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silvernight-m · 18 days ago

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anselm- panic room day 3

Summary: You indulge Anselm in a little fantasy of his (18+, fantasy land, p in v, ~2.7k)

:: Day 1 here :: Day 2 here ::

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“This is going to sound weird, but I never thought of you as a guy who’d be into this particular thing.”

“Really?” Anselm says tying his silver tie in the mirror.

He adjusts it, making sure the knot is even and centered. Even though it’s just the two of you down here, Anselm still dresses every day in his usual black suit, black shirt, and tie.

“Yeah,” you say. “It just seems so… something a relationship counselor would assign you for homework. Even though I’m excited to try, it never occurred to me. I’m surprised, that’s all.”

His head tilts slightly, he thinks something over, deeply. He looks hesitant, his hand smoothing his beard down. “I have to confess to you something slightly embarrassing. You’ve probably long suspected it. When we met, it wasn’t exactly by chance.”

“This conversation has been a long time coming,” you say.

You pick up his pocket square from the top of the dresser and fold it neatly before tucking it just-so into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“I always wanted to ask you, but I didn’t want it to seem like I was accusing you of something. We hung out for almost a year before anything happened between us so I wasn’t sure what to think," you say with a slight smile.

“I needed you in my life, even then, but I didn’t want to rush you. I thought to wait until you showed an interest. Although, I’m the one who broke first, demanding you bend over my desk.” He grins. “And you did, precious creature that you are.”

“So?” You tug at his tie, wanting the full story out of him.

Anselm sighs, glances in the mirror to make sure his curly hair is parted correctly, poofing out on one side, but neat nonetheless. “I saw you in the city one night. You were out with friends. I was sitting in my town car, waiting for an associate. You burst out of a restaurant laughing and smiling. My god, you lit up the entire night.” He cradles your face in his hands. “I’ve never felt my heart stop like that. Except in my youth, when I did too much cocaine, but I quit that many years ago. You, however, I knew I’d never be able to let go of.

“My mind scrambled. I could tell you were so far removed from the illegality and homicidal nature of my work. I didn’t want to even introduce myself to you. I’ve never been afraid to approach a potential partner until you. Then, a stroke of luck. One of your friends kissed a man, her boyfriend, who happened to be someone who worked for me from time to time. I had him come to the estate the very next day, to extend a casual invitation to you, an introduction.”

“And the rest is history.” You kiss the tip of his nose.

“Not history. An eden that extends from the day we met, far into the future. I don’t regret it. I can’t. But,” he smiles wistfully, the corners of his eyes scrunching up behind his glasses, “I did deprive us of the opportunity to meet in a more natural way. I didn’t get the chance to try and charm you the way you deserve. Hence my particular fantasy of acting as if we don’t know each other.”

*****

The second play room is smaller than the other rooms.

It’s a bit narrow for a bedroom, but a bit too wide for a train car, which is what it’s dressed as. An old-fashioned one.

The big LED screens on the two long walls show a slowly passing landscape of German countryside, green and lush in the summer. The walls are paneled in wood and the seats are red velvet. They even have little trays that tip down so you can work or read. Eight benches, four on each side.

The chug-chug-chug of a steam engine is soothing. It whistles, as if you’ve just gotten on and the trains pulling away from the station.

You’ve put on a traveling outfit.

Not the one you actually wear, which is drawstring sweatpants, a Spongebob t-shirt, and an eye mask.

This is a traveling outfit like you wish you had the patience to wear. Something you imagine Grace Kelly would’ve traveled in, in some elegant, thrilling movie in black and white.

Your skirt is tapered, with a slit in back so you can sit, in a soft white. Your jacket and shoes are black, as is the little hat you have on, a bit of wispy tulle for decoration. You have little white gloves and a black patent-leather purse. Your scarf is a bright blood-red, and seems to catch the eye of the gentleman sitting in the train car already. He’s reading a paper, but he nods politely to you from behind his glasses.

A strange man, one of his lenses is cloudy and yellowed. His suit is expensive and neat. His hair is wonderfully dramatic, a sweep of black, gray, and silver curls. He lowers his paper, revealing an equally intriguing riot of facial hair. He smiles.

You look down at your ticket. “It looks like I’m right across from you,” you say politely.

“How fortunate for me.” He slides to the end of the seat. “I’m Anselm Vogelweide, at your service.”

You hold out your hand. “Ah, I knew a Vogelweide in Helsinki. Owned a row of beautiful art nouveau buildings right on the water.”

Anselm takes your gloved hand delicately and kisses the back, looking up at you from under his long, dark lashes. “My cousin, Lars, yes.” Anselm pats your hand, keeping it between his. “I must say, Lars isn’t the man he once was, if he let a woman like you slip through his hands.”

“Oh,” you laugh, “I was married at the time.”

“At the time?”

“Yes,” your face turns softer, a bit sad, “I was widowed last year.”

You look away out the window.

“Oh, my dear, I’m very sorry. So tragic for you to lose so much, with your whole life ahead of you.”

You sniffle quietly. From the corner of your vision, you see Anselm hold out a handkerchief with his free hand. You take it with a smile, noting the beautiful ‘V’ embroidered on the corner. You dab your eyes lightly.

“Yes, my husband was a good man. He owned a large ranch in the American west. He was out with his men, herding cattle. He fell off his horse and was trampled by his own cows. They wouldn’t even let me see his body. They said it would be too upsetting.”

“That’s quite a tale, so terrible” Anselm shifts from his bench, onto yours. You scoot over to make room for him.

“It really was,” you nod, dabbing your eyes again. “I haven’t known what to do with myself since. I’ve been traveling through Europe, trying to find joy again.”

You hold out his handkerchief, but he shakes his head.

“You keep it, my dear, in case you have need of it.” Subtly, his arm reaches along the back of the seat to rest behind your shoulders. “I hate to think of a woman as beautiful as you, with no one to dry your tears. It’s a crime.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vogelweide. You’re too kind.” You smile up at him.

“Anselm, please.”

“Are you married, Anselm?” you ask.

He shakes his head sadly. “I was never so fortunate. Business keeps me busy. It’s why I find myself on the train today. I must say, though, your company does make me wonder if a traveling companion, someone to share my life with, might be the very thing I’ve been missing all of these years.”

You look down and realize he still has your hand in his. One holding it, the other gently tracing over your glove, up to your wrist, teasing underneath the edge.

“You must be lonely, traveling alone,” Anselm says quietly, his breath so close you can feel it fan over your face.

You nod. “Yes, very lonely. It makes me miss my husband. Or, perhaps, just the companionship, as you said. As much as I loved him, my husband never liked to travel, so we never went anywhere.”

“I can hardly blame him, if you were my wife, I’d be very tempted to lock you up in the basement for at least 3 or 4 days.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, a split second to break character. He’d started it, though, making fun of the fact that you’re both locked down here.

Anselm laughs quietly, clearing his throat to hide it. “This is a lovely scarf,” Anselm says, touching his fingers to the cloth around your throat.

“I got it in London. It does get a bit tight, though.”

“Allow me,” Anselm says, gently pulling on one of the tails, unraveling the bow and pulling the silk free. He drapes it over the seat in front of you, his fingers immediately returning and gently rubbing along your neck. “Is that better, my dear?”

“Yes, thank you, Anselm.”

Anselm leans in, his hand still on your throat. “You smell like a field of lavender, bathed in sunshine.”

His nose nuzzles against your ear.

You pull away slightly. “The conductor will be by at any moment, to check our tickets.”

“No, he won’t check them until well after Hanover and that’s hours away. I know you’re a lady. I would never let anyone see you as anything less.” He moves closer. “You’re exquisite. How many lovers have you had since you started your journey?”

You almost laugh. “That’s very flattering, Anselm. One or two.”

His eyebrows wiggle slightly. “Perhaps you’re not always a lady.”

“A gentleman wouldn’t ask,” you point out.

“I’m not always a gentleman,” he growls softly, his beard and lips burying into your neck.

The hand that was around your neck slinks down your body and between your knees, just where the bottom of your skirt is. The other wraps around your waist.

“You’re very passionate,” you say, half breathless already.

“Always, and I sense you have the same capacity for passion. Perhaps you’d let me put it to good use, inside of you.”

His hand pushes up, to where your hose are humid and warm between your legs. He kisses you passionately, all lips and tongue. It’s wet, messy, and forces very un-ladylike sounds out of your mouth.

Anselm pushes you back down onto the velvet seat. Your hat drops softly from your head to the floor, rolling away. Your skirt up around your hips, Anselm’s braced leg still on the ground, he sits up to look down at you.

“Are you sure about this, my dear?” He looks out the fake window, up and down the train car. “Falling for a stranger on a train is one thing, but it’s another to consummate the relationship so quickly.”

You place your hand over his as he rubs up and down your stockinged thigh.

“You are a gentleman. I knew it.” You smirk at him.

His eyes flash at you. “Oh, you think me one of those boring European nobleman who do nothing but watch polo and sip milk from their mothers’ breasts? Well, let me disabuse you. The only time I get on a horse is to hunt down someone who’s wronged me, and the only breasts I suckle are yours. For fun.”

Anselm slides his hands up your legs, reaching for the crotch of your pantyhose. He grabs the seam in his thick fingers and pulls. You hear the material stretch, starting to give. Anselm curls his fingers into the opening seam and pulls with a grunt. It gives, ripping apart loudly, allowing him to use his free hand to undo his pants while you unbutton your jacket. He pulls himself out through his zipper, pushing the wet silk of your underwear aside so he can notch himself against you.

He leans forward, mouthing at your breasts and nipples, pushing the soft head of his cock against you, rubbing your clit with it, popping just the head in to tease you.

You arch under him, feeling how wet you’re making him, how much you want this. You raise one of your legs, hooking it around his lower back, trying to draw him closer.

Anselm makes a low sound in his throat. “After this, you must let me take you to the dining car to buy you a meal.”

You laugh. “Are you asking me on a date, Anselm?”

“I’m asking if I can feed you so you have the energy to do this again and again. Perhaps for the rest of our lives.”

He’s as hard as steel as he pushes inside of you. Hot. Huge.

The steam whistle blows as the train makes another stop, but you can’t bring yourself to care if anyone boards your car. It wouldn’t matter. You’d keep going anyway.

Anselm’s hips crash into yours, his hands pulling you toward him.

You moan loudly. The friction of his fat cock, the way your body sucks him in, squeezes, tries to hold onto him

You brace one of your hands back on the window and your other finds its way under your skirt, to the hole he’d torn in your hose. You find your clit and make quick, hard circles. You whimper loudly, wanting so badly for him to feel as desperate as you do.

“Yes, rub your little clit,” Anselm growls in your ear. “Make yourself come on me.”

“Fuck, Anselm, so good.” Your legs squirm around him as you feel your orgasm build.

He feels it too. He picks up his rhythm, his brace creaking slightly louder.

“I want to fuck you in all of Europe’s great castles.” His hands glide up your body to play with your nipples. “I want to marry you again, in the Scottish countryside. No, in the cobblestone streets of Edinburgh. I want to fuck you on the top of Arthur’s Seat, so the entire city can hear you.”

Anselm pushes your hand away and takes over playing with your clit himself, rolling it between his thumb and finger, fucking you with deep, hard strokes.

You come so hard, for a second, you forget it’s all an act. The pounding in your head is the rush of steel wheels over steel tracks. The flashes of light that cloud your vision are like the passage of sunlight through trees as you speed down the tracks.

But one thing you could never fool yourself into believing is that this man is anything but yours. Your everything. Your Anselm.

“Come for me," you tell him. You force your eyes open so you can look into his handsome face. How his heavy eyelids almost close, his nose scrunches and mouth snarls, how he licks his lips just before he finally lets go.

His fingers dig into you as he groans loudly, shuddering over you, his breath shallow and fast. His cum is already dripping out of you, even though he hasn’t even started going soft yet. His hips push so hard against yours it almost hurts.

Anselm collapses down onto you, his head buried in your neck.

“Oh, my love,” he says quietly. “That was wonderful.”

You barely have strength to adjust your legs to a more comfortable position.

His lips kiss your neck lightly, just where he can reach, like he doesn’t have the energy to even move his head. “You make an irresistible stranger.”

You laugh quietly. “So did you. Until the end, where you said you wanted to marry me again. Not really something a stranger would say.”

Anselm’s body shakes slightly as he laughs soundlessly. “Yes, I did lose my character, but you looked so beautiful, I couldn’t help it. You know I always speak my heart when it comes to you.”

“It's why I love you.” You sigh contentedly. “Maybe we could pretend the kitchen is the food car for lunch and come back in here afterward.”

Anselm lifts his head and smiles at you, like a little boy just given a plate of cookies and the day off from school. “Well, I would give anything to learn more about this mysterious widow and her jaunt across the continent.”

He pulls out of you carefully, grabbing your red scarf to clean up some of the mess.

You button your jacket back up. “What about this European nobleman who hunts his enemies from horseback?”

Anselm gives you a playful look. “That’s all true, my dear Birdie, as well you know.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, maybe you can regale me with a story you haven’t told me before.”

His playful look fades slightly. He looks out the window, almost like he’s seeing something else for a moment. “That will have to wait until tomorrow, my love. Our last day. And our last room.”

:: Panic Room- Day 4 ::

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please lmk if you'd like to be removed- i promise not to take it personally!

#anselm vogelweide #did he make a mini westworld thingy for us?#I love this man sm😭#Rally ❤️

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silvernight-m · 19 days ago

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Khonshu: there are other bad guys you can kill!

Jake: I don't want them! They aren't special!

I neeeeeeddddd a what if..? episode of marc killed harrow in the end

#I just searched in the gif bar “sad mustache”#that gif was the first🤣#I died🤣#jake jake jake jake #Jake Lockley #I also need that what if

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silvernight-m · 19 days ago

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I am so glad I requested this😭ILOVEYOUMORE!

OMG this was so fun indeed and made me sooo emotional!

He bites his bottom lip, the skin around it going almost white for a second. His dark eyes stare through the windshield. His shoulders are bunched up. “You know what? I wasn’t an hour late. It was a half an hour, at most. And if you don’t want to have dinner, then you can sit in the car and I’ll call you a fucking cab.”

The whitening lip thing was almost enough to make me forget I was pissed at him but then he pulled this line and I was like "I AM GONNA GAG YOU!"

He pushes the door open so hard it swings back on him and he has to push it again. He stomps away, disappearing into the rain.

(Again. I may be angry but the detail of the door swinging back from how hard he opened it!!!! Hnnggg I love him mad!)

His brown eyes look you over so carefully you almost feel like he’s touching your skin with his fingers. “I couldn’t keep yelling when you looked like a raccoon. You do look kind of cute, though.”

If you had a dollar for every time yoh made me associate raccoons with OI characters, you would have two dollars. It's not much but it happened twice with William and now Jonathan! In both cases, I, being disinterest/mad at the character but suddenly going all 🫠 to the raccoon loving guy!

“This is a real apology,” he says, the sound already muffled by his lips kissing you between your legs. He moves his face back and forth, catching his nose on your clit, letting his mustache and beard scrub against your sensitive skin.

I'm honestly not fine with this🫠🫠🫠I just can't🫠🫠🫠THE MUSTACHE AND THE BEARD!🫠🫠🫠IT WAS A PERSONAL ATTACK AND I FEEL LIKE YOU WERE GRINNING WHILE WRITING IT!😂

“Why?” He looks up at you. “Would you squirt all over my face?”

I genuinely laughed! Haven't had this much fun with a fic in a while!

And the ending😭😭😭😭I WANNA MELT FOR THIS MAN!

This fic healed a part of me😭🧡

*actually tiptoes to your askbox to request the fight with with Jonathan that ends up in a make up fuck🥰*

(also hewooo🧡🫂)

ILY MANI!!!!!!!!!!! Here is your fighting and smut!

Summary: A rainy night in Boston, a fight with your boyfriend (fighting, p in v, ~2.8k)

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You'd thought, given his usually thoughtful demeanor, and the fact that you’ve been dating for months now, that Jonathan Levy would have at least texted you he was going to be late.

Forty. Fucking. Minutes.

You’ve been huddled under the awning of the restaurant, rain jacket over your very best outfit, checking your phone over and over.

The worst part is, all the buses are running off schedule because of the rain and you have no way back to your apartment. The ride shares are booked, full of people like you who are stranded in the sudden rainstorm.

Just as you’re wondering if you could offer a passing driver a handjob in exchange for a ride, you recognize Jonathan’s car. He pulls up, rolling his windows down.

You stoop to look inside, ready to absolutely tell him where to shove his date, and you see that he is completely soaked. He takes off his glasses to wipe them clean, his curly hair lays a little flatter than usual. His jacket is wrinkly and probably dripping wet. His dark button-up lays wetly against the slight curve of his stomach.

“Okay,” you say, “I feel a little better now that I see what a pathetic mess you are.”

He nods, irritated. “Yeah, get in, I’ll tell you about it.”

“What about dinner?”

“Sweetheart, we’ve definitely lost our reservation by now. Get in,” he puts the car in gear before you even get your seatbelt on.

At least it’s warm in here. The wipers swish over the windshield, giving you a distorted view of the dark Boston night. The kind of night you never usually venture out into.

You jump as Jonathan breaks your thoughts by leaning across the console to hug you hello. He pulls away before you can hug him back, though. He turns the air on high to keep the windows from fogging up.

“You’re at least going to apologize for being so late, right?” You ask him, surprised he hasn’t already.

He sighs impatiently. “Look at me. I’m wet down to my underwear from standing in the rain. You're cold. Give me a minute to breathe. We’ll get food delivered to my place.”

You open your mouth to protest again, but he accelerates so fast you’re a little afraid for your life.

“Slow down,” you say.

“I’m going the speed limit.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Jonathan sighs, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “I’m less than 10 over the speed limit.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

He runs a hand through the front of his hair, turning it from neat waves slicked back at the front of his face to a mess that freely falls over his forehead. The salt and pepper curls fall in thick, beautiful, damp swirls.

“I’ve had a really bad fucking day,” he says, anger and exhaustion threading through his voice. “Please don’t make it worse.”

“I’m not trying to,” you say, hurt.

You look out the window as the restaurants and stores give way to residential neighborhood and Jonathan’s street. He pulls into his driveway and puts the car in park.

“Why aren’t you using your garage?” you ask.

“The damn door won’t work. It’s why I’m all wet. It took me ten minutes to manually open it to get my car out and come get you.” He grabs his wallet out of the center console and tucks it in the pocket with his jacket.

“Ten minutes?” you ask doubtfully. “Then why were you an hour late?”

He pushes the door open so hard it swings back on him and he has to push it again. He stomps away, disappearing into the rain.

“Great date. Happy six month anniversary,” you mutter to yourself, scrunching down in the seat.

You fold your arms, the air in the car slowly getting more and more humid until the windows fog up from the heat of your annoyance.

“Screw this,” you say to yourself.

If Jonathan was going to make you part of his bad mood, then he was going to get it right back. It’s not like you’d had the best day ever either. You’d been looking forward to relaxing with him. Sharing food and unwinding. Actually, it had been the only thing that had kept you from staying in bed all day and not even working or interacting with other humans.

So, he can get an earful about him being a shitty boyfriend before you leave in the cab you’re going to insist he pay for.

You open the door. The rain hasn’t let up. The fat, steady drops are a curtain over the walkway from the car to Jonathan’s front door.

Marching down the walkway, back toward you, is Jonathan. He doesn’t have his rain jacket on. Just his blue flannel and jeans, his sneakers probably soaked.

Good. You’re soaked now too. Your favorite outfit.

You meet him halfway.

“I’m ordering dinner. What do you want to eat?” Jonathan yells angrily over the sound of the rain hitting the pavement.

“I want you to eat a family-sized dish of ‘what the fuck is your problem?’. Do you think Grubhub delivers that?” You brace your hands on your hips, water running down your arms.

“Sure. Maybe for dessert you can have a big bowl of ‘stop riding my ass.’” He whips off his glasses. You’re sure he can’t see anything out of them right now anyway. He puts them in his pocket.

“You didn’t even apologize,” you yell over the rain.

“You didn’t give me a chance.”

“I literally asked you to.” Your hands wave in the air dramatically.

“I didn’t want to be told to apologize. I wanted to do it on my own so you would know I meant it.” He gestures to the house. “You don’t have to eat with me, just come inside and wait for your ride.”

“I’ll wait in the garage.” You walk over to the panel, hardly able to see from the rain streaming down your face. You flip open the cover and punch in the code.

“I told you. It’s fucking-“ Jonathan’s jaw drops as the garage door kicks on, sliding up smoothly, “-broken.”

You glare at him. “Ten minutes my ass. You were forty minutes late.”

The door almost closes before Jonathan ducks, quickly running into the garage to join you. It’s pretty dark, just the yellow light from the garage door opening over your heads. It smells like oil and wood from the tool benches Jonathan had gotten installed recently.

Since it’s just him and Ava in the house, they’ve been learning to be homeowners together. Jonathan wants her to grow up with basic knowledge of how to maintain and fix things, something he’d never gotten as a kid, and something Mira had never let him do.

You set your purse on one of the long, wooden tables, peeling your rain jacket, then sweater off. You literally hear the water droplets hit the concrete floor when Jonathan shakes his arms.

He sighs so loudly it echoes in the garage. “Fifteen for the door, another twenty because no one can drive in weather like this. Maybe I was forty minutes late. I couldn’t call because it was raining so hard, I couldn’t look away from the road.”

“Just tell your phone to call me. I’ve told you a million times.” You lean back on the bench, taking in his flustered appearance.

“My phone doesn’t listen to me, you know I can’t make it work. Women in my life tend to do that.” He grabs a roll of paper towel and unravels a bunch for you.

The rough paper is as unpleasant as you mood. You run it over your face and neck. You don’t even bother with your hair, you don’t want to think about it.

“You’re not the injured party here, Jonathan,” you say.

He nods, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. “What did you want me to do? Leave you at the restaurant? Leave you outside in the driveway to catch pneumonia? If you really think standing out in the rain is preferable to me, then go back out. The garage door only opens for you anyway.”

“At least out there, no one’s picking a fight with me.”

Jonathan laughs, but there’s nothing funny about it. “I’m not the one who started this. I’d be happy to drop the whole thing.”

“Bullshit.”

He shakes his head angrily, ripping up another paper towel. “You have makeup all down your face.”

His mouth and eyes are still tense, but he holds your chin with surprising gentleness as he runs the towel under your eyes, down your cheeks. He swipes along your jaw.

You slap his hand away. He throws the paper towels onto the table, his hands curling around your hips after. His body presses forward, pushing you back. He’s already as hard as the table your ass is resting against.

You glare at him. “You’re kidding me. Jonathan, I wouldn’t fuck you right now if you begged me on your knees.”

He snorts a laugh. “You would. We both know it.”

“Get away from me,” you say, but you both know you don’t mean it. You can get petty when you’re mad.

His mouth dives for your neck, pulling at your skin, before he kisses down around the wet collar of your shirt, his face trailing as he kneels, pushing up your skirt with his hands.

“Sit on the table,” he says, his fingers focused on pulling down your underwear.

“I want a real apology.”

He pushes your thighs until you sit up on the top of the table, his face poised between your legs. He kisses your inner thighs. His curly hair tickles your skin.

He flattens his tongue, licking you, digging in and making your breath catch in your throat.

“Ah,” you catch yourself digging your nails into the wood.

Jonathan’s head tilts, just the top of his head visible between your legs. Thick curls of black and gray and silver, moving back and forth, up and down. He presses his face into you, his tongue reaching deep inside, licking and curling. He moans, the deep sound vibrating through you. You let your body fall back, braced against the wall.

He laps at you, one of his thumbs circling your clit slowly.

You let your mouth open. You moan loudly. “I’m still mad.”

You feel him smile against you. “Yeah, I can tell by how wet you are.”

“Don’t make me laugh right now,” you smile.

“Why?” He looks up at you. “Would you squirt all over my face?”

That does make you laugh. So does he.

“You know what squirting is?” you ask him.

“Yes,” he says, looking up at you with a grin, “I was around when we had to use dial-up to download porn. You had to get pretty specific or you’d end up wasting an hour of your life.”

“Like the hour I wasted standing outside the restaurant waiting for your gorgeous ass?”

His grin fades. “Do you not think I’m sorry about that?”

“You still haven’t said it.”

Jonathan braces his hands on his thighs and get off his knees. He looks fed up. He stands between your legs, pulling you toward him. He’s still hard. His hips rock against you and you have to bite your lip to stop from making a noise that would give you away. Your hands can’t help themselves though, they grab his arms, hard enough for leverage so you can grind yourself back on him.

His forehead pushes against yours, soft grunts escaping his soft lips.

Your hands, with minds of their own, reach down and undo his belt. Then his zipper. Jonathan helps you, pushing his boxers down so he can pull himself out and push the tip of his cock against you. His fingers go in first, making sure you’re ready before he sinks slowly inside of you.

He huffs against your neck. Your legs wrap around his waist.

He pulls you into him, hard, one strong pull. Your head drops back and his hand is there immediately, the only thing that stops your head from smacking into the dry wall.

You wrap your arms around him, holding him close as he pushes into you again and again with sharp, brain-numbing thrusts. His beard rubs against your chest as he sucks against the hollow of your throat. You wrap your legs around him too, feeling like you’re holding on to a tree during a storm, but somehow he’s both the storm itself and the safety from it.

“You’re so fucking tight.” He moans. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry my shitty mood ruined everything.”

You groan, fingernails digging into his wet shirt.

Jonathan’s mouth latches onto yours. He sucks on your bottom lip, fucking you so fast, your orgasm is on top of you before you can brace yourself. Jonathan grabs your hips, pulling you onto him over and over while you pant out his name, tightening around him, wet from rain and him and how good this feels. Your legs lock around his lower back as he comes too, holding you tight to him as he twitches, emptying himself inside of you with a shaky exhale.

His arms relax around you, but you keep your hold on him.

“You didn’t ruin everything,” you whisper into his ear. You look at him, pushing his curls away from his face.

Jonathan closes his eyes briefly. They’re a little shiny when he opens them back up. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I guess.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “You guess? Okay, well, I guess I deserve that.”

Even though he’s softening inside of you, Jonathan doesn’t back away. He kisses you again, slowly, deeply. He hums in his throat, tongue licking into your mouth.

“Let’s go inside and take a hot shower together,” he says. “Then we’ll order food. No more fighting.”

The professorial tone in his voice makes you smile.

“I don’t like fighting with you, but there is something about it that’s fun,” you admit.

Jonathan winces like he’s in pain. “I know. It’s like foreplay for us.”

“I don’t mean it, when we fight. You just look so hot all riled up.”

He pushes up his glasses. “Maybe it isn’t fighting. It’s just… bickering.”

“Yeah,” you agree, “we’re not really mad at each other. Except that I was kind of mad.”

Jonathan laughs quietly, the sound just huffs of air through his nose. “I know you were. You look irresistible like that. Hence why you’re here, spread open in the garage, making a mess on my brand new tool bench.”

You give him a dirty look. “It’s your mess. Not mine. And honestly, you still owe me one. I got a splinter in my ass from you pushing me back and forth on it.”

“I’ll take a look at it in the shower.” He helps you down from the bench, reaching down to your ankles to help you put your underwear back on before he zips himself back up.

He gives you a quick kiss and you wipe your lipstick from his mouth.

“It is kind of fun isn’t it?” He smiles, as if he’s never considered it before.

He probably hasn’t. When he fought with his ex it was mean and vicious, unforgiving. This is more like a release of emotions, teasing each other until one of you gives in and initiates sex or even just a cuddle.

You’re grateful for Jonathan every day, but tonight especially, you’re glad that you two found each other. To comfort, to argue, to do anything at all, because it's all good with Jonathan. Or at least, it's fun.

He opens the door that leads into the house, revealing a big bouquet of flowers on the kitchen island. Two candles light up the space, and plates already set out for the food delivery. There's even a drawing from Ava of the three of you.

"Happy six month anniversary." He leans in to kiss you.

"You remembered," you say quietly.

He looks sad for a second, before he smiles again. "I'll never forget anything when it comes to you."

You wrap your arms around him and squeeze him tightly.

He hugs you back, lifting you onto your toes. "Not an anniversary, or a date, and I'll never forget to text you again."

Jonathan Levy Masterlist :: main masterlist