; it's exhilarating, it's terrifying, you're alive.

SIX YEARS LATER

A burly old man with tattoos from head to toe stands behind the counter at MARY'S PAWN SHOP— YOUR TRADE, YOUR TREASURES. Patrick Zweig walks in with two tennis bags slumped over his shoulders, looks at the balding man with ‘leisure’ tattooed under his eye and smiles, “I’ll take it you aren’t Mary.”

"No," says the man of few words.

Patrick raises his eyebrows and exhales, his social battery already malfunctioning. He walks to the counter and sets each tennis bag down atop it with a padded thud. "There's uh, there's rackets, wristbands, a pair of shoes- I think, a few balls. All in good condition, nothing cheap, nothing dirty..."

The man nods, still silent, and begins looking through the tennis bags. He pulls a racket out to check it for wear and tear, and then another, glossing his eyes over and finding no damage. He checks the shoes for dirt and scratches, the balls for wear, and once he's happy with the quality of the first bag's contents, he moves onto the second. He unzips the side pocket with a short tug to reveal something other than tennis equipment— a polaroid.

It only takes a glance at the photo from the stocky man before he's slamming it face down on the counter. "Fucking Christ, kid. Check your shit before you pawn it off."

Patrick looks puzzled, "what?" he slides the polaroid towards himself and flips it up to look at it— his lips twitch. "Oh."

"Yeah 'oh'," the man scoffs in reply.

Patrick stares down at a photo he hasn't seen in years, and while red tinges his face as he stands in Mary's Pawn Shop, it's nothing compared to his flushed red look of desperation in the polaroid. There he sits, with Art Donaldson sitting behind him pressing wet kisses to his neck, hands splayed over Patrick’s bare chest. His legs are spread, the photo is taken from between them— at the bottom of the frame his cock sits rock hard and at rapt attention, your manicured fingers wrapped around his length: he can even see the glisten of precum beading at his tip.

"Jesus," Patrick exhales shakily, quickly pocketing the polaroid and only barely managing eye contact with the clerk. "That's, uh..."

"I don't care," he snaps a finger to the store's entrance. "Out."

"Wait," Patrick scrambles to show him that the rest of the bag is indeed only full of tennis gear. "Seriously, please, I need the money," his tone softens, but is still pleading. "Look, I'm a tennis player, Patrick Zweig, if you plaster my name on the sale I'm sure you'll get more sales. Can you just—"

"I just got a faceful of your cock, Patrick Zweig," the old man barks. "Get the fuck out."

Patrick lets out an exasperated sigh and zips up his tennis bags, slinging one strap across his shoulder and taking the other by the handle. He turns and walks gingerly out of the store, a 'please come again soon!' sign hangs awkwardly from the door he walks through, and rattles when he slams it shut behind him.

The trek to his car is an embarrassing one, the old tattooed man's eyes still burning into him as he unlocks the trunk and throws his tennis bags in. The moment he's situated in the driver's seat, he's turning out of the street and praying silently to god that he gets hit by lightning or something to that extent. He's been doing that a lot lately.

Once he's reached his apartment, Patrick's mind is reeling, and every thought has to do with you. He leaves his stuff behind in the car, mind too occupied to care about bringing them in.

His front door creaks when he pushes it open and slams it shut behind him, he's walking straight to his laptop, which sits at the counter because he hasn't had the time nor funds to buy a table, and opens up the screen. Your name is tapped into the search browser in seconds, his index finger clicks the enter button and Patrick Zweig holds his breath as the search results load. There's a funny feeling in his chest, a deep sense of anticipation that makes him feel almost giddy.

The page loads a display of your photography but no display of you. Patrick scrolls further down, scanning through articles about your photographs and a few links to reviews of your work. Nothing. His fingertips drum against the keyboard as he tries another search— your personal website.

There you are. A photo of you behind a camera headlines the page, and below are examples of your work. They're mostly photos of people, some of them are tame and shot against the sun in fields canvased with colour, others are sultry black-and-white boudoir style photos, though each subject has the same look on their face that you've been chasing since the day he met you. Patrick takes the polaroid from his pocket and sits it against the screen, as if on display with the rest of your shots, and he can't help but smile. It's very you.

BOOK A SHOOT! — GET IN CONTACT is written in bold towards the bottom of the page next to an email and a phone number.

Patrick Zweig knows he isn't the best person to grace this earth. He knows he has a habit of placing himself in the arms of people that would be better off without bearing his weight. He knows his voice can be a jarring one— so he skips past your number and starts typing an email instead. Because he’s trying to be thoughtful, you can delete an email, but also because he’s a few minutes away from stroking his cock to that polaroid of yours until his wrist hurts and he’s cumming dry and you’d certainly hear the building desperation in his voice.

Your email goes in first, and then a subject line— he flips the polaroid over and smiles at the smudged writing on the back, and then gets to typing:

‘Zweig, your plus one.’

SIX YEARS EARLIER

“So what am I here?” Patrick takes a drag of his cigarette, leans back against the tree he sits under and blows his smoke into the air. “A third wheel?”

You laugh, so does Art, who is sitting across from him on the grass, beside you with an arm around your shoulder. He has a cigarette in hand that he offers you every now and then, but you’re busy feeding new instant film into your polaroid. Though your head is down as you work, you reply with a sweetness to your tone nonetheless.

“No,” you laugh. “More like a plus one.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows and looks from you to Art, something in his eyes that only his best friend could read. Art shrugs, a playful smile pulling at his lips as he mouths 'told you.' Before Patrick can ask what exactly what you mean by that, he sees you lift the polaroid in front of your face and snap a picture, the flash sending Patricks eyes wide in the otherwise dim night. When you lower the camera from your nose he finds you grinning at him like you've just won the lottery, and he laughs low in his throat.

The polaroid prints from the camera, and you waft it in the air a little to let it develop before looking down at it. "You looked good," you hum, and give Patrick the opportunity to lean forward and take a look for himself. He does so immediately, his elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward and angles his head. He sees himself, cigarette in hand and smoke blowing softly from his lips as he sits.

He takes another toke of his cigarette and then taps it out into the ashtray beside him. He nods at you, catches your gaze, "do you play tennis?"

You laugh, a genuine laugh that rings in Patricks ears. Art laughs too, and nudges you with his arm. "She's a natural."

Patrick can tell Art is lying, because he can always tell. A grin pulls at his lips as you shake your head and cover your face with your hands for dramatic effect and dissolve into your laughter once more. Art nudges you again, and you push his arm away gently, but there's no malice in your movements, "I'm about half as useful with a racket as I would be if I was blind. I'll leave the big leagues to you two... you're playing professionally right?"

Patrick nods, and spends a fair few minutes going into depth about the world of pro tennis. You listen tentatively, nodding along to his words and asking questions when you aren't sure of something. Art chimes in too, at some point, and the conversation shifts from pro tennis to all types of stories from the boys' years of playing together. It all feels so familiar, and yet so foreign. Patrick can't remember the last time he's talked about tennis with someone that isn't aching to get pointers from him, or lecture him on how to improve. You just listen, and you throw in your own stories of childhood sports leagues and extracurriculars here and there, and Patricks not quite sure how but by the time the conversation wraps up, the three of you are sitting an awful lot closer than you were when you'd first found the secluded spot on campus.

"How long are you visiting for?" You tilt your head as you look at Patrick- your legs are draped over Art's lap, though you have a hand on his knee.

"A few more days," Patrick nods, looking from you to Art who has a sly grin plastered on his face, "what?"

Art shrugs nonchalantly, leaning slightly forward as he rubs a hand over your legs. “Patrick is staying in my dorm,” he looks to you, something knowing in his eyes. “I forgot to tell him I wouldn’t be there tonight.”

Patrick looks between you and Art.

“Oh but your doors locked,” you sound genuinely concerned as you turn to Patrick and ask, “do you have a spare key?”

Arts door isn’t locked— he always forgets to lock it. Even at boarding school Patrick would chide his inability to remember to lock their room up when they left, they’d always fall victim to someone coming in to steal a racket or swap out their pillows for the less comfortable ones that would circulate the dorm.

“I don’t have a spare key,” Patrick lets your hand crawl a little further over his thigh. A glance to Art offers him an equally hungry look, a heat, a taste for more than that night in the hotel with…

Should he tell you about Tashi? He knows she’s unbothered by his endeavours as long as his performance doesn’t slip for it, but some draw a line at sharing. He looks between you and Art, takes in the burning from the both of you and almost laughs, something tells him sharing isn't off the cards for you.

“You said earlier that you’re better in front of the camera than behind it,” your voice is soft, sultry, it sends a twang of something needy through Patricks spine. “You wanna take some pictures, Zweig?”

It’s all a rush, from his acceptance to the trip to your dorm room, a haze of hushed laughter and lingering touches he can’t tell who from. He wants to put on a face for you, woo you like he does every other girl he’s slept with. But with Art it’s easy, they're best friends… soulmates. They’ve kissed before, they've seen the most intimate parts of each other— in a way, Art's presence settles his nerves with you.

The second your dorm room door clicks shut, Art’s lips are against Patrick's and he’s guiding him to the edge of your bed in a mess of sloppy implacable kisses, his slender hands run through Patrick's curls, tug at the base of his scalp in a newfound dominance Patrick was unsure Art had in him. This is the second time they've made out, if you don't count the time when they were thirteen and practised on each other for their first girlfriends… which neither of them will admit ever happened.

The back of Patrick's legs hit the edge of your bed and at the same time, Art's tongue slips dutifully into his mouth and slides over the expanse of his teeth. He tastes like cigarettes and chapstick, which Patrick assumes is yours because it tastes like cherries and everything else narcotic, in this sense he kisses you also. There's a heat licking at the pit of his stomach and it spreads like wildfire through his chest and down his arms. Tugging at the hem of Arts shirt, he gets his point across and is able to lift it and run his fingertips over his abdomen as Art removes it completely. Patrick follows suit shortly after, grabbing his own shirt by the collar and lifting it over his head: it's tossed to the side despite its price. His jeans soon follow.

For a moment, it's just the two of them, all clothes bar their boxers discarded to the floor and hands exploring bare skin. The warmth of Art's fingers digging into his chest, his ribs, his hips, the hard planes of his body, their bodies pressed together as if to become one. Their lips connect again, hungrily, their teeth knocking together with every brush of tongues. Patrick takes Art's lower lip between his teeth and bites hard enough to elicit a choked groan from the back of Art's throat.

They part, and are given only half a moment to mourn the loss of each other's touch before their kiss-swollen lips upturn into grins, and a gentle laughter is shared between them. Art's smile is wide, and he turns his head from Patrick to you, sitting at your desk writing on the back of the polaroid you had taken outside.

"Busy over there?" Art teases, smiling as you turn to look at them.

"Just letting you have your moment," you hum complaisantly, then lift your camera up to take a quick photo of the pair, hot and flushed and still panting slightly, "just let me know when you two feel like being productive with yourselves…"

Your tone trails off, and then you're standing quickly, grabbing your camera as you saunter over to the boys, who part from each other to glue their eyes onto you. You survey the scene, their tousled hair and matching vibrant pink cheeks. Patrick’s boxers are a light blue, Art’s are black, and you like the contrast of colour but decide they should exit the scene completely.

You run a nail down Art’s chest, watching as his shoulders roll back as you flick over one of his nipples and continue down to the waistband of his boxers. You pull the elastic towards you, and then let it snap back against his skin. He hisses at the contact, plasters a dramatic frown across his lips as you smile in turn and nod to the bed, though not before tugging down at his boxers just enough to expose the trail of light brown hair leading to his hardened cock— a suggestion if nothing else: take them off.

Art obliges, sparing only a glance to Patrick before tugging his boxers down and kicking them to the side. You steal a good look at his cock, licking your lips at the sight of his growing hard-on. He catches your gaze and gives you a sly smile before climbing onto your bed and sitting back.

You’re quick to guide Patrick into position as well, taking him by the wrist and giving him a pointed look when he uses his free hand to caress the curve of your ass. He’s a lot more assertive than Art, lets his hands roam when Arts would stay clasped behind his back. You like it, you like the contrast, and you like the thought of having Art take control of his ministries for once.

You pull Patrick to stand in front of where Art sits and then, with a cheeky lopsided smile, you push him backwards and watch as he falls to sit just in front of where Art is settled. You take a step back and watch as Art moves forward, hand on Patrick’s shoulder, and sets his gaze on you.

“Direct away,” he rests his chin on Patrick’s shoulder, and the pair watch as you ready your camera.

“You’re good like this, actually,” you hum, looking between the boys. Rather than snap a photo, though, you reach back out and lift Patrick’s chin up to offer him your gaze. Your fingers trace the expanse of his jaw, up to his cheek before returning to his cocky smile. You slip two fingers into his mouth, his lips closing around them without guidance nor hesitation. His tongue lays flat against your digits as he sucks, hollowing out his cheeks, eyes boring into yours.

When you pull your fingers from his mouth his arrogant smile returns ten-fold. You’re pressing your lips against his in only a second, rolling your tongue into his mouth in an attempt to shut him up despite not a word falling from his lips. He brings a hand up to cup the side of your face, an attempt at dominance despite quite literally being the one stretching his back to keep his lips against yours.

His hand travels to the nape of your neck, tugging you forward until you practically fall into him, your legs giving way as you drop to your knees against the cold hardwood floors. You find purchase by splaying your fingers over his thick thighs, his lips still locked with yours in a frenzy of tongues and teeth and shared oxygen. It's an unspoken battle for the upper hand, something you never had to wager with Art, who's happy to melt under your touch until the sun rises. You take your turn by slipping one hand past the waistband of his baby blue boxers and palming his rock hard erection; a harsh intake of breath from Patrick allows you to pull your lips from his and gaze up at him with the most innocent expression you could muster.

"Can I suck your dick now or are you going to keep me waiting? I'm kinda starving."

A breathless chuckle escapes your lips as Patrick stares at you with heated eyes and opens his mouth to reply but no sound comes out. The words die on the tip of his tongue and he closes it quickly before swallowing audibly and looking between you and Art, who has pulled himself up just enough to get a look at you from over his best friends shoulder. When Patrick's eyes lock onto yours again, his grin widens even further and he leans back against Art's chest, looking down at you through lidded eyes and nodding eagerly.

You waste no time on lingering touches and feather-light strokes. Your free hand is tugging Patrick's boxers down, with his help as he lifts his hips to allow you to do so, and with your other one you're squeezing his shaft, moving your hand up and down in deliberate strokes that send his mind into overdrive. Once he's biting his own lip, you wrap your around his glistening tip and swirl your tongue around the head of his cock before sucking him deeply into your mouth.

A gasp from Patrick, quickly muffled by the turn of his head and Art stretching his neck to meet his best friend in a ravenous kiss. You flatten your tongue against Patrick's length, take a moment to hum contently and listen to his hitching breath at the vibrations you offer him, and then start bobbing your head rhythmically. You cup his balls with one hand, offer him gentle squeezes in tandem with the movement of your tongue, and rub grounding circles into his thigh with your other hand. Your cheeks hollowed out, you suck Patrick Zweig's pulsing cock until he deems himself desperate enough to start bucking his hips upward into your mouth. You know he'd hold your head in place and throat-fuck you until you'd lose your voice if he had you alone, but Art's doing well in distracting him with his tongue, his lips and his hands.

It's when Patrick breaks the kiss to look down at you, eyes glossed with a yearning lust, that you know he's close. Breathing laboured, fingers digging into the edge of your mattress, hips snapping upwards for any chance at fucking deeper into your throat. His desperation only doubles when Art starts nibbling at his ear, then kissing down the stretch of his neck, hands feeling up his chest.

You know he’s close, walking on the fence of a ruined orgasm and a zenith climax that would taste better than it feels, though you place your hunger aside to do what you do best— take the shot. You pull your lips from Patrick’s cock with a pop, and replace your mouth with your right hand, wrapping your fingers around his length and stroking him just enough to keep him on that edge.

You reach over his trembling thighs, grab your camera and line up the shot. Art’s mess of blonde hair is a contrast to Patrick’s darkened look as he works bruises into his neck, fingers splayed over his chest. Patricks face, the look of looming bliss melted over his features, and the tension in his corded muscles as he opens his mouth to beg for sweet release. You make sure his pulsing cock is in frame, too, held in reverence by your own hand. The flash momentarily brightens the room, illuminates the scene at hand but only for a second before the Polaroid prints your photo and you pluck it with the hand that had held Patrick's cock on the edge of orgasm.

He whines as you smile up at him, nearly moving to stroke himself to completion but stopping in favour of starting an argument.

"What the fuck?" He has to swallow twice to keep his drool from spilling out of his mouth. "That's unfair, fucking-"

You press a kiss to Patrick's knee and then stand, stepping back once and placing your finger against your lips in a gesture of silence.

He watches, his brows furrowed as you turn on your heel and wander back to your desk. You don't bother to look over your shoulder as you pick up a permanent marker and start writing on the back of your developing Polaroid.

'ZWEIG, OUR PLUS O—'

A pair of arms around your torso pull you backwards, and you smudge the last few letters with your thumb as the man behind you pulls it from your grasp and smacks it face-down against your desk. You can feel his erection pressing against your clothed ass, his sweaty chest against your back and his hot breath against your ear as he speaks, low and sinful.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Patrick Zweig bites. "But I don't get off on being used like a toy. I'm not Art."

You turn your head in the direction of his voice, let his breath fan your cheek; you smell cigarettes and remnants of Art's chewing gum. "I know you're not," you coo, pressing your ass back against his painfully hard length. "Art made me cum twice before I ever got on my knees for him. You're selfish."

"Damn right I am," Patrick breathes, tightening his grip around your torso and near-dragging you back to the bed. "Always have been, too."

You're walked to the bed where Art waits, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you get manhandled into position. He'd offer you a hand, a way out, if you weren't smiling so wide, giggling beneath your breath as Patrick pushes between your shoulder blades and bends you over the edge of your own mattress. You catch yourself with your hands on Art's knees, face dangerously close to his now rock-hard cock as Patrick uses both hands to pull your bottoms and panties off in one go. His eyes linger on your exposed cunt as he slips two fingers through your folds, grinning- "fucking soaked, huh?"

"Fuck yes," you breathe. You think he's going to stretch you out on his fingers and you're about to object, tell him you don't need it, when you hear a condom packaging rip open and the tip of his cock presses against your entrance. You can only gasp in response.

"Tell me yes, say you want it," Patrick breathes.

"Fuck me, Zweig."

You make eye contact with Art as Patrick slowly presses into you, using your own wetness as lube. Art watches you with sinful eyes, something deep inside of him like watching you fall apart under his best friend's touch, but you refuse to reduce him to a cuck. You let Art lift your chin just enough to press a tender kiss against your lips as Patrick starts to thrust into you, slowly increasing his pace as he feels you adjust more and more to his size. You love the taste of Art's kisses, the gentle way his lips take yours, but you're hungry for more of him, so you pull away and try not to focus on those sad eyes of his.

As Patrick snaps his hips into yours and bottoms out inside of you, you lean down and take Art as deep into your mouth as you can manage. As soon as Art finds your rhythm, his eyes flutter closed and a sigh leaves his lips. His hand finds its way to the back of your head, and he holds you there, rocking his hips into your mouth as Patrick tries to match his rhythm. You move in tandem with the ministrations of your boys, with each thrust of Patrick's hips, you're choking further on Art's cock. And with each snap of Art's hips, you're pushed backwards onto Patrick's length, and each time he manages to fill you just that little bit deeper.

"That's it," Patrick's voice is breathy. "Good fucking girl, taking us so well, like you were fucking made for it, huh?"

With each movement, every moan from either boys' lips, you're pushed closer towards the edge of a new level of pleasure, and you can feel warmth beginning to gather in the pit of your stomach. Your fingers dig into the sheets, holding onto them tight and keeping you anchored as you push against Patrick's cock harder, faster... fucking yourself on him in the spirit of competition. You're full to the brim, lips wrapped around Art's cock as you work him close to the edge, eyes looking up at him through your lashes to find a face so fucking pretty you forget to even think of taking a picture. Not that you could even if you wanted to, with his cock embedded in your throat and your arms the only things keeping you up.

The pressure in your stomach, the searing stretch of Patrick's cock makes you wonder if you're a masochist at heart, because you never want that dull pain to end. His moans fall from his lips and permeate the air, a symphony of wants and needs, and you think you could get lost in it forever.

"Oh Jesus Christ," Patrick groans, voice cracking as he nears climax. Art's hips start to shake, his thrust into your mouth becoming erratic and harsh and so much better than it should be when you can feel sweat dripping into your hairline, the sting of tears forming in your eyes as Patrick pounds into you. It takes everything in you not to come undone as his hips jerk forward. It feels too good, too good to last, and you're seconds away when you feel Patrick fucking Zweig reach an arm around your waist to rub fast circles against your clit, less selfish than he proclaims to be.

The three of you cum in perfect unison, your bodies wracked with tremors of a shared climax unlike any you've had before. Patrick presses as deep into you as he can, near-kissing your cervix in instinctual desperation to fill you up despite his condom. Art shoots right into your mouth, pulling back a little so his load lands on your tongue as well, offering you a taste of his lust, one you take happily. Though you're unable to keep it all in your mouth as he pulls out and allows you space to take a breath as you come down from your high. His seed glistens on your lips as Patrick pulls out of you and lets you turn onto your back and lay on your bed, panting heavily as the haze of ecstasy starts to fade.

Art soon joins you, laying down beside you in a dizzy haze of exertion. When you turn your head to look at him, he's already smiling at you, and reaches a hand out to swipe his thumb against your lips, gathering his own cum and pushing it back into your mouth. You bite his thumb with a playful grin and Art laughs in response, the moment between you sweet until the flash of your own instant camera dazes the both of you into silence.

You sit up on your elbows, looking towards Patrick Zweig, who stands with your camera in one hand and a freshly developed photo in the other. He flicks it a few times, unaware of how to speed up the development process, then looks at it as if he's analysing each aspect of his shot. After another beat, he turns the print around to let the both of you see, and grins proudly at his work. The photo is a sweet one, your teeth bared around Art's thumb, the calm after such a storm of pleasure.

"Turns out, I'm great at both sides of this thing," Patrick holds your camera up in show and smiles cheekily, to which you roll your eyes. Though you can't help the laughter that rumbles from your lungs when Patrick flops down onto the mattress, making both you and Art move over to make room for him. Art follows suit, laughter spilling from his throat in harmony, and it spreads quickly to Patrick.

Once the air is silent, Art turns his head to greet the both of you. With a smile, something simple falls from his lips— "dinner?"

You hum in response, nodding your head as your mouth starts to water, though Patrick clears his throat. "Yeah," he sits upright and looks between you before grabbing at one of your thighs and pulling you closer to him, his head dips to the juncture of your neck and shoulder and he speaks simply against your skin. "I'm not done with either of you yet."

taglist;

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#art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut #challengers 2024 #art donaldson x reader #patrick zweig x reader #challengers smut #art donaldson #art x reader #art smut #art donaldson x you #art donaldson imagine #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig imagine #patrick zweig x art donaldson #art x patrick

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danytar · 2 days

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–“The Red Bath 𖤐”

Pairing:Dark!Aegon!Targaryen X Sister!Wife!Reader’

Warnings: Incest,anxiety, after B&C,murder, blood,18+, sex, fondle breasts, vulgarity.

A!N: I decided to deviate from the theme a little to fit the pics, enjoy reading my dears! <3.

After the brutal murder of his son, the young king was overwhelmed with grief and with anger his desire for revenge surpassed everything, he wanted justice for his firstborn, newborn son and his queen.

The king ordered to find the two murderers as soon as possible and bring them to him, One of the murders, who calls himself“blood”has been caught,king Aegon tortured him himself to quench his thirst for revenge, the criminal confessed after thirteen days of continuous torture.

As an end to his miserable life, the young king smashed his skull with his large bat and then he ordered his guards to empty the blood of that bastard's body and put it in a large basin, Aegon presented the bloody basin to his queen, as a gift.

“I promise you my queen.. I will make you bathe in that whore and her bastards's blood”Your husband whispered in your ear in a low, hoarse voice as he ran his hands over your bloody bare shoulders.

Aegon put his chin on your shoulder and his fingers wandered towards your breasts to squeeze them,You felt numb under his touch and your head was slightly pulled back when his lips began to plant kisses on the side of your neck and the under of your ear.

Both of you were sticky and dirty and covered in dark red liquid, Your hands moved to put them over his hands where he was squeezing your soft flesh and let his lips make it way on your neck and shoulders.

Aegon wanted to comfort you in every possible way, he will do anything for you, he wanted to show you that he has not finished his revenge yet, and he will punish everyone who caused your grief and his.

“I'll make it up to you, my love”He whispered again and nibbled your earlobe, You just let out heavy sighs and enjoyed having him next to you.

“Don't go to dragonstone Aegon”. You whispered softly and then opened your eyes slowly, He stopped kissing you for a moment, You turned to face him and looking at him.

“What? What do you mean by that y/n? Don't you want revenge?”. He looked at you with a serious face and a small frown drawn on his lips,waiting for your explaining. “Not like this”. You simply answered.

“I can fly with sunfyre to dragonstone and burn her and everyone who with her”. He answered and grabbed your chin but not enough to hurt you and then put your bloody silver locks behind your ear and looked into your eyes.

“We cannot take revenge from the grave, aeg.”You moved his hand away from your chin and placed it around your waist, he put his other hand around you as well and looked at you, when he try to speak again you silenced him with your lips.

your lips met his and as he opened his mouth for you, he moaned softly feeling your breath, wrapping his arms tighter around you. the kiss was slow and sensual as if he didn’t feel any rush to pull back.

His tongue swirled with yours and you grabbed the back of his head, pulling him into yourself as if he were a life buoy.

the blood had already begun to dry between your naked bodies, leaving a sticky film on your skin, but neither of you wanted to stop. aegon pressed more passionately, feeling your body with his hand, reaching around, caressing with fingertips. your lips moved slowly but hard, your teeth grazing each other's lips.

“We will take revenge..”. You whispered against his lips, your words made the king shiver and he squeezed you in his palms even harder pulling you into him.

He didn't trust his voice, so he answered you through his kisses on your skin, gently and slowly, running from your chin down to your collarbones, biting and sucking as if they could turn red. his breath trembled and in a soft whisper, he answered you in a breathless voice.

“yes, we will.”

Aegon looked up at you and you saw his pupils were widened in arousal and his mouth was reddened and wet with your mixed salivas.

His own chest rose and fell in a rapid motion as he was breathing hard, trying to hold back all his feelings that were already ready to burst out of him.

you saw so much suffering and desire in his gaze that you couldn’t look away. you wrapped your arms around his neck again and pulled him closer once more with a passion.

you could feel the heat of the friction of skin, the heat of emotions, and the heat of blood. your skin tingled with excitement and you could feel that your king was feeling the same way.

Your lips closed together into a hot dance, this is was the read dance of the dragons for aegon, his fingers I slipped to your ass to dug into your flesh, his grip on you tightened as if he intended to crush your body against his.

You felt his length pressed snugly against you and you couldn't stop moaning at how aroused he was. your legs were quivering with this friction, the burning arousal and the desire to just give in to him completely.

He slowly lifted you to ride him in that bloody tub, there was nothing more enjoyable for him than fucking his queen in the blood of his enemies.

Aegon grins wickedly before lifting you up and settling you down onto his cock, his hands gripping your hips as he begins to help you move up and down, “That's it, ride me.. dove.” His voice was numb and came out with heavy breaths.

Aegon lets out a low groan as he penetrates you, slowly pulling you down onto his cock as he begins to thrust upwards, his hands gripping your waist tightly, he picks up the pace, thrusting harder and faster as he feels you moan, his own breath becoming ragged as he struggles to hold back.

your teeth were biting each other’s lips, but it was more like teasing, as you held each other fiercely and passionately. he groaned feeling your teeth on his lower lip and then, his tongue was back in your mouth, sliding wetly and roughly with yours.

And so you stayed all night, burying your sorrows in the warmth and heat of your eachother passion, The enemy will not survive the coming sea of blood, They will be drowned in their own blood..

♡ – 𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 : @darylandbethfanforever9 @hisfavegiri @callsignwidow @xitsemm @saltytidalwavetyphoon @khaleesihel @credulouskhaleesi @lovelykhaleesiii @fragileheartbeats @aegonswife

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sodaabaa · 3 days

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birthday

anthony bridgerton x wife!reader wife!reader is excited to celebrate her husband’s first birthday since they got married only to wake up and find anthony missing. she takes a trip to mayfair to ask the bridgerton family where anthony has disappeared to.

tw: grief, mentions of a parent's death.

a/n: hi everyone, wanted to take a second to just thank you for all the support. i started writing these just for fun and decided on an impulse to start posting my writings, not expecting them to get past even 15 likes! i really enjoyed writing this oneshot and navigating anthony's feelings in this one. let me know if you'd like to see a part 2 within this story line or similar stories within the bridgerton universe!

The first rays of dawn broke through the curtains, pulling Y/N from her sleep. She reached to the side, feeling the bed for her husband to find only the absence of his warmth. She sat up, it was unusual for Anthony to be gone so early in the morning. The two of them had a habit of starting their mornings together before he went off to tend to business, the vacant spot on the bed puzzled her – today was Anthony’s thirtieth birthday, the first one they would spend married. She already had a plan for the day; dotingly wake him up with kisses in all the spots he loved, take their breakfast in bed (a special one at that – she requested the cooks to make his favorite marmalade with the first plums of the season), pack a basket with light sandwiches and his favorite wine to picnic by a nearby lake, and end the night with his most favorite activity. Y/N pouted, upset that her plans had been foiled by his absence. She pushed the duvet off and dressed herself, wondering what possibly could have been important enough for him to leave without telling her.

“Amelia,” she called out to one of the maids. Amelia had been working at Aubrey Hall for years, she knew the ins and outs of this place like the back of her hand, maybe she’d seen Anthony this morning?

“Yes, my lady?”

“Did you happen to see the viscount this morning?”

“No, my lady. My apologies,” she paused, “though – you may want to check with the dowager viscountess.”

She tilted her head in confusion, “Whatever for?”

Amelia fiddled with the rag in her hands.

“Amelia, what is it?”

“Every year, on the viscount’s birthday he…disappears. He usually slips out before dawn when we’re all just getting started with the day. But we’ve never seen where he goes.”

Y/N’s confusion only deepened. Amelia waited for Y/N to dismiss her – she did so, waving a hand and offering a gracious smile for the information she provided. Amelia exited with a curtsy, leaving Y/N with no choice but to pay the Bridgerton clan a visit. Perhaps they could give her some insight into her husband’s mysterious birthday habit.

She managed to reach Mayfair before the sun had peaked in the sky. The carriage approached Bridgerton House, Y/Npeered through to see if Anthony might be somewhere around. He was nowhere to be found, much to her dismay. She stood before the double doors of Bridgerton House, signaling to the footman to announce her arrival. In the blink of an eye, her favorite Bridgerton sibling came running to the door.

“Y/N! How lovely it is to see you!” Eloise exclaimed, pulling her in for a hug. She returned the hug, grateful for the way Eloise managed to instantly raise Y/N’s spirits. Violet followed Eloise, a knowing smile on her face. Y/N pulled away from Eloise’s tight embrace to greet Violet.

“Can’t seem to find Anthony, can you dearest?” Violet said when she pulled away from their hug.

“I see this is a regular occurrence then?” She replied, feeling left out – why had no one bothered to inform her of this habit of his? She would have saved herself from the disappointment of foiled plans.

“Come in, you’ll catch a chill if you stand at the door any longer,” Violet ushered them upstairs.

“Y/N!” Hyacinth and Gregory were the next to greet her as she walked into the drawing room.

She gave the two little Bridgertons a hug, commenting on how tall Gregory had gotten and the length of Hyacinth’s curly hair. The pair immediately began updating her on all the things they’d gotten up to while Y/N was gone – though they didn’t get far.

“Hyacinth, Gregory – please give Y/N a moment to rest from her trip. I’m sure she’d love to hear all about your mischief later,” Violet said. The inseparable duo pouted for a moment before taking a seat in their usual spot. Y/N herself took a between Violet and Eloise, turning to ask her more about her husband's whereabouts.

“Do you know where he goes off to? Surely his mother might know.”

“I’m afraid I do not. I do, however, know the reason he disappears,” Violet looked over at her youngest children, ensuring they were engrossed in whatever they were doing before continuing.

“Since Edmund died, there has not been a birthday where he does not run off like this. It started when he turned ten and nine. I know it has something to do with his father, I am certain, but I cannot figure out where he goes. The first year, I checked Edmund’s grave to no avail. I’ve searched and searched my mind for places that held significance to Edmund, to Anthony,” she explained, throwing her hands up with a defeated sigh.

Y/N took a moment to process Violet’s revelation, guilt slowly eating her up. She had been so involved with her ownplans for Anthony’s birthday and then felt so disappointed but all this time, he was taking time to grieve. Her heart shattered for her husband – her valiant, loving, sweetheart of a husband.

“If I may,” Eloise cut in with the raise of a finger, “perhaps he simply despises the concept of birthdays and wishes to avoid all the commotion by hiding out in some pub somewhere?”

“Eloise!” Violet exclaimed.

“My, my, what do we have here? Viscountess Bridgerton has come to visit us!” Benedict interrupted the three women on the sofa, shooting a warm smile towards Y/N.

“Benedict, it’s lovely to see you,” she replied. She rose from her seat, giving Benedict a quick embrace before he took his seat across from them.

“Allow me to guess – Anthony’s disappeared?”

Y/N nodded, “I don’t suppose you happen to know where?”

Benedict clicked his tongue, “I’m afraid not.”

She sighed, “Well, when does he usually return then?”

“The next day. And to make matters worse, he acts as if it were totally normal, avoiding all questions about his whereabouts until you simply surrender trying to figure it out,” Benedict said.

That night, Y/N retired to their bedroom though she had no intentions of sleep – how could she manage to when her husband was off God knows where, in what condition. It kept her up with worry, so she decided she’d stay up and wait for his return. Staring at the walls had become tortuous as the hours droned by, she wrapped herself in a robe and made her way toward Anthony’s study. Perhaps she could find something here to clue her into her husband's habit. She poured herself a glass of Anthony’s whiskey, choking down the bitter liquid, and sat back on his chair with a sigh.

She looked around the dimly lit room, a portrait of Anthony’s father hung up to the left of the desk. She wondered what he was like, Anthony rarely ever spoke of him. Her heart ached at the thought of her husband at eighteen, witnessing what he’d witnessed and resuming to take on the mantle that’d belonged to his father in the midst of such trauma. Her eyes scanned the painting – catching on a pocket watch in her late father-in-law’s hand. She stood, leaning in to get a closer look at the watch. Realization dawned on her. This was Anthony’s pocket watch – well, it had been his father’s but this was the same watch he carried with him everywhere. She had noticed early on his habit of checking the time almost obsessively. She always wondered why he had such a fascination with time.

I could never surpass my father. He was a greater man than I. Anthony’s words echoed in her mind.

It all fell into place – clicking like a lock in her mind.

She ran back upstairs, rushing to wear something more appropriate. She quietly ran back downstairs, grabbing her cloak on the way out. The September days were cool and refreshing but the nights were cooler, which Y/N usually savored but the cold air only increased her adrenaline tonight, causing a chill to run down her spine.

She summoned a carriage, willing it to come faster as it approached her.

“To the chapel, please.”

As the carriage moved closer to the chapel, she could make out the vague silhouette of a man sitting on a park bench facing the clock in the center. The moonlight illuminated the small square, the scene before her looked to be straight out of a painting. She stepped out of the carriage, rushing towards the silhouette.

She stood behind him for a moment, afraid to disrupt him – afraid of what his reaction might be. She knew her husband preferred to grieve alone but this was beyond grief; Anthony feared his birthdays, feared the clock running out of time.

“Anthony?”

The man in front of her startled, inhaling as he turned around. She sighed in relief.

“How did you find me here?” He said, motioning for her to sit with him.

She walked around the bench, placing a kiss on her husband’s forehead as she sat beside him.

“Your pocket watch.”

He let out a breathy laugh, a humorless action. He held the watch, thumb circling its frame.

“You are not bound to time, Anthony,” she said gently.

He looked up at her, eyes red from the long day he must have had.

“Are we all not bound to time? Some simply have less.”

“You cannot know that for certain, dearest.”

“I know I am less of a man than my father was yet he merely had eight and thirty years,” his voice was hoarse.

“You are just as much of a man as he was. You’ve fought so hard for this family, do not belittle your efforts,” she took his face in her hands.

She wished she could show him how much of a man he truly was. He'd raised his siblings and taken on the burden of being a viscount to allow for his brothers to pursue their dreams. He ensured his sisters were well provided for and he dealt with his mother's grief for years -- all without complaint. Because of this, it was a privilege to call Anthony her husband, if only he could see himself how she saw him.

“You are not leaving me behind in a mere eight years, Anthony Bridgerton. I will fight death himself if that is to be the case.”

He chuckled, a hint of real joy behind his eyes as he did.

“I have no doubt you would give it a valiant effort, my love.”

He leaned forward, placing a kiss on her lips.

“It’s late and cold, shall we head back to the house?”

She nodded, grateful to return her husband to where he belonged – at her side, with his family surrounding them.

#bridgerton #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton family

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loserlvrss · 2 days

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꒰ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄 ꒱ 박성훈

summary : you and your boyfriend were too much alike in a lot of aspects, especially stubbornness

genre : angst, suggestive, sunghoon x afab!reader, drabble tws : language, suggestive content, arguments author notes : this ones for my wife xx word count : 0.6k

"sunghoon," your thumb and index finger pressed to the bridge of your nose in an attempt to ease the tension coursing through you, "you're not listening right now."

truthfully, neither one of you wanted to hear the other out — and that's resulted in an argument. one that seems like it won't fizzle out no matter how much the two of you raise your voice.

you both had too much pride to give the other the last word. you were too much alike; your friends and family only confirming your hard-headedness. but, you had to admit that he was pretty when he was mad.

"no, y/n," he laughed, humor twisted with frustration and disbelief, "you're not listening. i have to do this, it's not something i can just skip — believe me!"

you rolled your prettily-done eyes, which only furthered his annoyance, slumping into the wooden chair you paired with your pine table, "i don't care that you made other plans — we decided months ago. we have to go, sunghoon, we've already canceled... twice!"

"and now i'm saying that i can't go. you can go by yourself, can't you? it's not a big deal, is it?"

your mouth practically hit the floor at his audacity, "it is a big-fucking-deal, babe! i need you there, you know this!"

and despite being mad at each other, the love was still there. he drove you up a wall, but at the end of the day, there's no one else you'd rather have push your buttons. yes, it was a hostile environment right now, but it was bound to break; it always does.

"well, i can't go."

your head met your hand, elbow pressed to the table, "fuck," you were going around in circles, neither one willing to compromise, "sunghoon, how many times do i have to tell you that i don't care? you promised the last time we canceled that that would be the last time. so, you just lied to me?"

it seems like fuel to the fire was the only thing you both could throw at it, poisonous words with a twisted tongue, "oh my god, are you kidding me? you're really going to fucking hold that to me, baby?"

your eyes widened, hand hitting the wood with a smack, "well, when i promise you shit, i actually mean it. so, yeah, i'm going to hold it over your fucking head."

"we're getting nowhere." he stated the obvious, making you huff, "let's talk later."

he wasn't asking, but you honestly didn't have a care in the world for it; to you that was just as good as a suggestion. you got up, approaching him with a calm demeanor. you didn't want to back down, but you knew you'd be here for a lifetime if you didn't let the dust settle — even if only a little bit.

as you were passing, you mumbled out a defeated, "fine, hoon. do whatever you want."

you felt a firm grip on your wrist, him pulling so you'd face him again. and before you got the chance to angrily-question his intentions, his lips were pressed to yours, a firm, yet gentle, hold on your cheek.

you both felt the wire snap, your bodies relaxing into each other.

between alternating sides, he whispered a confession of love to you; reminding you that despite the attitude, he was made for you.

you pulled back momentarily, still prideful enough to not let him have the last word, "i'm still mad at you."

"you know i'll make it up to you, baby," he smiled, hoisting you onto the wooden surface carefully, and slotting between your parted knees, "i promise."

but he was just like you, wasn't he?

reblogs, likes and comments are greatly appreciated! thank u!

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44st4rs · 22 hours

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SUNDAY'S BEST!

✫ ˚♡ ⋆｡ ❀ — synopsis ! Every Sunday, the town gathers in the halls of church, waiting for the word to be delivered by the Nanami Kento. But no one ever really questions the Preacher or his Wife of their very private life...at least, until today.

✫ ˚♡ ⋆｡ ❀ — pairings! wife!fem!reader x preacher!nanami kento

✫ ˚♡ ⋆｡ ❀ — cw! 3.5k+ words, pwp, oral(f.receiving), vouyerism, exhibitionism, car sėx, implied breeding, no protection, crèmepie

✫ ˚♡ ⋆｡ ❀ — xoxo, chris! yes…this is my third attempt at posting this…pls…enjoy :3

A preacher’s child.

They say the life of one is filled with the hardest expectations to fill. Constantly being judged, constantly under watch, and constantly forced to hide their true selves. The unrealistic standards shroud their thoughts and the forced reputation of the family name and honor hinders their every move.

Secrets become the only choice and the dark side of their lives becomes a relief. Their days are filled with nothing but being the “good kid” and the “best role model for all” who pass through the holy doors every Sunday morning.

But…does anyone ever wonder about the preacher’s wife?

The one who shines above all just for ditching her maiden name for one doused in holy virtue. The one who has no choice but to have a warm and welcoming heart for everyone scattered about the church. The traits of kind and gentle are immediately attached to her name, assuming the same temperate position as the preacher.

She’s never found too far from her husband either, usually residing at the very front of the pews, hands politely folded atop the plush curve of her tightly pursed thigh. She could be found there every Sunday, even Wednesdays if a bible study was called for. The kind, gentle woman who supports her husband with the occasional glimmering smiles of white and endearing head nods of reassurance.

All while trying extra hard to keep those pesky rivulets of white seeping through her panties from wandering onto the sacred scene.

It’s a reality some could never dream of, but one you couldn’t have thought would be shown to you by the town’s very own beloved Nanami Kento.

Righteous in front of others but salacious when with you—just the traits picked up by his youth. He was once known as the preacher’s kid, quiet and reserved with only a collection of words to say. He only ever did speak when spoken to, could recite ten verses with ease, and was honored as the perfect child.

Since your younger days as well, you pondered all too aimlessly about Nanami. He was never found with a genuine smile or tone, never was found playing after service with the other children, or even strolling around the neighborhoods with a friend or two.

Pity stained your tongue unwantingly, the urge to help him being repressed by other thoughts. All you could’ve done was pray that he’d be freed of what troublesome chains held onto him, that one day life would hold no limits for him in the days to come.

Though, such prayers could have never prepared you for today’s realities, Nanami now pursuing priesthood with you as his bride.

Since taking on the role of wife and finally entering the daily life of Nanami Kento, there were a couple of things to make note of.

One: he was nothing of what his former timid character made him out to be, now becoming more vocal with his wants and needs.

Two: as much as he enjoyed a set order and routine, Nanami welcomed life’s spontaneous moments all the same.

And lastly: his stamina was one for the books.

It’s a blessing to him honestly, being rewarded with a beautiful woman like yourself. Truth be told, he’s had his eye on you since your shared days of youth. If not for the buried confidence and the shielding of negative thoughts, he would have never taken the first step to pursue a relationship with you.

But it was only with you that Nanami found himself reaching deep within to discover who he truly was.

A man forever indicted in carnal lust.

He knew it from the first date and withdrew from it until your wedding night, wanting to tear and replace every bit of clothing from your body with his own warmth. There wasn’t a night he remembered where he didn’t wish to indulge in you, sending the thick crown of his cock to kiss at your cervix.

There wasn’t a night where Nanami didn’t want to fill your ears with nothing but the sound of him and him only, spilling the slurred speech of how well your pussy could take him. He was driven near mad in all honesty. Restraint was the only thing, wanting to holdfast onto what morals remained.

Yet, marriage only seemed to bring all this rush of desire and more to light, Nanami now harboring the urge to fill your cunt with the white-hot pools of his cum. It was a rush that he wouldn’t trade for all the money in the world. Just to feel how his tummy would tense, skin running hot with a licking heat, and his mind thrown into complete turmoil—all to hear you squeal at the addictive sensation was all he needed.

But there came a condition with his sudden obsession; he would only do so on a Sunday—both before and after service. He couldn’t tell you why but he swore it was only on Sundays that he felt heavier, neediest, and too pent up for words.

So, on the days that Sunday did roll around, he’d wake up a whole hour before you did, his eyes cracking at six o’clock sharp. He’ll lay there for a few minutes, heavy lids perched on the sight of you—his sleeping beauty laying without the duvet’s restriction to his eye.

He breathed it all in, from the small pout consuming your lips, the silky cream night slip dress rising with your flooding chest, down to the precious moans mindlessly leaving from you. He often found himself, sneaking a hand behind his briefs to lace around the thick girth of his shaft. A subtle squeeze led to a groan of deliverance he couldn’t afford.

He picked himself up from beside you, carefully slotting his body between what space was offered by your thighs. The mattress only caved to his body’s contours, sinking especially deep around his perched forearms. His hands cup at your inner thigh, the pulsing pry granting him more room for comfort.

Nanami knows just how much you look forward to Sundays too, your excitement leading you to take the proactive route. That fact alone is why Nanami’s greeted by the sight of your bare cunt, the pads of his fingers gravitating to the puffy lips. The initial skim of his touch is nothing short of gentle and lingering, minding that he doesn’t slip any further.

It’s when Nanami’s fingers finally pull apart the lips of your cunt that he falters, allowing a shushed “fuck” to fall from his lips. Even beneath the sun’s latent rays of light, he can see all he needs too—the soft curves of your folds sticky and ridden in slick, the dormant hood of your clit throbbing with the heat of greed.

There’s nothing that really comes to mind when Nanami’s like this, biting back the urge to smother your pussy in his ministrations. But he wants to tease you, bring you to a point just to take it all back. His thumb retires from rest, softly swiping at your clit for his own self-amusement.

There’s something in it for him, more than his pleasure and more than your orgasm. What Nanami really loved about your pussy was the response, being able to visually watch every single one of his actions settle into your core. Everything he does comes back to him, either in a twitch, a fluttering gasp, or even the uncontrollable spasms of a squirt.

But for today, all Nanami sought after was for the cute bulb of nerves to kiss at his tongue with a prickling streak of pleasure. He was too quick to remove his essence sullied thumb from you, eyes hinged onto the thinning trail connecting you both. His tongue hurried to replace the fading warmth by pressing against your folds, the delicate sheets parting around him.

What pulls the breathless moan from his chest is you, the rivulets of your taste drizzled all over his tongue. He still can’t believe that a few lazy swirls from his thumb could stir you up like this, enough to get you this wet but still casted away by sleep’s hand.

Either way, a complaint couldn’t have fallen from his lips. Instead, Nanami had a tranquil notion in his mind to take control, his eyes coming to a fluttering shut. It’s why his tongue can drag up to your clit ever so slowly, just to drag down to your slit swiftly.

When he does return to the glimmering bud, it’s nothing but careful nudges. He can feel it too, how your clit begins to harden against him, how the blood all falls to meet his touch. It’s the hot pulses that turn Nanami on all the more, almost as if you’re begging for a break.

And maybe if he wasn’t so far gone, he’d give you that well-deserved break. Yet, he shines a grin fit for the devil at how generously swollen the tender pearl’s become. It’s a sign of just how close you are and who was he to deny you of any pleasure?

His lips come to a close just above your pussy, sealing off your clit within. Cheeks are hollowed and Nanami can’t control anything else from that point on—not that he really wanted to. It’s out of the kindness of his heart that Nanami’s thumb drifts between your folds once more, grazing along the gummy sheets to soothe over the incoming high.

Unfortunately, poor Nanami’s so invested in you that he doesn’t notice your hand landing on his head, lithe fingers grappling through the bed of untamed blonde. He doesn’t even notice your hips shuddering from him, trying to pull back from the onslaughts of his worked jaw.

It’s not until Nanami finally decides to greet you that he notices how soaked the bed is underneath you or how his chin faces the same fate. All he does is bring his lips to ghost over the adorably perked hood, ending it all off with a kiss.

“G’Morning, Sweetheart. Let’s get ready for service, yeah?”

That’s all he leaves you off on, a smug smile and some words before his feet hit the hardwood floor of your bedroom. It’s become normal to him but indescribable for you. As to how he can brush off his lustful whims in an instant fell nothing short of a mystery —considering how the proof laid right before your eyes. Even with disbelief written on your face and a chest desperate for air, you still cared to trudge behind Nanami to start your day.

The clock sits at seven-thirty by the time you and Nanami settle into the car. It’s almost like a clean slate had been taken upon by you both, dressed in the cleanest of attire. His once untamed blonde locks were replaced with his usual style, nothing a pull of a comb couldn’t fix.

A plain navy suit found itself onto Nanami’s body with not a wrinkle in sight. Yet as for you, Nanami really couldn’t keep his eyes off you. In your opinion, it was a lackluster black dress and paired heels that suited anyone at any time. In his opinion, it was everything he lived for.

When Nanami turns his head to feed his excitement of you, he’s met with the sight he’ll never get over: you with closed eyes, biting down on your finger out of concern. Legs parted just slightly with a small hand tucked beneath your dress. The silent squelches tell Nanami all he needs to know—you were stretching yourself out just for him.

He gawks at you for just another moment, turning his sights back onto the road in silence. It’s the awkwardness instilled in Nanami that gets him so flustered, a feeling he knows may never overcome.

You being the only other woman in his life weren’t much help either. There are still days when he’ll come to a loss of words, falling into a mindless ramble out of embarrassment. His composure’s lost to the stars and suddenly coherency is out of his reach.

For now, he braces himself for as long as he could, his hand gripping the steering wheel that much tighter until he arrives at the quaint lone-standing building known as the church. But he dare to not stare at the sacred home, his hungered eyes tracing something more interesting.

A display of mindless behavior really, Nanami’s hand latching onto your wrist. He pulls your hand from between your thighs slowly, fetching the glistening digits to his lips. Of course, he’ll stare right at you as he’s busy cleaning up your mess, his tongue following the glossy strings laid about. It’s only when a simple question rolls from his mouth that you can comprehend his current state of mind.

“I think we can squeeze a quickie in, what about you?”

You offer him a weak nod before climbing into the backseat, hands tugging at the dress to encircle your waist. Before you could even blink, Nanami’s hovering over you while fidgeting with his belt’s buckle.

It’s in the heat of a moment like this that you don’t seem to recognize the man you married. You can’t help but form such opinions, asking yourself ridiculous questions without true answers.

Where was the docile boy that existed? Who would only speak when spoken to and stray from any behavior disapproved by his elders?

Now here he was before you with anticipation heavy on the brain. He isn’t bothered enough to tug at his tie or to unbutton his shirt, opting to slip free from the navy jacket before resting on his haunches. His hands cup the underside of your knees, making it that much easier to press your thighs to your chest.

The pretty swell of your cunt’s lips catches Nanami’s eye, his fingers senselessly drifting against the cloth. He’s so specific to not tear your panties, hooking the soaked inseam to sit along your inner thigh.

His hand finally slips past his pants to free his cock from the hellish confines, greeting your eye with a dangerous grip. Time was fond of Nanami, ensuring that each second was savored in bliss as he presses the head of his cock to your entrance, the pink crown ripe with the softest of twitches and the thickest of veins just begging for relief.

Elation springs to the forefront of Nanami’s brain, clouding him from the hold of sensibility. His hips almost move for themselves, driving forward in a drunken fury. First, it’s the tip that fills you, barely stretching you for what’s to come. Inch by inch, he’s patiently waiting for the moment where all you know, think, and feel is him.

He loves it truly, watching your eyes widen at the realization, your hands reaching to cover your lips riddled with spit. There’s a certain gasp that takes over your lungs that utterly spoils his ears. Call it a hint of pride, but when that gasp rings from your lips, Nanami can’t help but turn on his ego.

He knows just how deep he was and well he’d fuck that fact out of you, a lesson he swears you seem to forget. But it’s the recoil that drains Nanami for all he’s got, the suffocating clench of your walls pulling such a pretty mewl from his knitted lips. It’s his undoing, pulling from the beckoning thumps of your cervix to press restart on all he’s accomplished for the moment.

And it’s so unforgiving, the cold etching along his shaft while the head of his cock sits snug with just the slightest peek of pink to meet his eye. His hands search for refuge at the back of your thighs, his nails sinking into the trembling flesh. That same cold is his so-called “excuse” for snapping his hips once more, burying himself in you all over again.

What follows isn’t simply Nanami rutting himself to absolute filth, of course it isn’t. It’s the insatiable craving pitted at the depths of his tummy, aching for a solution.

He’s caught in a blinding lust, unsure of what to chase but knows what the outcome will be. He’s addicted to it, sending his cock so deep inside you, hearing the clashes of skin, down to overseeing you lose all control.

Sure, there’s a sadistic undertone beneath his amusement but it’s all if nothing but gratitude. He can feel how edged you are, the shivers ripping across your skin, the jolts of your hips when he’s grazing your clit with how close his pelvis was.

He loves watching you lose yourself in it…not to mention in him. Because of that lewd expression of unhinged gratitude is why Nanami can’t help to lean in closer, cutting off the moronic babbles with a kiss.

Though, just when Nanami thinks he has the upper hand, you always manage the fruit of control right from his hand. The switch in power is so subtle but gradually becomes noticed. By the flutters of your walls, it’s no longer a want to fill you in Nanami’s mind—it’s a need.

That need, or any need really, drives any sane person insane. The urges can no longer be repressed and suddenly it’s itching at their skin, a spot so distant that nothing but the fulfillment of your desires can alieve.

Nanami’s breathing so much harder now to combat his rousing sensations, the head of his cock spry with fizzing nerves. He wants to stop, take a break and cool the rising heat within his body. But when your walls flutter around him again, the quiet and sealed-off mouth of his loses grip and the drivels of pleas fall from his lips all too easily.

But he can’t.

It’s the need that serves a new purpose in Nanami, closing what distance existed to send his cock that much deeper. He’s practically brimming with heat, the veins lining his shaft suffering beneath the exertion of greed.

The fat of his cock rests so homely along your walls now that he’s comfortable with letting himself go, his head dropping within the crook of your neck. He had to make sure every drop would stay, you did have a prayer service to endure, after all.

In his last words, that’s when the hints of dominance seep through.

“Pretty lil’ pussy’s gonna take everything fr’ me, right?”

Your head unleashes a spool of unhinged nods, serving as enough reason for Nanami. The thick ribbons of white catch onto your womb, drowning you in his scent. It’s so much this time around too, more than the previous Sundays he’d taken to fill you.

The palms of your hands fall over your eyes, using all the latent energy to control the strength of your own orgasm. Your legs trembled from the weight of it alone, triggering tears to crowd at your lash line. Your efforts wouldn’t have been in vain, avoiding all of his hard work to dress his cock in a devastating shade more shameful than white.

When he manages to catch a breath amidst it all, his eyes dart down to his watch for the time.

8:05 AM.

With mass starting at the sharp time of 8:45, Nanami couldn’t have allowed another minute to pass him by. Not if he wanted his darkest secret displayed for the passing church-goers to see.

He regretfully drew back from you, tugging your panties back into place. Mentally, he cursed the reality he’d face in a few hours: all of his cum soaked into the cotton. It’d be impossible for you to hold everything, he knew that. Putting his trust in a fading hope, Nanami laid his hand upon you, fingertips drumming a soft rhythm at your lower tummy as he spoke.

“Keep it safe for me, Honey. I don’t wanna see a single drop wasted.”

With Nanami’s help, you soon found yourself resting in your usual spot amongst the pews, the first row closest to his reach. Throughout the service, you kept your legs especially tight. You didn’t have to make any eye contact with Nanami to know that his eyes were pinned on you.

He only did ever see you in the crowd, cheering him on with a smile. The pit of his stomach floods with butterflies, fighting a giggle from erupting from his lips.

After all, with his cum nuzzled oh-so deep inside you, why wouldn’t he?

The holy hour of service concluded just around ten, ending with Nanami and you greeting everyone at the door. The cheerful smiles displayed on your faces are only founded on a facade, the same antics of the morning carrying on. To the people’s eyes, Nanami casually has a hand resting along your lower back, keeping his wife close.

But you knew what stood behind the act, his fingers slipping warily underneath. He’s playing with the hem of your panties this time, the pads of his digits slinking past the obstruction. He sighs at the results-wet, wet panties.

He brings his lips to your ear, the heat of his breath nipping at the shell. You latch onto his waist, bracing the timid man as his finger finds way to your slit. The explicit words roll off his sullied tongue too fragrantly, leaving you with a fearful reassurance.

“Aww, I thought it would all in stay this time. Don’t worry… I’ll keep that pussy nice 'nd stuffed next time around."

#jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen smut #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #jjk drabbles #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #nanami x you #nanami smut #nanami kento #nanami x y/n #nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento smut #cw sex mention #cw smut #//✫ ˚♡ ⋆｡ ❀—𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈!//

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improbable-outset · 2 days

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📄 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧

↳ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐈

(Part 1)

Francis Mosses x Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐛𝐨𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.5k

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Wife!Reader, lactation kink, breast milk in coffee (lmao?)

𝐀/𝐍: Yes, this is an extended version of Milk Fiend

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: After trying your milk, Francis can’t get enough. But he can’t let you know that.

Like a hawk, Francis couldn’t tear his gaze away as you poured some of your milk that you just pumped out into a flask before storing it in the fridge. Ever since that night you found out you were hyperlactating, you’ve made a routine to pump out the excess milk to avoid the risk of leaking in your sleep.

Francis caught a quick glimpse inside the fridge— there were several flasks full of your milk, all labeled with the dates— before you closed the door. As you left the kitchen, Francis lingered a little longer and eyed the fridge door.

He wondered how much milk you pumped out just now. Was it the same volume everyday? Did you produce more milk on some days than the others? He turned his attention away and followed you back into the bedroom.

Francis tucked himself into bed silently while you went on to ramble about your day. Your hand movements were very animated and your voice carried a lot of energy and emphasis, which Francis would always be enamored by. But tonight he couldn’t stay focused on whatever you were talking about.

“I’m telling you Francis, she’s been acting very strange lately. I don’t want to point fingers and claim she’s a doppelgänger but I’m having my doubts…” you were reeling on about another neighbour again; Francis nodded occasionally to show his engagement.

He couldn’t stop himself from stealing quick glances at your chest, thinking back to the milk you just pumped out in the kitchen. He was grateful that you were too engrossed in your story telling to even notice.

The following morning, Francis was the first out of bed as per usual. He freshened himself up and put on his milkman uniform before heading to the kitchen. His routine always followed the same pattern and it made everything feel mechanical, like he was on constant auto-pilot mode.

However this morning, as he was making his usual coffee, his eyes lingered over the fridge that stored all your milk in. He recalled the night he tasted your milks for the first time. The memory made his heart hammer in his chest with a warmth pooling to his cock.

But it’s been a while since that night and he would be lying if he said he didn’t want another taste.

Something was pulling him closer toward the fridge before opening the door. He felt like he had no motor control over his limbs now as he grasped onto one of the flasks and unscrewed the lid.

He took one whiff, smelling the creaminess of the milk before he glanced back at his coffee mug that was sitting on the counter top. He always liked his coffee with milk so his curiosity piqued as he was wondering what would happen if he added some of your milk in the coffee.

He knew he shouldn’t and he really should ask for your consent before using your milk. But at the same time, he didn’t want to wake you up at the crack hours of dawn. Surely you wouldn’t notice if he used just a splash of milk.

Without a second thought, he started on his coffee and poured some of the ‘liquid gold’ into his mug, watching the dark beverage lighten in colour. After screwing the cap back on, he took a small sip from the coffee and relished its taste.

The subtle bitterness from the coffee blended perfectly with the natural sweetness from your milk. The taste was divine and unmatched. If he wasn’t tight on a schedule, he definitely would’ve savoured it for as long as he could, but he had to leave for an early shift.

The day burned out faster than he imagined. The coffee had given him an extra boost of energy that he didn’t know he could foster.

The evening came and Francis' shift finally ended. He found you in the kitchen holding onto one of the flasks that had your milk in. For a split second, Francis felt a thread of chill down his spine.

You were shaking the flask, feeling how full it was. Francis didn’t check if the content would be a little lighter after he used some of the milk this morning. Were you starting to suspect something? He felt his stomach slowly sink to the floor as your frown deepened.

But the feeling quickly disappeared when you finally locked eyes with him and gave him a soft smile. You put the flask back in the fridge and gave him a quick peck.

“I just put some roast chicken in the oven and it should be done shortly,” you said. He felt you tug on his bow tie until it unraveled. “Take off your uniform and you can tell me about your day at dinner,”

This has been going on for the past few days. Though as the days went on, there was the feeling of guilt that was prodding inside him.

He didn’t know how long he could keep this from you, especially given the fact that the content in the flask was getting less after the previous night of you pumping more of your milk.

But he couldn’t help himself— the taste was too good and had already fallen into this addiction. And on top of that, a part of him wanted to see how long he could get away with this, even if he knew he was going behind your back.

Until one morning where he was finally caught red handed. As usual, Francis didn’t expect you to be up early. He was so caught up in indulging in the taste of his coffee, he didn’t notice the sounds of your footsteps approaching the kitchen until you heard your voice.

“Francis?” Your voice tore through the room, making him freeze in his tracks.

You weren’t normally awake this early so seeing you here threw him off. He hadn’t even heard you come into the kitchen so he couldn’t cover up just how guilty he looked right now.

“What are you doing?” You stepped further into the kitchen towards him. His pulse was throbbing harder with each step you took and he wanted to disappear at that moment.

He tried to come up with an answer without blatantly lying to you. “Just having my coffee. How long have you been standing there?”

“I just stepped in now,” your gaze swept over him until you finally noticed the flask on the countertop beside him. “Is that the flask with the breast milk?”

Francis swallowed dryly.

“Yes…it is,” he said quietly.

“What on earth are you doing with that?”

There was no point lying to you so he spilled the truth. “Look darling, after I tried your milk I really like the taste so I’ve been having more of it. I’m sorry,”

“Is that your coffee too?” You paused with your eyes fixated on the mug. By the look in your expression, he could tell you were putting two and two together and he was dreading how you would react. “Oh my gosh…have you been using the milk in your coffee?”

“Yeah I’ve been doing it a few times now,” he admitted sheepishly.

“So that’s where the milk has disappeared to,” For a moment, Francis expected you to be disturbed by the revelation. However he was welcomed with your warm laugh that shook him.

“Oh Francis—” you said, reaching up to pinch one of his cheeks affectionately.

He stared at you quietly, completely baffled by your reaction. You continued laughing at the situation.

Despite the anxiety he had before, it was slightly relieving seeing your wholehearted reaction instead of you being disgusted with him.

After your laughter died down, you took a few deep breaths before you spoke again. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Uh…every morning this past week now,” it sounded shocking when said it out loud and he couldn’t help but give you a weary gaze.

“Do you think I could get a taste?” You asked. Francis nodded silently. If you were going to forgive him for secretly drinking so much of your milk so willingly, this was the least he could do.

He watched you intently as you took a small sip from the mug. There was something about watching you taste yourself that made his cock twitch slightly.

You smacked your lips, taking in the taste. “Oh…”

“How does it taste?”

“There’s a surprising subtle sweetness from the milk,”

“Heh, there certainly is. It’s quite strange,”

“I can see why you like this so much,” you said as you took another sip.

“I’d say it might be the highlight of my morning,”

“Mhmm. So what time is your shift today?” You asked. The question snapped him out of his trance and brought him back to reality.

“It’s supposed to start at 6 today,” he said with a tired groan. He wanted to stay in this moment with you for as long as he could but he knew he had a job to do.

He felt you reach over to kiss him on the cheek, making his heart stutter in surprise. The affectionate gesture from you was enough to lift some of the weight from his shoulders.

“Well, I’m going to be be making a cherry pie for dessert tonight, so that will be something to look forward to,”

Francis' lips twitched up in a small smile. “Yeah…that sounds lovely…”

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @haikyuunerdsworld @facelessfionna (lmk if you want to be tagged in my Francis fics)

Btw since you’re here, I am very indecisive on what to choose for my next blog theme. So let’s vote it out!! Here are some navigation headers that I’m planning to use on my pinned post. Very distinctive themes I know !!

#★— ayrus writes #that’s not my neighbor #tnmn #francis mosses #francis mosses x reader #francis mosses x you #the milkman #milk man #milkman #milkman x reader #milkman x you #tnmn milkman #tnmn francis mosses #francis mosses milkman #francis mosses smut #milkman smut #francis tnmn

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selfloverrrrrr · 24 hours

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Can you do Sukuna? I want to request him having a favorite maid who gets special privileges, but she has to fuck him in order for those privileges to remain special. For example, she gets better pay than the other maids who work for him. And then he falls in love with her later, making her his wife.

The Bonding

Warning: smut, heavy smut, unprotected sex, teasing, nipple play, edging....

( All characters are aged up/18+)

Masterlist

Minors Do Not Interact

Read the warnings carefully....if you don't like my stories block me not report

Sukuna was a wealthy and powerful man from heian era. He's well known for his cruel and calculating nature. He employed many maids to tend to his large estate, but there was one in particular who held a special place. I received special privileges, such as better pay and more comfortable living conditions, but these privileges came at a price.

In order to keep my special status, I was required to submit to Sukuna's sexual desires. He would often summon me to his chambers late at night, demanding me to service him in any way he wants. At first, I was repulsed by the idea of sleeping with him, but over time I grew to accept it as a necessary evil. I told myself that as long as I continue to please Sukuna, I would be able to keep my privileged position.

As the months passed, however, something unexpected happened. Sukuna began to develop genuine feelings for me. He found himself thinking about me all the time, and he grew to cherish the time they spent together. He even started to treat me with kindness and respect, rather than just as a sexual object.

One day, Sukuna decided to make his feelings known. He called me to his private room. I thought it was just like the other days. But when we were alone he took my hand and looked deep into my eyes, telling me how much he loved and valued me. I was shocked by the sudden declaration. but I loved him too. I never told it to anyone but I do love him too much. I couldn't deny the feelings that had been growing inside me as well. I told Sukuna that she loved him too.

He sits on the bed and I was sitting on his lap. We broke the kiss. Sukuna looked at me "should I?" He asked. "Please" I whispered. He pushed me on the bed and climbed over me. I was laying on the bed and Sukuna was laying on me. He looked at me and asked " do you want it?". "Yes..." I whispered. He smirked " Say it clearly please ". "Yes... yes please" I said. "Please what?" He asked still with that smirk on his face. " Please fuck me already..... I want you to fuck me.... please" I begged him and he gave me back a smirk and took off my top and bra. He looked at me and started sucking my boobs, squeezing it, playing with it as he want. I was a moaning mess. I took off his shirt. He got up and unbuckled his pant and underwear. His huge dick sprang out. I was starting at it without even noticing. My lust was increasing just seeing it. He smirked at me. He took off my bottoms and once again lay on top of me. He kissed me roughly. He lined himself with my entrance. Then smirk at me and pushed his whole length slowly. I scremed when it was fully inside. " it's okey... it's fine." He said and kissed my forehead. He started thursting in and out.

I was moaning his name. He was giving me pleasure. The pleasure I was hunting from months. His thurst became harder and harder. Faster and faster. One of his hand reached for my clit. Rubbing it. My legs were shaking. I was screaming, moaning with pleasure. In moment I came. Finally. Finally got my satisfaction. With a few more thursts he came inside me. He threw himself beside me.

From that day on, Sukuna and me were inseparable. We spent our days exploring the estate and our nights making love in Sukuna's luxurious bed. We would often engage in dirty talk and playful spanking, driving each other wild with desire.

As husband and wife, Sukuna and me were happier than we had ever been. We had found true love in each other's arms, and we knew that nothing would ever tear us apart. And as we lay in each other's arms, we knew that we would never again have to worry about the special privileges that I had once fought so hard to keep. We had become a true couple, and we would face the challenges of our lives together, hand in hand.

Give me your requests guys...

I love when you give me your requests 💕

#jjk #jjk smut #smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #tw noncon #fem reader #sukuna x you #sukuna smut #jjk sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #jjk ryomen #sukuna ryomen smut #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen x reader #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere

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senawashere · 1 day

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We're on this together...(Chapter IV)

Bradley Bradshaw x Fem!Wife!Reader

Summary: Is it over now? Or is it starting now?

A/n: A MAJOR change is on the way!!

Warnings: Infertility,mentions of miscarrige,mentions of hospital,mentions of getting pregnant,mentiones of ivf.Use of alcohol,arguing,use of bad languange. Mostly angst.

20 APRIL 2022.

You nodded.

That's why you're currently in one of the most well known clinics in San Diego because Bradley didn't want to "risk it" and your leg shakes with anger at the thought, causing Bradley to rest his hand on your knee.

Car ride was complately silence. And after around one and half an hour you both finally parked your car to the parking lot and walked into the big hospital.

The sterile smell of the hospital immediately caught your nose. This scent wasn't helping you feel more stressed than you already were. But Bradley's tight grip on your hand seemed to comfort you at least a little.

He's nervous too, damn, he feels like he's going to throw up, but he has to stay strong for you and he relaxes a little when his lover rests her head on his shoulder and kisses her temple, which works because he's a little less nervous now.

"It'll be alright." You whisper and your husband smiles to hear you thinking positively.

"Exactly." He answers, his heart pounding with pride when he hears you optimistic for the first time in a long time.

You both are distracted by looking at socials on his phone for a few more minutes until a woman in white emerges from the office and looks up, reading a spreadsheet to say. "Bradshaw?"

You both stand up, You instantly reach out for Bradley to hold your hand tightly, and after greeting the woman, you both enter where the doctor is waiting for you behind her desk.

“Bradley, Y/N, this is a pleasure.” She shakes both of your hands.

"Thank you. Pleasure is ours." Bradley responds with the hand now holding on your lower back and gently pulling the chair forward for you to sit down on.

"Okay, I understand you're here because you're having trouble getting pregnant, right?" The old woman asks, looking under her round glasses.

"Yes." You hum, swallowing dryly.

Bradley takes your hand but continues to stare at the doctor, knowing his wife hates public attention, something he's learned the hard way over the last dozen years.

"We'll be running some tests on you both next week, don't worry, just to make sure everything is as it should be."

You both nodded, and both felt small in the hospital chairs, holding hands, afraid, feeling that time had not passed, and feeling that you were still sixteen years olds and had no idea what life was really like.

Talking about a future that would never come, wishing they could be like them again forever, they gathered in the treehouse as You stroked Bradley's uncontrollable hair, as he clumsily talked about his dreams, thinking that maybe one day he would love to be become a fighter pilot. Like his dad.

They both are individually subjected to multiple tests and studies, and after about three hours both of your works finish, returning home exhausted and not even eating dinner, you both quickly crawl under the covers and seek each other's warmth.

While Bradley plays with the ring on his ring finger, his head lies on his lover's chest. "Are you scared?" he asks and your hands stop in his hair.

"Maybe a baby isn't for us."

You look up and look at him in shock, feeling your throat close at the raw and harsh words and you heart starts pounding when you see his face.

"Darling, don't say that."

You look away, staring at the ceiling, feeling the tears gathering in your eyes until they fall down the sides onto your pillow.

You are not even sobbing, not screaming, nothing, just...crying. Silently.

"Oh, my love.” He grabs your arms to pull you closer, switching positions so you are on top of him, dipping his bare chest in the salty drops.

"We're going to have them, fuck, we're going to have the baby or maybe babies. We just have to wait for the results. I know we are going to."

He wants to cry too, but he can't cry in front of you when you need him more than ever. He will find a moment of solitude where he can lighten his own burden, but not now.

"I just want to make you happy." You cry and he frowns.

"You think I need a baby to be happy?"

Bradley questions, holding your waist and carresing with his thumb.

"Darling, as long as you're with me, anything can go to hell, I'll be the happiest man on earth. I don't need a baby, I don't need anything but you, my soul."

You hug him tighter, digging your nails into his shoulders and closing your eyes, breathing in the scent of home your husband gives off. Now you understand and blindly believe in it.

As long as they are together, they don't need anything else.

I know this is sad but it might be the last sad chapter hehehe!!!

I'm tagging people who might be interested:@ohtobeleah @sebsxphia @callsign-fox @greenorangevioletgrass @teacupsandtopgun @roosterforme @floydsglasses @lyn-js @its-dee-lovely @its-the-pilot @friedchips94 @hardballoonlove @topguncortez @bradshawsbaddie @shanimallina87 @djs8891 @themusingofagothicsoul @promisingyounglady @the-romanian-is-bae @mamachasesmayhem @jessicab1991 @iefitzgerald-blog @charcole-grey @waterriseslew @desert-fern @eternalsams @callsigns-haze @promisingyounglady @els-marvelvsp @cevansbaby-dove you are not comfortable please tell me!!

#sena writes #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfic #bradley bradshaw x fem!reader #bradley bradshaw #rooster imagine #rooster fanfiction #rooster x reader #rooster top gun #rooster x wife!reader #top gun rooster #topgun maverick #top gun fan fiction #top gun au #we're on this together

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ysrjune · 15 hours

Note

hi! i know you don't usually write for clay, so feel free to delete this if you want. but, if youre up for it, I'd love to see inpatient!clay beresford x inpatient!reader (maybe also w heart condition i have one and i just think it would be cute). and like maybe they both have surgery on the same day or smth soft of them comforting each other through this or smth idk i just need patient!reader w clay so bad 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 ( if u like angst also im not against one of them dying at the end)

My Baby

i’m so sorry that I replied to this so late, but hey.. at least I responded, right 🥰⁉️ thank you for your ask <3

summary ✦ clay and reader have heart surgery the same day, and they comfort each other.

“We’ll be okay.” Clay runs his fingers through your hair in hopes it will calm you down. your surgery was less than a few hours away, and you were scared. what if the doctors do something wrong that ends up in death for you or clay.. or both. Clay was your everything, and you couldn't bare to lose him.

“You don't know that for sure.” she sighed, looking up at Clay to say something else, but he beat her to it. “Yes I do. what kind of hospital hires doctors that don't know how to be doctors.” he was just trying to make you feel better. he knew there were always risks in any situation for surgery. “After this, we're gonna be fine, sweetie. more than fine.” he kissed your cheek. “we'll start our own family and be happy the rest of our lives without being scared of randomly dying on the spot.”

Clay was always better with coming to peace with his condition, so much so that it didn't bother him to make jokes about randomly dying on the spot. you, on the other hand, were really scared of dying and not being able to fulfill a good enough life. you wanted to have fun, find a suitable husband to raise a family with, and be the best wife & mother you could be. so, the thought of death being able to take you out of nowhere was terrifying.

“clay, dont say that. It's not funny.” you look down to his chest. “I just.. want us to live the life we deserve.”, “and we will. I'm telling you, baby, nothing bad is gonna happen, you'll see.” he placed a gentle kiss on your lips.

—

the time finally came, and you were being pushed on the hospital beds to the surgery rooms. Clay held your hand the whole way there since his bed was next to yours. “I love you, clay. with all my weak heart has to give.” he wanted to burst into tears. this could he the last time you see each other. as much as he didn't wanna think about it, he did. his beautiful angel being taken away from him or him being taken away from you, ending up in not giving you the life you wanted with him. still, he put a smile on and looked at your wedding ring, then his. “I love you too, y/n. I'll never stop loving you.” even the nurses who were pushing your beds wanted to cry.

“if anything happens, you were the one for me, baby. the only one. the girl of my dreams.” he gives the softest half smile as you're close to parting ways to different rooms. “I'll see you out of surgery, honey.” you respond, kissing your fingers and placing it on his hand. he shed a tear and nodded as you split ways.

—

things were going great for the first half of everything that the doctors did. but then something went wrong.. very wrong. the heart wasnt receiving enough blood flow. the doctors didn't even notice until it was too late. how could they break the news? after the nurses told them about how all you two wanted was to stay here on earth with each other and raise a baby of your own. that didn't matter anymore. you were dead.

Clay woke up from surgery, his mother and a couple of friends by his bed. his first instinct was to look over to the bed next to him so he could see you. nothing. the bed was empty. it made his still fragile heart begin to beat fast in worry. “where is she?” he looked to his mother with teary eyes. “where is my wife?” his voice cracked. he was staring to cry. did you make it? please, God, he hoped you made it and you were just put in a different room.

All his mother and friends did was frown at him, crying as well. Clay sucked in air and started to cry. sniffling while shaking his head, he still kept looking to the bed. “No, no, no. this wasn't how it was supposed to go. youre all lying.” his cries were heartbreaking. “Mom?” he switched his gaze to her, hoping it was all a lie.. a dream.. a hallucination. anything but the truth.

“I'm sorry, Clay.” that was it. you were officially gone. his baby was gone. not just you, but the baby he could have given you. the baby he could love and see you through the eyes of your child.

Clay never emotionally recovered from that. he never dated either. never even dared to stare or flirt with another woman. all he ever did was work, drink, visit your grave, and go to bed. occasionally visit some friends and family, but that was it. his life was never the same without you. he kept all your things. he sprayed your signature perfume on your pillow thst he cuddled with to just pretend you were still there with him.

Clay Beresford was absolutely miserable for the rest of his life without you.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

taglist: @anakinstwinklebunny @heartsforanakin @anisscarletstarlet @sockiess @erosmutt @rottencandyblood @radiantvader @freezerbride95 @starsfortaylor 🎀

#june replies ౨ৎ #clay beresford x you #clay beresford angst #awake 2007 #hayden christensen #hayden christensen fic #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen imagine #hayden christensen angst #hayden christensen drabble #hayden christensen blurb

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resi4skz · 2 days

Text

Title: Mi Amore (oneshot)

Pairing: nonidol!Chan x Grace (OC)

Warnings: swearing in italian, smut

This is for @gracebang143 (i cannot tag her in it, stupid tumblr)

!! MINORS DNI !!

"Ugh, for the last time, Steph!" I exclaim as I put ice in the blender, chatter of customers in the background. "Olivia is my cousin and he's her boyfriend!"

"So?" She says and turns at the till, smiling at the customer. "Thank you for choosing Stat Lost, have a nice day!" She turns to me as she closes the register. "Look, we both know what of a person Olivia is. She's probably moved on to the ne-"

The sound of the small hanging bell on the door cuts her off. We both look at the front door at the same time to see my cousin, Olivia and her boyfriend, Chris.

Or Chan, as I like to call him. He was dressed in a black shirt and blue jeans, topped off with a black cap.

Gosh.

Why did he have to be so damn attractive?

Olivia walks over to a vacant table as Chan approaches me. I put on the biggest smile, as if he isn't my regular. "Hey, you're back."

"Yeah," he replies, taking out his wallet. "She'll have a macchiato with a cheese scone and I'll have a-"

"BLT with extra bacon and a watermelon lemonade?" I finish his sentence.

His eyes light up, giving me a small smile. "Yeah. Wow. You even remember customers orders?"

Only yours, is what I wanted to say. "Sort of. Since you're a regular here so I took the liberty of memorizing your order."

"Wow."

I tap on the computer screen taking his order and scan his card before giving it back. "Your order will be with you shortly."

"Thanks."

When I turn around, Stephanie is looking at me with a smirk on her face. Rolling my eyes, I start on his sandwich. Just gotta get through it. You can do it, Grace.

Suddenly, I feel a sharp pain on my finger. "Cazzo!" I glance down and see a small cut on my finger. Great, just I need. Quickly cleaning my hand, I gently wrap my finger in a bandaid.

"Everything alright?"

I jump at the voice before turning around. He needs to stop being so god damn good looking. "Yes. Your order is ready. Give me one moment." I put their order on a tray a d hand it to him. "Thank you for choosing Star Lost, I hope you enjoy your order!"

He chuckles, nodding. "Thank you, Grace."

My heart does that thing again. Oh wait, that's my stomach. I groan when he sits at the table with Olivia. "Have you maybe tried confessing?" Steph asks from behind me.

"What good will that do?"

"Maybe he'll realize what a crappy of girlfriend he has right now and maybe likes you back?"

Hanging my head in defeat, I walks towards the back door. I need a break.

------------------------------------------------------------

But when I come inside, I hear Steph and Olivia in a heated argument.

"What do you mean I can't have a free muffin? It's my cousin's bakery!" Olivia shouted.

"Because if we started giving away free muffins," I state stepping behind the counter and face her, "We'd be out of business. And it's not my bakery. Steph and I are partners."

"You're greedy. Why can't you just say that?"

"Babe, maybe we should-" Chan began.

"No, you stay out of this!" She brushes him off.

The fuck.....did she just tell him off? My blood boils, my nerves lighting on fire. "Olivia, simply just leave before you piss me off anymore."

"What?" She blinks at me. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"You want to know what my problem is? You might need a notepad because the list is long."

"Fuck you," she spat. "I hope this shitty place rots."

"Ah, the words from the famous home wrecker Olivia James," I say.

"Home wrecker?" Chan says as he looks between Olivia and I.

"Chan, don't listen to he-"

But I cut her off. I've had it with her bullshit. "Let me ask you something, Liv. Did you also try to lure him into your trap so he would give you money? Or are you fucking his buddies too like you did with Mr. Stanley?"

Mr. Stanley was our neighbor and his lovely wife, Diana would always bake these pecan pies that was mouth watering. One day, Mr. Stanley came to our house to drop off a pie and Olivia was the only one home. One thing led to another, once Olivia saw he was loaded, she seduced him and ended up sleeping with him. Many, many times. It wasn't until Diana saw them going at it in her home, on the kitchen table because she had gotten off work early.

Safe to say, Diana is divorced and thriving by travelling the world with her friends.

The look on Olivia's face is priceless though. "You...bitch!" She lunges at me from across the counter but I was quick to dodge.

Chan pulls her back and shoves her back before facing her.

Steph elbows me and whispers, "$10 says they break up."

"It all makes sense now."

"Chan, babe. Please listen to me." Olivia pleads. "She's lying."

"No," Chan says firmly. "You're always putting me second. You're always asking to go to expensive restaurants and to think I was spending so much on you. Tell me something," he takes a step towards her, completely towering over her. "Did Jake treat you well?"

"What?"

"Did he tell you to come here with me? Did he also tell you I was also going here?"

"Wha....what are you talking about?"

And then I see a different person come out. A new person who I wanted to know so desperately about. He runs his hand through his curls and smirks. The man actually smriked. "Why do you think I wanted to come here, Olivia?"

"You asked me on a date," Olivia replies. "What does this have to do with-"

"I know about you and Jake."

Oh shit. I watch Olivia's face turn into horror as she opens her mouth. "You're the one always yapping about your music all the time. I don't get what the big deal is, you're never going to make it."

I saw red. My blood was boiling. "Fermati!" I march over to Olivia as she blinks at me. "You do not get to judge a person based on their profession. You do not get to make assumptions. YOU do not put negative things in their mind to the point they want to end their lives."

But she rolls her eyes. "Please, you just had a scratch-"

I shove my shirt up on my arm, showing her the long scar going up to my elbow. "Does this look like a scratch to you that YOU caused?"

"What the..." Chan says and looks at Olivia, who's seething in anger. "I though you said she fell."

"She's lying," Olivia replied, her eyes narrowed at me.

"Oh, so you're saying that I magically got a knife and stabbed myself, making a huge line on my arm?"

"You bitch!" Olivia lunges at me but Steph stands in front of me and pushes her back.

"No one is fighting in our cafe, okay?" Steph announces then points at Olivia. "As for you, get out. You're no longer welcomed here."

"What?"

"Better yet, you're black listed from this cafe."

Olivia huffs and stomps her way out of the shop. "You alright?" Steph asks

"Yeah, thanks," I smiled and she gets behind the counter, immediately apologizing to the customers.

"Hey."

I slightly jump at his voice and turn around.

"Are you okay?"

"I should be asking you that."

He scoffs. "I'll be fine."

I nod. "Alright, well. I gotta get back to work." I make it two steps when he calls my name.

"Grace."

I turn. "Yeah?"

He looks at me, almost as if he wanted to ask me something. But he just shakes his head. "Nothing. Have a good day at work." And then he's gone.

------------------------------------------------------------

It was Friday and rush hour was just finishing when something catches my eye outside. "Che due coglioni?" I watch as Olivia tries to kiss Chan and he keeps pushing her back.

"Is she for real?" Steph says.

"I've had enough of this," I snap, taking my apron off and walking towards the door. When I open the door, I hear her crying.

"Chan, please. You've gotta believe me," she wails.

"Olivia, what the fuck is wrong with you?" I say.

Chan's eyes flicker towards me, almost lighting up making my heart skip a beat. "This doesn't concern you," Olivia hisses at me.

"Porca miseria, questa cagna!" She blinks at me surprised and I stand in front of her. "This man," I point to Chan, "has been nothing but loving towards you, has given you the time he should've spent elsewhere other than your stupid ass. You," I jab at her chest, "do not have the right to control someone as kind as him. You," I jab at her chest again making her stumble back a step, "do not get to do that to him."

"Grace," I hear Chan say from behind me.

"Do you even realize how hard it is to chase your dreams when no one belives in you? Of course, you don't because all you get to do is use others and degrade them till they have nothing left in them."

"Grace."

"What?!" I snap as I turn around, sniffling. Was I crying? But I don't get to touch my face as I feel a pair of warm hands cup my cheeks. "Cha-"

His lips. Oh my god his lips. My hands stay at my sides because I don't know where to put them. As he lets go, I look up at him. "I've been meaning to do that."

"What?" I blinked, perplexed.

"She's gone," Steph's voice makes us jump apart a step away from each other and she comes to my side. "Jeez, she's like a lizard, always coming in between."

I snort which leads to laughter as she beams at me. "Come inside! I'll make you guys something to drink!"

I watch as she heads inside before turning to him. "So..."

"So."

"What did you mean by what you said earlier?" I asked.

"Look-"

"Why did you kiss me?"

He sighs. "I never liked Olivia. She was just there, I guess to fill that void," he flicks his eyes down at me, "but that void was never filled."

I scoff, not believing what he just said. "So you mean to say, that you dated her-"

"I never da-"

"-just so you could dump her and then coincidentally you thought that a kiss would solve all the problems?"

"Look, Grace-"

"No," I say firmly. "You look here, Chan. I'm not the one to messed around with. And you were the least out of all the people I knew that would do something like this." His eyes widen at my comment and raises his hand but I put my hand up, stopping him. "No. I can't look at you right now."

And with that, I turn around and leave. Steph gives me one look once I'm inside and immediately gives me space as I go back to refilling the ice machine.

------------------------------------------------------------

A few weeks later, I finally had a few days off. I wanted to destress and just chill and relax in my apartment. But what I didn't know was that Chan would be standing at my doorway looking like he had been run over by a truck while I was in a tanktop and pj shorts with a bag of chips on my hand.

"W-what are you doing here?" I asked, clutching the chip bag.

"Can I...can I come in?" His voice trembled.

"Yeah, come in," I stand aside to let him in. As he walks by me, the same vanilla and smoke scent fills my nostrils, making me a bit dizzy.

"Do you want anything to drink? Water? Soda?" I ask, closing the door behind me.

"Water, thanks," he replies taking a seat on my couch.

Fuck. Never in my 22 years of my life, I imagined a man in my living room. Let alone Chan, the 28 year old man that I had been crushing on since I was 19. I hand him the glass of water and sit beside him.

"Nice place."

"Thanks," I replied. After a beat, I say, "So, what brings you here?"

"Olivia paid a visit."

"Oh?"

"And smashed all the windows of my car."

"What?!" I knew she would stoop low but to this level? "Are you okay?"

His eyes flicks up at me. "That's funny."

"Huh? What is?"

"Olivia would've asked if my car was okay. She wouldn't even ask me if I was alright."

"Well, she's a bitch," I huff, crossing my arms.

He snorts. "She did teach me one thing though." He turns his body sonhe's facing me. "To never take what's already in front of you for granted."

Holy fucking greek god. Why does this dude have to be so damn pretty? "You're lucky you're attractive, Chan. Any woman would be happy to have you."

"Look, about the kiss then-"

But I stand up. "I'm going to make some tea." I hurriedly walk into the kitchen and immediately fill the kettle with water. It was a good distraction-

An arm snakes it's way around my waist. I gasp, dropping the kettle in the sink and turn around. "What are you doing?!

"Why do you think I kept coming back to your cafe?"

"Because you like the cakes we make?"

"I came to see you, even on busy days where I could catch a glimpse of you working behind the counter refilling stoxk items. Once, Steph caught me staring at you and made me buy 10 pastries," he explains snorting. "Let's just say my friends got a piece each."

"Why are you-"

"-telling you?" He finishes my sentence. "Because I like you."

"I'm sorry, what?" My ears are deceiving me.

He giggles, poking my cheek. "I like you, Grace. I have for a long time now."

"How long?"

"3 years."

I blink at his answer. "I..I... don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

I look at him. "But you just told me you like me. How do you expect me to not say anything? To say that I like you as well?"

"Grace, you're not obligated to say- wait, what?" Turning his head, he blinks at me.

"What?" I try so hard to not smile.

"You just said you like me."

"No, I didn't," I lied, hiding my smile.

"Grace," his hand comes to cup my face, lifting my head to meet his eyes. "Tell me before I lose my mind."

"What happens if you lose your mind?"

His gaze hardens. "You don't want to know."

I wet my lips, partially opening my mouth. "Maybe I do." I hear him growl before he smashes his lips on mine. This time, neither of us push away. His tongue darts out and I open my mouth. His hand rub my arms, up and down. "Channie," I whimper, heat pooling between my thighs.

"Yeah, baby?" He says, his thumb brushing my lower lip.

"Can we, uhm, can we take this to the bedroom?"

He chuckles as he slides his arms around my ass hoisting me up. "Say less."

He practically sprints into my room and gently lays me down on my bed. His eye catches my blanket, the pink poka dots on the white colored sheet. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing," he shakes his head and takes his shirt off.

My breath hitches in my throat. Holy fuck. I knew he was fit but this.....holy fucking shit. Then his takes his jeans off, leaving a lot for my imagination when I see the buldge in his boxers as he takes those off too.

"Now you."

I sit up and take my tanktop off. My breasts bounce as I had no bra on. "Fuck me, Grace. You're beautiful."

My cheeks heat at the compliment and my arms come up automatically to hide myself but his hand stops me. "Don't hide yourself," he said as he hovers above me. "Fuck, I'm trying so hard to hold myself back."

"Don't," I gulp. "Don't hold yourself back."

"You sure? I don't want to hurt you."

I narrow my eyes and pull him down by his neck. "Channie if you don't fuck me in the next 5 seconds, I'm going to burn your clothes so you'd have to walk back home, butt naked."

"Feisty, damn," he groans as he takes my shorts off leaving. "As much as I would love to taste you, I need to feel you around my cock."

"Please," I whine.

He smashes his lips on me again, this time with desperation as he settles in between my legs. I feel the tip at the enterance of my cunt. "Ready?"

I nod. He lines himself before slowly pushing in. "Oh, shit- you're fucking tight."

I close my eyes, feeling the delicious burn as fully bottoms himself inside. "Mm, Channie. You feel so goo-" I get cut off as he pulls back and slams his hips.

"Yeah, fuck, you cunt feels so good," he pants and grabs my left breast. "And I love these, fuck, perfect."

He sets a fast pace and doesn't stop snapping his hips. He pinches my nipple, causing the familiar knot to form in my lower belly. "Fuck, I feel you clenching. Are you close?"

I moan in response and his thrusts pick up speed. The only sounds resonating in the room was the snap of his hips. "I'm going to cum," I moan. He brings his hand down to my clit, rubbing it with his thumb. And that was all it took for me to go over the edge. "Channie!"

"Oh fuck, milk my cock, baby. Make a mess," he groans as his thrusts become brutal and I'm pretty sure my poor cervix is bruised. "I'm coming, fuck, I'm gonna fill your tight little pussy. You want that? You want me to fill you up and make you mine?"

"Yes, yes! Make me yours, Chan."

"Fuck," he voice becomes strained as veins protrude in his neck and he stills, emptying himself inside me, painting my inner walls.

As we catch our breath, I notice he hasn't pulled out. "What are you doing?" I ask, still out of breath.

He suddenly grabs my thighs as I feel him harden. "Oh my god."

He grins, licking his lips. "Up for round 2, mi amore?"

A/N: this was for @gracebang143 hope you enjoy :)

#bang chan #christopher bang #stray kids bang chan #chris bang #stray kids #bang chan fanfic #skz #bang chan smut #oneshot #fanfic #skz smut #skz fanfiction #skz fanfic #skz bang chan

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maladaptivedaydreamsx · 2 days

Text

The Littlest Lelouch

Characters: Clavis Lelouch, unnamed wife, OC (baby), brief cameos

Rating: pg13 (?)

Genre: Saccharine fluff, dash of angst, humor (sfw)

WC: 1,296

Warnings: Mentions of battle/blood/death (none happen on-screen), mentions of pregnancy and birth (none graphic), afab oc/insert and female pronouns, (are babies a tw?), humor of the aerin variety, not proofread, potential minor Clavis route spoilers?

Request?: Yes (currently open? also yes. pls see pinned first!)

Summary: As it would happen, having to work with the bloody beast means often having to pick up after said beast, or even indulge in the sins of war. Unfortunately for Rhodolite palace’s resident mischief maker, the call of his duty could not have come at a worse time.

A/N: Apologies if it is a bit OOC or would benefit from better pacing, I haven't read Clavis' route in a bit and he's a little tricky to nail at times without me getting cliché. (Sorry this one isn't gender neutral, for the folks familiar with my general fluff.) I worked to the best of my current ability, as the request was a bit vague. Feel free to stop by and request again sometime, nonnie!

Clavis’ wife was due soon, expecting their first child amidst the frills and flowers that come with Spring. And excited they were to welcome the newest member of the Lelouch gang when Clavis suddenly receives summons for a round table meeting. It isn’t until much later that he returns, brows furrowing as he walks through the doors to the couple’s shared room at the palace.

“Dearie me,” Clavis starts, running a singular gloved hand through his lilac locks, boring holes into the wall as he figured out how to best break this to his very pregnant wife. No amount of trying to haggle with the court would get him out of this, much as he tried. Hesitantly, Clavis’ wife pipes up, wanting to console her husband who seems he may fray at the seams any moment.

“What’s wrong, Clavis? Cat got your tongue?” She jokes, waddling over best as she can, causing Clavis to fret and meet her halfway. He is far too overprotective sometimes, she feels, but understands he is that way out of sheer love for her.

“Council was held today.” Clavis starts, receiving an acknowledging hum from his wife. At his uncharacteristic pause, she nods, gently trying to urge him to continue his train of thought. “I will have to be away for a while,” and in true Clavis fashion, he tries to soften the blow the best way he knows how.

“Oh, but don’t you both go missing me too much. I know just how to console my lovely, dearest wife-”

“Clavis.” If he insists on acting fine, then she will shoulder it for them both and allow him to save face.. this time. “I’ll miss you too, darling. Please come home safe.” With eyes that look like he is trying his best to hold back tears, Clavis dons his most convincing smile, gently pulling his wife in as closely as he comfortably can by her waist.

“I knew you couldn’t resist your handsome husband,” he murmurs, pressing a loving kiss to her lips, fitting every apology known to man in the sincere way Clavis cherishes her so. Pulling away, he rests his head atop hers, cursing his fate and drasted brother for nearly ruining yet another special occasion in his life.

…

As the fateful day comes, Clavis parts from his beautiful wife, reassuring her he will be fine just as much as she does him. Riding off atop his royal steed, he waves farewell without looking back, steeling himself and all of his best inventions to end this damn thing as early as physically possible. In his plan, he hopes to lure out the enemies and confuse them with his myriad of (smoke) bombs, so that he and Chevalier may be able to finish with time to spare.

“If I miss my child’s birth, this time I really will kill you,” Clavis threatens. At this, Chevalier simply scoffs and rides away. Cyran shakes his head, a mundane ordeal when it comes to these two.

As fate would have it, back at the castle, just a few days after the second and third prince had set out to quell skirmishes along the borders, his wife goes into labor. It would seem the third prince’s child was not a very patient one, wishing to meet everyone as quickly as possible. Panic spreads, the early arrival of the baby having the maids rush to get everything together shortly after her water breaks. Though her husband is not present in body, he is present with her in spirit, and in all of the reading they had done together to better prepare themselves for their little one’s arrival.

After many painful hours, a cry is heard, and thus the third prince of Rhodolite and his wife welcome a tiny baby Lelouch into the world. Hardly visible for how light a color it is, there are the smallest tufts of the signature lilac stands upon her head, and piercing eyes of gold. Having already decided upon possible names beforehand, his wife holds baby Felicia (a tribute to Clavis’ late mother Leticia) in her arms, exhausted but moved to tears over the life they created, together.

It isn’t until two full days later, that Clavis returns home. The congratulations he receives upon his arrival is both the best and worst of news, for he is grateful they are both alive and well, but terribly distraught to have missed the birth of his first child (and being unable to support his wife as she always does him). He quickly stops by the baths, not wanting to greet them with blood still on his person.

Gingerly, Clavis makes his way to where he finds both of his Lelouch girls, heart caught in his throat at the sight. Upon his arrival, their daughter is waving her hands around, trying to grab at her mother while she rocks her gently and sings. The gentle smile on her face brings back bittersweet memories, and an ache for a loved one he will never see again. He knows how loved their child will be, even in the most cursed depths of the royal court, and vows to never allow a hair on their heads harm, lest their enemies summon the nightmare that is Lelouchian fury above them. (Assuming they can read the warning letter.)

“Welcome home, Clavis.” Having spotted him out of the corner of her eye, Clavis’ wife brandishes her grin his way, the glow apparent from what he could only describe as “the light of a thousand- no, a million- no, a hundred million suns!”

“And say hi to your daddy, Felicia,” she coos, patting the baby’s back gently as she sits up further in bed. “But please don’t learn from his example.” Clavis theatrically slaps a hand over his chest, looking exasperated, as if he hasn’t the faintest clue what she could be referring to.

“What better example would she have to learn from, aside from my most lovely wife?” Clavis sits at the edge of the bed by her side, leaning in to place a kiss to her forehead, lingering at her scent. “Would you rather she learn from one of my brothers?” At her grimace, he laughs, husky and warm and everything deliciously Clavis.

“I was hoping Sariel could tutor her the way he did me,” she jokes, enjoying the look Clavis shoots her. “I’m kidding, love. Honestly.” He is still grimacing when she stifles her laugh. “Would you like to hold her?”

Nothing in the world could have prepared Clavis for the reaction of finally getting to hold his beautiful, delicate baby girl in his arms… only to have her immediately begin wailing. Clavis tries everything he can to get her to stop crying, but she is only finally comforted by the feel and smell of mom, who she has become most acquainted with in her two shorts days on this Earth. A true connoisseur knows how to relish in the saltiest of tears, but these in particular left a sting in his heart. But no matter, he won over his wife’s heart, and he’ll win over his daughter’s affections. Clavis understands the appeal of being in his wife’s arms, he must admit, only slightly jealous of all her attention not being on him now.

And if there’s anything that made Clavis happier than his wedding and the birth of his child, it’s that his little girl would prove to show her affections with signature Lelouch pitfalls. Clavis-patented, Yves-tested, Felicia-approved.

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lucysarah-c · 17 hours

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Do you think that Canon Levi (While he is in the scouts, not post-war) would want a serious relationship or even a family? I love reading fanfictions about him falling in love with someone who is also on the scouts and even having a wife or kids, but he canonically is not a huge fan of marriages and Idk, maybe he doesn't like the idea of putting children in such a dangerous world, you know what I mean? What's your opinion?

Hi, sweetheart! How are you? Ah, first of all, thank you for stopping by my inbox and asking for my opinion. I always get a little giggly when people ask for my thoughts on anything haha. I promise to do my best to reply to everything to the best of my abilities!

I agree with you to a certain degree, especially since you mentioned not "post-war Levi." I think post-war Levi is a completely different story, you know? This man sat down with two kids to tell them about his childhood and mother. Let's remember that Hange didn't even know about Kenny's existence during the Uprising Arc, which leads me to think that Levi didn't speak to anyone about his past before. Now he does? I mean, yes, it's a literary device—using characters completely alien to the idea to present a first-person POV of the character telling their past. I've used it myself in my main fic. But let's say that's not the case, and Levi is opening up like never before. He seems to be redoing his life and living happily after the war. I wouldn't be surprised if he decides to pursue a partner and kids for himself (if he wants, as kids and romantic relationships aren't necessary for happiness).

But Canon Scout Levi? Let me tell you, first of all, I don't think Levi really "believes" in marriage per se. I think he would treat his girlfriend as if she were his wife; he doesn't think of marriage much beyond "a tradition." Now, I do see him getting married if it would enhance the life or rights of his girlfriend. What do I mean by this? Let's say there's "social judgment" if his girlfriend is publicly in a relationship with him and "being with a man outside of wedlock" causes her social scrutiny—he may marry her. He knows firsthand how women are judged based on their "status" by his mother, so if he can step up and do the right thing, he will. For example, if he were to die and his partner couldn't land jobs because people judge that she's unmarried at her age, he would marry her. Or if she could get a pension from being married to a soldier, and every coin counts, Levi wouldn't mind it. That's what I personally think. Levi knows he won't be the one getting the sour end from not making it official, so he sees it as beneficial to make it legally official.

Then about kids, I don't see Levi "seeking" kids while he's in the Scouts. It's rather clear that Levi likes kids across the story, but he probably wants to give his kids the childhood he didn't have. And yeah, "kids only need someone who loves them, etc.," but the truth is kids need time, dedication, and MONEY. Three things that Scout Levi doesn't have lmao. So I don't see him canonically "seeking to become a dad." If there's contraception in Paradis, he's for sure using it. If there isn't, or accidents happen, and his girlfriend ends up pregnant, he would probably state that it's not the best timing for kids (especially if she's a Scout, as I doubt a woman would be allowed to be a soldier and also raise a kid. She would lose her job and stay behind to be a mother, which was usually the case back in the day). But if she decides to carry on, Levi, being an adult doing adult stuff, will take responsibility and be the best father he can given the circumstances.

Finally, about relationships… I'm a firm believer that you don't truly choose to fall in love or not haha. Like when it happens, it happens, like the cat distribution system lol. Once it knocks at your door, it's your time. Once again, I don't picture Levi going out of his way "searching" for romance. But if he slowly gets to know someone and likes them, and that person likes him back, then well… I don't know. Now that I'm rereading the manga, I'm more sure about this. Levi hardly seems "unapproachable," like "I'm so hurt, I don't want to let anyone in." On the contrary, you see he has good relationships with almost all the Scouts, even telling Nifa about Kenny out of nowhere. He's not one to fall easily, but if it happens, it happens.

I hope this was a good enough answer <3 Thank you so much for your ask.

Have a lovely day!

Stay safe!

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maryleclerc · 10 hours

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an idea for whoever need it

idea inspo: GOLDEN HOUR by PENNYLANEFIC

in this idea, the pairing will be quinn hughes x reader (if y’all use the idea i wrote below plz feel free to tag me y’all)

GIF by maryleclerc

so i just finished reading this work, and came up to an idea for whoever want/need an idea to write a new fic for nhl player

imagine quinn he’s planning to propose to y/n, asking his family and friends to help set up everything (maybe like in the golden hour fic the WAGs will be taking y/n somewhere so andrei can have time to set up)

and while y/n are with the players wife & girlfriend hanging out, during the conversation y/n just talk to the WAG about how she was planning on to propose to quinn

“i couldn't wait any longer, we’ve been together for 3 and a half years now so yeah” — y/n said and shrugged then from her bag she took out an engagement ring that she has prepare for Quinn from her bag and showed it to the WAGs.

and the WAGs of course were all surprised, but they didn't want to ruined the proposal that Quinn was preparing so they all went along with her.

time past by, on the next day Quinn ask you to come to his parents house to have a dinner there so y/n agreed to come, she felt weird that everytime if they have dinner at The Hughes, Quinn will be the one drive y/n there so when this time Jack is the who drive y/n there. they both have the conversation on the car about Quinn, about Hockey, etc

ok imagine Quinn just finished his speech, y/n say yes. and then now is her turn, after she finish her speech, she took out the ring and everyone there is so surprise and though its was so funny at the same time.

especially Quinn but in the end he said yes, and everything turn out so cute and everyone just laughing, enjoying the night.

also the proposal night will be attend with all of The Hughes family and hockey, close friends. after that everyone start to post it on their social media, its started to blow up cause the fan thought of cute they both are

i love my huggy bear 🐻

idk i kinda like it a bit goofy and silly 😂

also sorry about my lag of grammar and english but i hope you get what i mean 🤗✨💗

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagines #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x oc #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes angst #nhl players x you #nhl players x reader #nhl players imagines #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl blurb #nhl players

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eatmeandbirthmeagain · 2 days

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hello! a little fic request I’ve been thinking on, not pressuring you to write it or anything, just wanted to share.

the y/n is a hot tempered foreign princess who got married to Baldwin when they were both children. she’s very energetic, straightforward, man-like in her character, but has to adapt to fit in the court of Jerusalem and also to „suit” her husband’s calm manner and the fact that he’s ill doesn’t help.

she’s unhappy about it; maybe even tears a little during the wedding, but doesn’t let anyone to think she may be vulnerable (mostly because she understand that that can be used against her in the future after Baldwin dies). but over the time she finds herself drawn to Baldwin because, well, unlike her teachers, he lets her study and play chess with him. he cares about her desires and interests. he also respects her, not just like a woman but as a friend, and a clever one. maybe some of her advice on the politics is used by him at some point (which would be absolutely unrealistic, but really, we’re talking historical romance with a leper king here…). a cute detail would be him gifting her a weapon of some sort to protect herself because he knows how she doesn’t like being treated like she’s helpless. bonus points if he says something romantic and or pathos’y about it.

did I write this whole oc story as a multiple chapter fanfiction in my head? yes, I did. am I going to finish it? absolutely no. but I’d love to read your interpretation!

♧ "Princess" - King Baldwin x Reader ♧

♧ Angst ♧

A/N: Hello Anon! So sorry for taking so long to write this, ive had so many requests. I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind but it was my interpretation and I hope you like it! I dont really like how it turned out as your request had so much detail and my writing does that no justice, but I hope its okay ☺️! As always, this is based on the film Kingdom Of Heaven, not the real historical figgures. This is also set pre-film. Enjoy!

TW: Leprosy

At thirteen years old, marriage was the last thing on young y/n’s mind. But yet, here she was. Soon to arrive in the city of Jerusalem, to be wed to a boy she had only ever met a handful of times.

Baldwin the fourth. The leper, who's mother just so happend to be ready to find him a wife at the same time her father was ready to find her a husband.

She sat in silence for the entire journey, this was uncommon for her. She usually always had something interesting to say or something to observe with curiosity. But as per request by her father, from now on she “had to act like a proper lady. No more of this ridiculous 'masculine' behavior”.

“You will be wed to a king y/n” he had told her. “You must stop acting the way you do. No king will be allowed such behavior from his wife”.

Her attempt to keep to herself for the journey had been successful so far. She remained silent and still. Just as her mother taught her. “Just how a lady should be”.

As the city came into view, y/n felt tears begin to burn her eyes. She would never again be allowed to explore the wilderness on her fathers land, or read every book she was allowed to have from the library. She surrendered herself to a life of boredom and suppression.

Once exiting the carriage, she was greeted by the royal officials as well as the king's mother.

“I am so pleased to finally meet you young lady" she greeted her with a smile "you shall make a fine wife for my son” . Y/n thanked her and was ushered off quickly to prepare her for the hour of the wedding.

Y/n held back tears as servants worked busily around the room. Dressing her in beautiful garments, jewelry, and makeup. She was distraught. But she dare not cry. They could not see her so weak.

----------------------

The events proceeded and y/n barely even looked at the boy she was marrying. She could not bring herself to make eye contact with the man who would rule her life forever.

They told her to smile. “No man wants to see a lady disappointed on her wedding day” the king's mother had told her before they entered the church.

Baldwin himself was nervous about this day but just enthusiastic. Unlike y/n, he was looking forward to being wed to a young woman. He did not want just a wife to serve him, but a companion too. Someone who he could speak to about all kinds of things. Someone who would love him as much as he loved them. When he saw her, she looked beautiful, but sad. Very sad.

He hoped she was not sad about marrying him. Perhaps his illness deterred her from wanting to even be near him.

But she was still beautiful. She was 14, just like him. He could not take his eyes off her. He had met her a few times before, and she interested him deeply, even though they barely spoke. He more so just watched her play and talk with the other young people from his bedroom chamber window, longing to join them if it was not for his illness.

She played more with the young boys than she did with the girls. Always full of energy and life, always talking and laughing. But now, she looked different. As if the light had been drained from her.

--------------------

When the wedding was over, the young king and queen got acquainted in the boy's chambers. She still seemed very quiet and unsure about his presence.

“Are you alright?” He asked her the second they were alone. “Yes your highness” she replied in a small voice, very different to the excitable tone she used to have. She sighed and lowered herself onto the small couch, turning away from him to look at her hands.

Baldwin thought for a moment, but then remembered that his mother requested he chose a wedding gift to present her after the affairs.

“I have a gift for you,” he said happily, lightening the mood.

He noticed her eyes light up a little at the comment. “You do?”

“Yes, would you like to see it?”

Y/n nodded excitedly, a smile forming on her face for the first time all day. The boy stood and disappeared behind the red, satin curtains that covered the large windows. He returned a few seconds later with something behind his back and a wide smile.

"I had to hide it, so my mother did not see what I chose for you" he explained. This peeked y/n's intrest greatly.

“Alright, close your eyes, '' he told her, the smile still plastered to his face. Y/n shut her eyes with anticipation. When he told her to open her eyes, she was lost for words. In the young king's bandaged hands, he held a shining silver sword with a pale pink ribbon tied around the handle.

Her eyes widened and stared at the sword for a long time before taking it in her hands to admire it. “Do you like it?” he asked, cautiously, hoping he had not offended her.

“Baldwin.. I love it!!” she exclaimed with a grin, jumping to her feet and wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a tight hug. The smile returned to his face and he put his arms around her waist.

“Now you can defend yourself my love. No wife of mine will be left vulnerable, even if there are men to protect her. She will defend herself, because she is strong.” His words filled the queen with happiness and hope. Perhaps her father was wrong after all and she could remain as herself. At least in the presence of her husband.

-------------------

From that day on, they were inseparable. Unlike y/n’s tutors and parents, he allowed her access to his entire private library so they could study and read together. He allowed her time to herself, so she could do the things she loved without anybody telling her how to behave.

He quite often went as far as to seek her out for advice on political issues, not allowing her straightforward intelligence to go to waste.

Overtime, y/n became used to her duties as queen, but as much as she learnt to fit the role, she treasured her time alone with Baldwin. He cared about her interests, her desires. He respected her, more than anyone else ever had. They played chess together as well, each game being a delightful battle of the mind.

He saw her as not just a wife, but as a companion and an intelligent one at that. And for this, she would be forever greatful.

#king baldwin #king baldwin iv #king baldwin iv x reader #king baldwin x reader #kingdom of heaven #king baldwin x you #kingdom of heaven fandom #kingdom of heaven 2005 #king baldwin iv x oc #the leper king #kindgdom of heaven #kingbaldwin #koh fandom #koh

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vixstarria · 2 days

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Bloodbang Chronicles - Chapter 5

Chapter summary: unexpected visitors bring ill tidings and vampire family drama. Also a wedding?! And alright, alright, we're on chapter 5, have a smidgen of smut as well.

Chapter word count: approx. 5,000

Chapter CW: Sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll reckless waltzing, poor babysitting practices, death mention (not related to babysitting)

Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

Five years have passed since the confrontation with the Netherbrain. Astarion and his warlock lover, Asmodea, are living it up in Baldur’s Gate, running a cabaret. Their life of decadence and debauchery seems idyllic, until Asmodea’s patron disrupts it with a proposal. One that seems too good to be true. One they cannot refuse.

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Humor / adventure / smut

Rating: Explicit

Asmodea regarded the toddler with caution, the way one might an unpredictable wild animal that wandered, by chance, into a human dwelling, and began creating a chaotic disturbance with its mere presence - the feeling was akin to walking into a kitchen to find a raccoon on the counter.

After some screaming (done by the child), a wooden prop dagger was surrendered to it. The toddler alternated using it as a rattle and a chew toy. Were kids this young supposed to have teeth..? Asmodea wasn’t sure. Then again, she wasn’t great at determining children’s ages. It was somewhere past the ‘potato’ stage, but hadn’t yet reached the ‘persistent yet incoherent chattering’ phase of its development.

Something new must have caught the little girl’s interest, as she dropped the fake knife and began crawling up the sitting room’s wall.

When did they begin doing that? Perhaps at around a year of age..?

Her father, Ivar, had clearly witnessed the stunt before and was unfazed by it.

Astarion, on the other hand, was very much fazed, and regarded the girl with apprehension.

“I can’t sense her,” he remarked, furrowing his brows. “My eyes tell me she’s there, but everything else is telling me my eyes are lying... It’s unnatural!”

“You’re one to speak,” Ivar chuckled at Astarion’s words. “But yes… You get used to it.”

“In all honesty, I’d rather not,” grumbled Astarion.

Ivar had been one of the very last victims delivered to Cazador. Not one of Astarion’s catches - he had actually been mugged, stabbed and left to die in the streets of the city, only to be hauled back to the mansion by Dalyria. For ‘healing’, she told him. A mere few days later, he found himself a free vampire. His wife accepted the unwitting detour as a reasonable explanation for his returning home late. She even joined him in his exodus to the Underdark with the other spawn.

Being among the minority of the spawn that still had full control of their wits on regaining their freedom, and indeed one of those who had tried to help shepherd the more crazed spawn, Ivar quickly secured a spot at the top of the hierarchy in Leon’s coven. He had met with Astarion before leaving, and stayed in sporadic correspondence with him.

To see him hastily fleeing north like some kind of refugee was a surprise. ‘Everything’s going to shit in the Underdark’ was his brief explanation.

Six covens had formed, each run by one of Cazador’s immediate spawn. ‘The Seven’, they were called, albeit Astarion, the seventh, had so far refused to take part. A Council was established, formally, but it did little but serve as a means for the ‘Seven’ to spy on and attempt to manipulate one another.

As for the common, lesser spawn…

Between attacks by the druergar, drow, illithids (as well as anyone else who did not fancy having vampires for neighbours), the food shortages, and the infighting between and within the covens themselves, the Underdark had turned out to be a ruthless dog eat dog world, not the sunless sanctuary they had first envisioned.

Thousands of the lesser spawn had died, Ivar confirmed. Most had already gone incurably mad from the years of starvation and isolation by the time they were freed, and were culled immediately.

The rest were constantly at each other’s throats in a struggle for resources.

Leon’s coven, said Ivar, had tried to establish trade relations with druergar, kept herds of deep rothe for blood supply, and otherwise made attempts to obtain blood without resorting to outright murder. Unfortunately their efforts were largely in vain, as some of the other covens had opted to simply keeping slaves to be used as blood bags. At the end of the day, as far as any mortal denizens of the Underdark were concerned, a vampire was simply a vampire, and no questions were asked about their allegiance or philosophy on blood procurement. Weapons came out on sight of any vampire, most of the time.

Ivar said that more and more vampires had begun fleeing the Underdark, slipping back into onto the surface. Soon they would flood the cities. Baldur’s Gate was the closest port city to the main Underdark vampire settlements, and it was likely that most would end up in the city, at least to pass through, like him. His own plan was to board a ship to Neverwinter with his daughter, and then head further north from there. Someplace with long nights, far from Baldur’s Gate and his wretched extended undead ‘family’.

“And the girl’s mother..?” asked Astarion.

“Ingrid died in childbirth,” answered Ivar. Astarion and Asmodea murmured words of condolences. “Accidents are prone to happen, you know,” he continued, giving Asmodea a look that made her shift uncomfortably. “Especially with one who gorges on this much blood. Look at all this!” he turned to Astarion, pointing at the tankard of heated boar blood he had been provided. “A luxury! And to you it’s nothing!”

“Was Ingrid human?” Astarion ignored Ivar’s outburst.

“Aye,” answered Ivar. “Most dhampirs’ mothers are.”

“There are others?” Astarion asked, surprised.

“Some, and I know a few women were heavy with child when I left.”

“Well…” said Astarion, somewhat taken aback. “Perhaps in another twenty years a generation of dhampir will solve the vampire overpopulation issue,” he offered. “I don’t know who will take care of the dhampir problem. Perhaps gur vampires?” His attempt at a joke fell on deaf ears.

“How do the vampires feel about them?” asked Asmodea.

“The dhampir tots are protected, at least in Leon’s coven,” said Ivar. “I reckon we’re all still amazed any of us can create new life… But their staying in the settlement is discouraged. I only waited until little Helmi was old enough to travel. The Underdark is no place for a child...”

A silence hung in the air briefly.

“But speaking of Leon…” Ivar said, suddenly remembering something. “Before I forget, I’ve a letter from him for you.”

He got up and left the room, leaving his hosts with his daughter.

They silently beheld the dhampir toddler on the ceiling for some moments, before meeting each other’s eyes.

“Do not tell me you want one,” Astarion pointed a cautionary finger at Asmodea.

“No thanks,” she curled her lip, before looking up at the child again. “But can you go get that thing off the ceiling? Or shall I go fetch a broom?”

“Why bother?” said Astarion, stretching his legs. “It seems perfectly happy up there.”

“What if it falls and cracks its head open?” Asmodea said with a frown, crossing her arms. “Your associate wouldn’t be very impressed if his daughter died the moment she was in our care.”

They both gasped in unison and made for the centre of the room - Astarion via the ceiling - as the little girl suddenly got on her feet and wobbled, upside down, towards the chandelier. Astarion got to her before she could damage herself or the candlewheel.

“I still can’t sense her,” he muttered, having come down onto the floor. “It’s uncanny… And gods, is this how cold I feel too?!” He regarded the toddler thoughtfully.

“Aww, she likes you,” Asmodea cooed, tilting her head, as the little girl tried to reach up to grab a handful of Astarion’s hair. He bared his fangs and hissed at her, only to have her chortle and hiss back at him, baring her own little fangs.

“Right, your father’s a vampire, why did I think that would work on you...” Astarion murmured, setting the toddler down.

Asmodea excused herself and returned to the theatre shortly after Ivar returned with Leon’s letter, leaving Astarion alone with Ivar and Helmi.

“So you were truly unable to enter on your own?” Astarion asked. “Interesting. It is a public space.”

“Let me guess,” said Ivar. “Living quarters stretching all across the top floor?”

“And most of the basement,” Astarion nodded, with a hint of a smile.

“Clever,” admitted Ivar. “Will spare you any surprises from the others. But they will show up in Baldur’s Gate sooner or later.”

Astarion only waved his hand dismissively.

“You could take your place on the Council anytime, you know,” Ivar continued. “You killed Cazador. They will always hold a seat for you.”

“Not interested,” murmured Astarion. “And for hells’ sake, why do you even care?! You’re headed north yourself.”

“From what I know, you’re not a bad man, Astarion,” said Ivar. “And that’s more than I can say for many of the others. ‘Not bad’ is far and few. Leon is not a bad man either, and he thinks you can be reasoned with. Think of all you could do for your lesser brothers and sisters.”

“Please…” scoffed Astarion. “Even if I cared about that. I am doing more for vampires here than I ever could beneath the ground. Why, ask anyone who’s attended the theatre. They’ll say: ‘Sure, I’ve met a vampire - a dashing gent dressed in feathers and lace, he had me pissing myself laughing at his salacious jokes - I love vampires!’.” He smirked. “I’m a curiosity, not a threat. And I would very much like to keep it that way.”

“You’re an aberration,” Ivar said, darkly. “Not even hiding you’re a vampire. All the blood you want delivered to your door. They will come, and they will be envious and spiteful. This can’t last forever.”

Astarion did not say anything to that, and taking his silence to be encouragement, Ivan continued.

“The Council will ensure protection is extended to any mortal concubine you wish to keep - take the woman with you. All the better if you have your own blood source.”

Astarion wrinkled his nose in distaste at the implication.

“The answer is still no,” he scowled. “And she’s no concubine.” He took a sip of his wine, before adding with a touch of self-satisfaction: “Oddie and I are married.”

Sometime in the past five years

To say the wedding was rushed would have been a massive understatement.

Asmodea’s dress consisted of a show corset, hastily sewn together with a mass of organza, tulle and scraps of silk, all dyed a deep blood red. The skirt was an enormous, puffy thing that bounced and swayed with every step. It was farcical, ostentatious, garish and undeniably Asmodea. The seamstress, who had been cajoled into abandoning all other requests until this project was complete, could not have been prouder of her work, once she was finally convinced that this was indeed what her client wanted.

Astarion was the one to wear white, opting for a tasteful suit with silver embroidery.

The venue was an inn that was still partially under reconstruction, which hadn’t otherwise been open to the public yet.

The entertainment was provided by their friends and regular acts that appeared at their tavern. They took turns between performing and carousing with the rest of the guests.

The catering, thank the gods, was taken over and arranged by Wyll’s people.

The day began with a rush of people and last minute deliveries and arrangements. Asmodea was trying to direct it all before allowing herself to be whisked away to the wedding venue, where she would finish her preparations.

“This was left outside,” someone handed her a hamper filled with what appeared to be an assortment of edible treats, teas, little packages and a few jars and bottles. “Must be a gift for you, don’t know why they didn’t deliver it properly.”

Asmodea frowned at the hamper. What she first took to be woven willow strands appeared to actually be interwoven roots, and the basket itself seemed to be a peculiarly shaped plant, with leaves sprouting at the top. She wondered if it could be planted or placed into water.

Her eyes grew wider and wider as she regarded the contents of the plant basket.

“What is it, my love?” Astarion approached her.

Asmodea silently handed him a piece of paperbark engraved with sylvan words of felicitations, as she picked up a bottle and swirled it to observe the contents. The liquid inside appeared thicker than regular wine. And did it shimmer..?

Astarion’s own eyebrows had already shot up at the sight of the contents of the basket, by the time she handed him the bottle.

“My espruar is shoddy… Pray tell, what does this label say?”

“‘For the vampling’,” Astarion translated. “Can it… can it do that?! Slip between our plane and the feywild..?”

“I guess so,” Asmodea said with disbelief. She reached for one of the jars and opened it, only to gasp and close it back up. She let out a giggle and handed it to Astarion. “Tell me that is what I think it is.”

Astarion opened the jar and observed the contents.

“That, my dear, is indeed enough feydust to obliterate the mind of a dragon.” He looked at the other items in the basket. “That appears to be halfling weed - nothing special, but can’t go wrong with it either. That,” he continued, peeking into another jar, “is definitely dream flake. Not something I would risk, given my nightmares.”

Asmodea barely suppressed her incredulous laughter as he went on.

“That’s patch.” Astarion met her inquisitive look - clearly that was not something she was familiar with. “It will have you communicating with plants, not that they have anything interesting to say.” He continued to dig through the basket. “Sharpsugar?! That’s even more expensive than the feydust. And that’s…” Astarion suddenly broke off into elaborate elven cursing, dropping the item he had picked up back into the basket. Asmodea picked up the satchel that had upset him so much, and guffawed.

“Aww, they even packed your favourite!” she called out after him, as he retreated back upstairs, indignant. “Catnip!”

Jaheira, stately in an emerald green gown, sipped tea, watching one of Asmodea’s friends - Sarana, an improbable githyanki raised by halflings - fuss over her hair and makeup, applying finishing touches to the bride’s appearance.

“Will anyone be walking you down the aisle?” asked Jaheira.

“I will be walking myself, thank you very much,” Asmodea answered, reaching up to adjust her hair. Sarana silently smacked her hands away from her locs, which had been arranged into a complex crown, and continued adding some delicate touchups to her cheekbones with a brush.

“I was thinking of having Wyll do it, for the sheer grandiosity of it, but he can’t do that and conduct the ceremony.”

“Has Halsin offered?” asked Jaheira.

“Halsin?!” Asmodea laughed. “Having an ex-lover hand me over to my husband-to-be, who is incidentally also his ex-lover. I can’t even tell what all that symbolism would imply, but I think I’ll avoid it, even if he does volunteer.”

“Astarion, are you decent?” he heard Shadowheart’s voice from behind the door.

“What kind of a trick question is that?!” he scoffed, as the door opened to admit the cleric. She looked stunning in a flowing dusky lavender dress.

She took one look at him before recoiling in mock horror.

“Oh! Oh no… No, this won’t do at all.”

“What are you talking about?” Astarion asked, annoyed. “I don’t need a mirror to know I’m immaculate.”

“Exactly,” Shadowheart agreed. “You’re so perfect - it’s painful to look at. She will absolutely hate it. Here, allow me…”

She reached up to loosen his collar and unbutton the top button of his shirt, and did something with his hair, moving some strands around.

“There,” she said, withdrawing to look at her handiwork. “Much better. Not even you are allowed to outshine the bride, you know.” She smiled and stepped back towards him, to draw him into a hug, landing a kiss on his cheek. “Congratulations!”

And with that, she withdrew from the room, leaving Astarion blinking in surprise at the over-familiarity. Had she already gotten into the wine..? No matter. He returned to his preparations, which consisted of pacing around and trying to convince himself he had absolutely no reason to panic. He did not re-button his shirt.

The ceremony took place after sunset.

Their vows were heartfelt but brief. They both dreaded having to make an overt display of sentimentality publicly.

They both only laughed in relief when Minsc briefly stole everyone’s attention by releasing a loud sob when Astarion called Asmodea his sunlight in his speech.

The band was playing some cacophonous waltz, which seemed to be getting progressively faster as time went on, and Astarion was stuck swirling in a ludicrous dance that mostly consisted of spinning at breakneck speed around the dance floor with a partner. Between the ridiculous dance pas and the feywine he had been consuming throughout the evening, even his vampire head was swimming. He’d somehow lost sight of Oddie, as though it should even have been possible to lose sight of a boisterous little red cloud. And, absurdly, he found it simply impossible to leave. Apparently everyone needed to tick “dance with a vampire on their wedding day” off their bucket lists - new partners simply kept appearing in his arms after each turn around the hall.

He found himself leading Katrina, Gale’s date - apparently someone from the college he was teaching in - in yet another sequence. Surprisingly spry in her movements, she did not miss a step as she masterfully diverted an exchange of polite niceties into an interrogation on the topic of the intricacies of vampire digestion. Astarion could not boast the same about his footwork, as he nearly crashed them into another couple, caught off guard by the subject matter of her questions. Luckily they were nearing an end of a round.

“I… I don’t know, I suppose it’s all simply absorbed into the tissue..? Magically? I’m sure that’s a topic you know more about than I do. …I better return you to Gale, I’m sure he’s distraught without your lovely company.”

As they reached Gale, the wizard extended his hand, which Astarion presumed was for Katrina. As he released her, however the hand somehow ended up in Astarion’s, with another around his shoulder, and they were off, as though carried off by sheer momentum.

“Good gods, Gale, not you too!” Astarion groaned. “Alright, fine!”

Between the music, the flickering magelights and the voices all around him, the night starting to seem like a delirious dream he couldn’t wake up from. And where was Oddie..?

As they spun off, Gale whispered conspiratorially to Astarion.

“I have been tasked with delivering an important message.”

“Well?” Astarion sighed. “Out with it!”

“Your blushing bride awaits you. Through the kitchen, and up the service stairs.” Gale chuckled at Astarion’s immediate look of relief and gratitude. “Now go, go!”

He released his hands, leaving the inertia to carry Astarion staggering towards the exit leading into the kitchen, where he swiftly disappeared before anyone could note his absence.

He caught a glimpse of her skirt disappearing around a corner as he reached the top of the stairs. A hand beckoned him coquettishly before disappearing around another, and then there she was, grinning at him from the doorway of one of the inn’s suites. He tried to reach for and embrace her, but she only laughed and dodged him, retreating into the room and keeping a table between them.

“You left me stranded, all alone with those lunatics” Astarion admonished her, walking around the table as she mirrored his steps.

“You were having fun!” she protested

“I detested every second.”

“I saw you laughing so hard you choked,” she teased.

“Minsc insisted I dance with him and his hamster, it was awful,” he said darkly.

“Yes, Boo looked adorable sitting in your hair,” she laughed.

Astarion suddenly changed direction, and so did she, with a titter.

“Are you sure you want to play this game, darling?” he purred. “You know you can’t win it.”

She grinned, but before she could do anything, he simply leapt over the table, catching her in his arms. She gave a gleeful squeal as he spun and lifted her onto the table, wedging his hips between her legs. He planted his arms on the table around her sides, leaning over her.

“Ah-ah!” she warned, as he started to kiss down her neck, grazing it with his fangs. “No fang marks on my neck - we still need to return to the others before the night is over.”

“A vampire biting his bride, what a scandal that would be,” Astarion murmured as he dipped lower, towards her cleavage.

“Definitely not there, either,” she laughed, enjoying his cool breath tickling her skin.

Astarion straightened to simply kiss her, but once again, she held a finger to his lips.

“Sarana insisted on touching up the pastes and powders just earlier, and she will be most displeased if you ruin all her hard work before the night is over. She brought her greatsword to protect her artistry’s honour, you know.”

“And here I thought I wouldn’t need to fear any more githyanki women, with Lae’zel away on the astral plane…” Astarion lamented. “But I’m sure I can find a place no one will see…”

He urged her back until she lay propped up on her elbows, before finding her leg somewhere in the mass of her skirts, and kissing up towards her thigh, starting from her ankle.

“Now why would you wear something so ridiculous and impractical..?” he said between kisses, as he moved further up.

“It’s perfectly practical,” she batted her lashes innocently.

Annoyed with her mass of skirts, he hiked them up, throwing them up over her head. She laughed and tried to get out from under them.

“So it is! You naughty girl…” he purred against her skin, licking and sucking up her thigh. She was wearing nothing underneath the dress.

He sank his fangs into the inside of her thigh, making her gasp. His fingers teased her, sliding between her opening and her clit, grazing it but not quite giving her what she wanted, as he drank from her. His mind cleared, somewhat, as her blood hit his tongue, the effects of the feywine from earlier being replaced by a desire overwhelming all his senses.

He didn’t take much blood from her, instead kissing his way further between her legs, his lips and tongue caressing the soft skin just outside her sex, without going in.

“Please…” she moaned breathlessly.

The blasted skirt started falling over Astarion’s head and getting in his way again, and he growled, tearing at it, as he got up.

“Do not rip it,” Asmodea scolded him, still defiant despite her precarious position. “Not yet.”

“Not yet,” he agreed, kissing her - Sarana and her wrath be damned - as he impatiently unlaced his pants.

“But you will need to, later - I was sewn into all this,” she whispered in his ear once they’d broken their lips apart from one another’s, nibbling on his earlobe.

They both breathed a sigh of relief as he entered her, as though finding long needed respite. She wrapped her legs around his hips as they ground into each other, trying to alleviate a desperate need.

“Mine,” he gasped, thrusting into her. “All mine… Only mine,” he kept repeating like a prayer.

“Yours…” she gasped. “Forever…”

“I’ve been yours for a long time, you know, this is only a formality,” she said a while later, trying to make herself look presentable before heading back downstairs.

“Oh I know,” he answered, smirking. “But now I have a receipt that confirms it.”

The word ‘forever’ rang a bittersweet bell in his mind, but he brushed it aside. He refused to think about that tonight.

Getting into the carriage Wyll had arranged to take them home was turning out to be quite the challenge for Asmodea, given the voluminous skirt.

“Oh for the love of,” Astarion said, impatiently, before hoisting her up one-handed, and pulling her in after him. She collapsed on him, laughing, as he fell back onto the seat. Someone shut the door behind them, and they were off. The ridiculous skirt with its now crumpled and creased layers of fabric seemed to fill the entire cabin - it was all Astarion could see beyond Asmodea leaning against his chest, beaming down at him.

He reached up to tuck away a lock of her hair that had gotten loose.

“My love…” he whispered, smiling up at her. “Can you believe any of this..?” She peppered his face with kisses, as he continued, incredulously. “What in the heavens did we just do..? What did we do..?”

Present day

“I don’t understand,” Asmodea said as they lay in bed at dawn. It was just the two of them, the bard had been forgotten, at least for the night. “Why did he decide to come here to begin with? Didn’t he violate some vampire etiquette by showing up unannounced at another vampire’s lair?”

Astarion winced at her choice of words to describe their home, but answered.

“No, that was actually a display of perfect civility and decorum. I would have sensed his presence in the city anyway, and felt compelled to investigate. It saved me going down to the docks myself.”

Asmodea contemplated that, lying on his chest.

“I suppose it was better for the child as well…” she added. “Say, and what was in that letter from Leon, anyway?”

“Oh what’s in any of their letters…” sighed Astarion. “Complaints about the others and vague hints of an alliance should I join them.” He traced circles on Asmodea’s back, staring up at the ceiling. “Ivar was adamant that vampires will start flooding Baldur’s Gate soon, to plague the populace. He said it’s a matter of time before an angry mob arrives to drag me out into the light at daytime.”

They had accounted for such possibilities. The walls of the building contained hidden passages, leading down to the basement, which in turn was connected to the sewers. Astarion could cloak himself in invisibility and flee any time of day or night, if it ever came to that.

“We always knew this was temporary, anyway,” he continued. “The city guard will not touch us as long as Wyll is at the helm, but who knows how long that will be? He could remain Grand Duke for the next 50 years, or he could choke on a piece of steak and die next minute. And who knows who will come after him?”

“I’ve thought of all this, but I… I didn’t think it would start unravelling so soon,” Asmodea whispered.

As the sun set, Astarion headed towards the room they had provided Ivar. There was another matter he didn’t get a chance to ask him about. Although the sun still lingered just above the horizon, he found the room empty - the man was already gone.

Astarion swore and raced downstairs.

He caught him just outside the Siren. It was as though he couldn’t get away fast enough. Ivar gave Astarion a careful, apologetic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“No disrespect, I was unsure where you were. Left a ‘thank you’ note in the room, but now I need to get on the ship as soon as possible,” he said.

Astarion only shook his head dismissively.

“Before you do that, I just wanted to ask...” Astarion began, nonchalantly. “Has… any new ‘unlife’ appeared in the Underdark? Beyond Cazador’s original spawn and the 7,000 offerings? Let’s not count the dhampir.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking, Astarion.” Ivar sighed, wearily.

“Oh, but I think you know exactly what I’m asking,” Astarion said, piercing Ivar with his eyes.

“Necromancy is forbidden,” he replied. “The law states that all vile acts of necromancy are to be punished, the offenders chained in silver and given to the sun, their abominable creations destroyed. Every coven enforces this. Does that answer your question?” Ivar said, irritated.

“No, it does not. I will speak as plainly as I can.” Astarion looked down at his nails in apparent boredom. “When your wife lay dying, did you try to turn her?”

Ivar regarded Astarion with a darkening expression.

“Have you lost your mind?” he said. “Spawn cannot create new vampires.”

“There are those who believe that spawn become full vampires once their masters perish,” Astarion countered.

“And there are those who need to be reminded that necromancy is forbidden,” Ivar retorted. “Encouraging necromancy and spreading misinformation about it,” he leaned closer to Astarion, lowering his voice, “is also forbidden.”

“Oh don’t give me that shit,” Astarion hissed, dropping any pretence of his nonchalance. “As she lay bleeding, doomed and half dead already, did you try to turn her or not? As a last resort. I know what I would have done. So did you?”

“My wife is dead, Astarion. I buried her,” Ivar said grimly.

“Yes, yes, I heard you and I believe you,” Astarion sighed in exasperation. “So did she claw her way back out of the grave you put her in?”

Before Ivar could answer, his daughter started to cry, and he turned his attention to her, trying to soothe her. He did not turn away and leave, however.

“How old is your little half-elf?” he asked Astarion, finally.

“Around 40.”

“You have plenty of time, then. Find another way. Or better yet, stop playing the fool, bid your farewell, the sooner the better, and then stick to your own kind, in a place where you belong.”

Astarion opened his mouth to speak again, but Ivar cut him off, brusquely, and set out towards the docks.

“Take care, Astarion. You have my gratitude for your hospitality. I wish you well, and I hope we never see one another again.”

Astarion watched, silently, until Ivar disappeared around a corner. The man was gone, but the sense of unease he had brought with him had only grown. Astarion couldn’t shake off the feeling that what he thought had been whole suddenly revealed a multitude of tiny cracks.

Thank you for reading! Find the fic on AO3 as well.

Thank you @grandmother-goblin for letting me borrow Sarana the githyanki bimbo for this chapter! 😄 You can find more of Sarana here, under Gale x Tav

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