#i think this is my first time drawing a baby...

[teshiee]

this song wont leave my head and i keep finding myself accidentally singing it to myself. BOOM low effort drawing be born

would add the rest of the lyrics but they do not make any sense for their situation TT

[bunny-jpeg]

wife

kimi raikkonen

tags: smut/pwp, skiing, wife!reader, age gap (20s/40s), breeding kink, winter fic, established relationship, missionary, dirty talk & praise

mark webber ver. - sebastian vettel ver. - jenson button ver.

"it's cold!" you shivered as you got back inside, you had spent most of the day out on the slopes with your husband, kimi. he had been more than happy to show you how to navigate skis despite your slight nervousness around it.

it felt nice being under the glow of your lover, even when you stumbled. even though you didn't trip in the snow, but rather your own boots when you had a break at the chalet, "you've become too good at skiing, you have forgotten how to walk!" he then wrapped his arms around you.

and now back at your hotel room, your older husband wanted to get out out of that heavy jacket you were wearing. the jacket that he bought for you. he felt something shudder in him when you got the jacket off of you. he nearly tripped over himself. you were beautiful.

you looked over your shoulder before you draped your jacket over your arm, "kim-kim, you're so good at skiing you forgot how to walk!" your tone was cheeky and kimi almost tripped over himself once more as he tried to get to you. he wrapped his arms around and rested his chin on your shoulder. he hand your middle tightly. he kissed the roundness of your cheek, "funny, funny, little hare." that was what he called you in the winter. you were cute like a little arctic hare, all bundled up for the snow.

but now kimi wanted your ski clothes off of you and onto the floor. and while he stripped you of your clothes, you did the same to him. you gave his biceps a good squeeze and you licked your lips. even got a good feel of his chest under his thick grey sweater.

"are you warm enough, my little hare?" he asked before his bare hands went up your t-shirt, "does it feel good?"

you moaned a little as he pinched your nipple through your bra. you nodded, "always perfect, kimi. despite you being to icy, you're hotter than the sun."

he cupped your breasts under your shirt, "how could i not be? you pull me in, my beautiful wife." he then laughed when you ehlped him out of his sweater then t-shirt. he could feel your hungry gaze on him.

mrs. raikkonen loved the sight of her husband.

a weekend away was a good idea. kimi wanted you, recently something had been itching at his brain. and this weekend had only fueled it more. kimi wanted to start a family, you were in your twenties and he was closer to fifty than thirty, so it felt like it was time.

and the first step for kimi was to strip you. expose your beautiful body to him. gray light streamed through the large windows of the hotel room as cloud draw across the sky. kimi kissed your neck sweetly and eventually your collarbones when he got your t-shirt off of your body. he exhaled deeply and rubbed into your warm skin.

"my little hare, my dear." he groaned. he only moved away to finish getting his clothes off. you both were finally nude and in bed. he had you pressed against the covers. you looked like a cute bunny in the sea of white sheets.

kimi's cock was achy, the tip was glossy with pre-cum. it didn't hurt the hurt the feeling when a thought crossed his mind. cuddled up in the chalet with a loose sweater on your body. but, could still see the outline of your baby bump. kimi beside you with a hand on your middle. smitten like the day he married you. he stroked his cock as he eyed you, admiring your beauty. your nude body on a alluring display for him.

"you look beautiful." he said softly, "how did i get so luck? the most beautiful woman under me."

you shifted under him from his intense gaze on you. you were both hungry for one another. the iceman and his little hare, a perfect match.

"you know i think you're beautiful." he said softly as he stroked his cock faster, "beautiful, beautiful." he couldn't take it anymore, he needed you.

you shuddered as he soon grabbed your thighs and hiked your his upwards. he got a pillow under your behind to give him a little extra height to access your pretty little cunt. give him the perfect angle to fuck you with.

"my wife." he said as he slowly sank into you. your cunt fluttered around his cock as he got his entire length into you. he cursed under his breath and shakily exhaled. you moaned and held onto his shoulders when he got closer enough to you. he said softly, "my little obsession."

the pace was steady, but not particularly fast. kimi was never a fast lover, he moved to savour every moment with you. he wanted to feel every inch of heated skin. see the rise and fall of your chest, the expressions that crossed your face when pleasure hit you just right. kimi strived to make his wife feel good.

"you look so beautiful under me. i remember when i first met you, such a cute little assistant. but you're much more suited to being my wife. you let me spoil you, and you spoil me." he continued to move against you.

your pulse leapt from the pleasurable feeling. you clung to him as he pressed into you further, the movements were steady as you tightened your legs around his waist.

kimi wanted a baby with you, that had been on his mind. to grow your little family, seeing you taking care of his child only made him want to get you pregnant faster. maybe he could make you have twins.

that notion made him even more excited.

he moved against you faster. his pace still had a lot of power behind it, and it remained steady. there was a force behind them and a fierceness that made your heart race. he thought you were perfect. of course you were, he wouldn't have been ring shopping after three months of dating if you weren't perfect. he eyed your face for a moment as he pressed his chest against yours.

"i love you."

"and i love you."

quite a pair you were, and it fueled your love. you understood one another. you and kimi were a lovely pair, a type of love that ran deep.

"i want you to have my children. you'd be such a good mother. raise them well." he groaned, your bodies moved together as kimi continued to speak, you leg-locked him, "you'd be glowing, a proud mother to all of them. if we have one child or seven." he chuckled, "we'll raise them perfect. future little racers, with your beauty of course." his words were hot in your mind

it fueled the inferno in his core as his cock hit against your sweet spots with heavy thrusts. your nails held onto him, leaving small tracks across his shoulders. you let out sweet noises, the pleasure built up inside of you.

he knew exactly how to make you squirm. how to make you moan. your noises grew as the two of them fucked on the hotel bed. the feeling was beautiful, he still enjoyed the feeling of you against him. he loved how it felt, he swore under his breath at the feeling. the force of his thrusts made your pussy clench around him. his groans were paired with your sweet moans.

"my little hare, beautiful in bed, quick in the snow, and perfect under me." he hissed through his teeth as the thrusts continued. he scratched his short nails up your thighs which made your nipples hard.

kimi craned his neck down to lick your hard nipples. he gave them both attention, he groaned as the pleasure continued to course through him. a growing heat between the two of you. he loved you, adored you. he held onto you tighter and rocked his hips against you. the euphoria rolled in his head, fire in his body as he continued to move his hips.

"fuck." you shuddered and held on tightly. toes cureld and hissed a little bit from the heat, the pleasure. more curses left your lips as the thump in your chest grew.

he pressed his forehead against yours and he whispered sweet nothings to you. rolled together in finnish and english. the praise left his lips with ease and he knew exactly how he wanted you. to be with you for the rest of his days.

you two moved against one another, the noises were loud and passionate. the heated curses and you held onto him tightly. you almost bit him on the should when you climaxed around his cock. kimi didn't last much longer. the two of you kissed deeply when he came.

he finished inside of you and he said a quiet prayer that you'd have a child with him by next winter. the kisses continued as you both slowed to a stop. he held your face for a moment after he broke the kiss. he exhaled deeply through his nose then gave you one last quiet kiss on the cheek. a promise of a future with you.

-

"i think she's over dressed. it hasn't even started to snow yet." you remarked as you watched kimi make sure that the wool hate was on your small daughter's head.

it was the first winter since you had your daughter, amelia. and kimi wanted to make sure she was kept warm for the season. he didn't want her little head or tiny fingers and toes got chilled while you went out.

"she will be fine, hare. if anything she looks like a teddy bear." he remarked with a small chuckle before he took her in his arms. he kissed her rosy little cheek. she looked a great deal like him.

it was a running joke that she would have the same icy demeanor as her father once she started racing - if she wished to persue that - kimi was supportive of any path she wanted to take when she got older.

even with the speculation of her being an ice queen, for now she was a smiling, happy baby, all bundled up for an afternoon out. kimi leaned over to kiss you gently.

you looked to him then to your daughter. you smiled softly, "you do look like a teddy bear, don't you, amelia?" you kissed her on the face then kissed your husband once more.

the iceman, the arctic hare and their little baby. a sweet little family and the both of you couldn't have been happier <3

[thenickgirl]

TOO HOT

nick x oc!jalen

requested? yes

type: one shot ❀ genre: smut ❀ pov: third ❀ wc: 1.4K

pairing: top!nick x bottom!jalen (don’t say shit, it was a request)

summary: in which things get interesting during game night

warnings: established relationship, swearing, oral and anal sex

a/n: so basically i saw this on pinterest and thought it would be fun. jay, i hope you enjoy this, sorry it took so long. happy reading! ❀

“YOU CHEATED!! YOU TOOK A SHORTCUT!” Nick screamed, setting the controller down on the table in front of him.

“WHAT?? NO I DIDN'T!” Jalen says in defense, mimicking Nick’s actions, before leaning back on the couch.

Nick scoffs, rolling his eyes in annoyance, “I DIDN'T SEE YOU THE ENTIRE TIME, J, AND SUDDENLY YOU'RE AT THE FINISH LINE?? CHEATERRRR!” he yells, a smile threatening to form.

The sound of thunder crashed in the background of the couple’s light hearted bickering. It was storming, and the rain was coming down heavily, so instead of going out for their date like they had originally planned, they stayed inside. Jalen suggested that they should have a little game night, and Nick loves a competition.

They were competing to see who could win the most games throughout the night. Currently, the score was 2-2, Jalen securing his second win with this round of Mario Kart.

“You’re cracked,” Jalen laughs, shaking his head as he looks over at his boyfriend who was now laughing along with him.

“Whatever,” Nick huffs, grabbing his phone off of the table. “I’ll find something else to play that will guarantee me a win,” he says as he scrolls through his phone, going from app to app.

“You’re such a sore loser, peach” Jalen laughs as he watches Nick concentrate on finding something, before quickly being shushed by him.

A devious grin spread across Nick’s face as he saw it. Something that would turn the tables on this impromptu game night.

“Look it!” He commands as he leans over to show his phone to Jalen, who glances at it before grinning himself.

“I thought you were finding games you could win,” Jalen chuckles while shaking his head.

Nick frowned at Jalen’s reaction, “And I did,” he replied confidently.

“You seriously think you could hold out longer than me?” Jalen questions, his brow raised in disbelief.

“A hundred percent,” Nick says with certainty, followed by a shrug.

Jalen shakes his head, scooting closer to Nick, his face inches away from him, “I don’t think you could,” he challenges, his eyes glancing at Nick’s lips before meeting his blue eyes again.

“Try me,” Nick responds, his lips brushing against his boyfriend’s as he spoke, and before he knew it, Jalen closed the space between them, kissing him.

Nick kisses back, deepening it, his fist clenching onto the soft material of the couch so as to not touch Jalen, despite how desperately he wanted to. Jalen’s tongue brushes along Nick’s lip, begging for access, and he gains it when Nick moans into his mouth.

The pair make out for what seems like hours, their lips smack together as they whimper and groan. Both growing more and more eager to touch one another, but neither willing to lose.

Nick was close to caving, so he knew he had to do something to get Jalen to cave first. Without warning, Nick hooked his teeth into Jalen’s bottom lip, knowing how much he loved it, and his boyfriend fell right into his trap. Jalen moaned, grabbing Nick's face in hands, drawing him in.

Nick immediately towers over Jalen, grabbing his hands and pinning him down on the couch as he breaks the kiss, a devilish grin plastered on his face when he leaned in and whispered, “You lose.”

Jalen let out a small gasp from the switch, “That’s not fair! You bit my lip!!” He exclaimed in defense of his actions.

“All’s fair in love and war, baby,” Nick says before swiftly pulling Jalen up and over his shoulder, carrying him to their shared bedroom, and tossing him onto the bed, yet careful not to hurt him.

The pitter patter of the rain hitting the roof, and the thudding sound of Jalen’s heart in his chest was the only thing heard as Nick stared down at him, biting his lip. “If I recall correctly…” he pauses, licking his lips. “I get to do what I want,” he states, grabbing Jalen’s chin making him look at him, his thumb running across his bottom lip.

“I guess so,” Jalen says, looking up at the brunette, the dominance evident in his piercing blue eyes.

Nick grins again, “Get up on the bed,” he commands, and Jalen complies, going up towards the middle of the bed. Nick follows suit, his body floating over him as he kisses him hungrily. Nick’s hands roam Jalen’s body as he moans into his mouth, and he swallows them down. He breaks the kiss, chuckling as Jalen chases his lips.

He then strips them both of their clothes, leaving them only in boxers as he hovers over the dread head. Nick’s lips trail from Jalen’s chest down his abdomen, and his breathing labored. He goes further down, running his tongue along the waistband of Jalen’s boxers before pulling them off, and his length springs free. He licks around the tip, then takes him into his mouth, and Jalen’s head falls back.

“Fuck…” Jalen whispered, sitting up on his elbows as he looked down at Nick.

Nick works Jalen’s cock with his mouth, his head bobbing up and down, as Jalen moans uncontrollably, his hand guiding Nick’s movements. After several minutes, Nick pulls off of him with a ‘pop’. He reaches over to the night stand, grabbing lubricant and squeezing it on his fingertips. With his long slick fingers, he intrudes Jalen hole, spreading and curling them. He takes his time working him open, the squelching sound and his boyfriend’s moans making his own cock twitch as a growl escapes his throat.

“Think you can take me, baby?” Nick asks, his fingers still pumping in and out of him slowly, and Jalen just nods in response.

He hums as he removes his hand from Jalen’s body, then gets up to take off his boxers, before hovering over Jalen again as he kisses along his jaw.

“On your tummy,” he whispers in Jalen’s ear and a shiver runs down his spine. Jalen turns over, laying flat on his stomach, and Nick uses his knees to spread his legs open wider. He presses his length against Jalen’s sopping hole before sliding all the way in.

Jalen moans softly when Nick bottoms out, “So fucking tight,” Nick groans as he sets a steady rhythm.

His hips snap against Jalen’s ass hard as he fucks him into the mattress. The sound of their moans and the bed creaking creates a perfect harmony around them.

“Yes! Mm, you like fuckin’ this tight little hole, don’t you? Such a slut for it, so eager to fill me up,” Jalen moaned while looking back at Nick, his eyes threatening to roll back as Nick picked up his pace.

With one hand he grabs a fist full of Jalen’s hair, pulling so hard it lifts him slightly off the bed, while the other slaps his ass cheek repeatedly.

“Watch your fucking mouth!” Nick threatened, deepening his thrusts as Jalen whimpered.

With each stroke Nick’s length brushed against that sensitive spot inside of him, and his body shook. “Shit, Nick…” Jalen moaned, his fingers tangling in the sheets as Nick fucked him relentlessly.

“That mouth of yours isn’t so smart now, is it? Hm?” Nick grunts, as he lets go of Jalen’s hair and he falls against the mattress.

“I-Nnngh, fuck, don’t stop,” Jalen whimpered, his face buried in sheets as he moaned over and over.

The couple's sweat covered bodies continued to mold together as the storm passed. That familiar feeling begin to rise inside of Jalen, and he cried out, “Oh fuck, I’m so close” he warns.

Nick flips Jalen onto his back, wanting to see his face as he comes for him. Jalen’s back arched off of the bed, as he reaches his peak, his body shuddering as he teeters towards the edge.

“I-…Fuckkk,” Jalen moans as he comes over himself, his mouth opened slightly and his eyes rolled back, the sight causing Nick’s release to hit him as well, his hips beginning to stutter.

“Shit shit shit,” Nick groans as he comes inside of him, before collapsing atop of him. They both pant, catching their breaths as they come down from their high.

“Damn, I should let you top more often,” Jalen chuckles as he kisses the top of Nick’s head.

Nick giggles as he rolls off of him, pulling Jalen to his side, as Jalen rests his head on his chest. “Why ruin a good system?” Nick says while shrugging, and they both laugh.

“You’re an idiot,” Jalen says, stealing one of Nick’s most infamous lines, his fingers tracing the stars on Nick’s shoulder.

The soft touch sends a shiver down Nick's spine as he pulls Jalen impossibly closer. He leans his head down before whispering…

“I’m a winner.”

—

✎ signed,

𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁 ❀

a/n: chat this will be the last smut for a little while, i’m just not into right now at all. also, got some really cute things planned, so stay tuned. i love youuuu 🩷

🏷️: @muwapsturniolo @luverboychris @freshloveforthefit @sturniolossss @sturniioloslut @ameerahsblog @freshloveee @asherrisrandom @dumbf2ck @maliaforstvrns @nicksbestie @emely9274 @marrykisskilled @ksturnz @colorthecosmos444 @tyummyz @idrk2292 @soursturniolo @nickssidewitch

[majestyeverlasting]

Hello! If you are willing I would like to request a Frankie morales x reader oneshot? 🙃🙃 im obsessed with Frankie x wife reader lately and I was thinking maybe you could write somethin where the reader is pregnant and having cramps / contractions while Frankie is out with his friends and calls him all freaked out but even though it’s just false labour he still rushes home anyway?🥰🥰

(I love your writing btw I hope you accept this request thank you <3)

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐚𝐲 | 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬

Pairing Frankie Morales x Female Reader

Summary A night of laughter, love, and quiet devotion reminds you and Frankie how much your world has grown—especially with your baby on the way.

A/N Thank you so much for this request and your patience, anon! This is my first time writing for Frankie, so let me know what you guys think. 

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

Across the living room, the evening news drones so low, the TV might as well not be on at all. Ten minutes ago, Frankie left you alone on the couch to go get ready for a night out. You’d looked up from your book long enough to catch the wink he shot you before disappearing up the staircase.

As easy as it would be for him to stay in, you insisted he go out and enjoy himself. The two of you had finally settled into your new home. Soon enough, the guys were starting to rib him about falling off the face of the earth.

He's getting better at striking a balance these days. 

“Alright, hermosa,” he announces as he descends the stairs. “Here’s what I’m working with...” 

Frankie walks back into the living room in dark-wash jeans and a sage button down. As you set your book aside, he offers a goofy spin in a lighthearted mockery of what you oftentimes do. You try to restrain your smile, but it shines through anyways. Frankie grins like he’s won a prize, teeth glinting along with the sparkle in his dark eyes.

Everyone said he was trouble when you first met. It didn’t take long to realize they meant the intoxicating kind that disarms a room, draws people in, makes them feel seen. The kind you’d never recover from losing if you let slip away. 

A year ago, he got down on one knee and asked you for forever. That was the moment you realized that, in turn, you were the trouble he couldn’t bear to lose.  

Before you have the chance to stand, he stalks over to you and leans down to capture your lips in a brief, tender kiss. 

You smile when he pulls away to stand back up to his full height, all six feet and broad shoulders. Looking up at him from your seated position feels a little funny, but you can't bring yourself to mind. If for no other reason than the gentle way he pinches your upturned chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Have fun,” you murmur as you blink up at him. 

“I will.”

“And be safe.”  

“Yes ma’am.” Frankie’s touch falls away, and you stand to wrap your arms around his neck.

You tuck your nose into his shirt as his strong arms encircle your waist. He smooths a large hand up your back before stilling at the nape of your neck to deliver a firm but gentle squeeze. As he starts to pull away, you slip your fingers into his hair to scratch his scalp with your nails. It’s been a while since his last haircut, and now the dark strands curl beneath his ears. 

Frankie hums a low note of satisfaction. “Not fair.” 

“Completely fair,” you lilt.

He chuckles and pulls back enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are soft as he says, “Should be back in a couple hours.” 

“I’ll wait up.”

"You don't have to," he says.

"Don't I always?"

He thinks back over the times he's gone out without you, and yeah. You always do.

•••

It's quiet when he arrives back home. 

He kicks his boots off at the door and notices a pink sticky note on the wall above the key holder. There's a smiley face and heart drawn on it along with "welcome back!!!" Frankie feels himself smiling as he plucks it off the wall and saunters further into the house. 

In the living room, one lamp remains on so he can navigate his way through the otherwise dark space. You've folded the throw blanket. Fluffed and arranged the pillows like you do every night before bed. It’s the little things like that, little signs of life, that he’ll never tire of coming back home to. 

When Frankie finally enters the bedroom, he sees your smile in the warm, dim lamplight. You're kneeling on the bed wearing the cutesy black pajama set he likes on you. A breathy chuckle escapes him as he takes you in before his eyes find yours. 

He plays off the warmth in his cheeks by holding up the sticky note you had left for him. 

You tilt your head with innocent, furrowed brows. “Where’d that come from?” 

“Beats me," he plays along as you slide off the bed. 

He sets the note on the dresser so he can rest his hands on your waist when you approach. The scent of vanilla evades his senses in the gentlest way. 

“Did you have fun?” It’s a genuine question, but his mind goes fuzzy when you smooth your hands from his stomach up to his pecs. 

With a distracted nod, his thumbs slip beneath your satin tank top to brush your skin. All he can think about is the gentleness of your touch. The way you begin to toy with the button at the top of his shirt without actually unbuttoning it. 

“But not too much fun, right?” you ask. “You’re not too tired, are you?” 

You finally pop the first button undone, then the next one, then the next. Revealing more and more of the dusting of hair across his tanned chest. 

Rather than answering, he scoops you over his shoulder as you squeak his name. 

- 

Eight Months Later

It’s been a while since Frankie laughed this hard. When he’s finally on the verge of catching his breath, Santiago picks up from where Will left off in the story, and that pleasant side ache returns. If he weren't too busy swiping the tear from his eye, he reckons he’d see every head in the bar turned to gawk at the four cackling hyenas. A live country rock band plays as their soundtrack.

Luckily, that isn’t the case. Like them, everybody is lost in their own little worlds. With their own inside jokes and old stories that endure no matter how many times they're told. 

“And that’s what your ass gets for trying to show off,” Will concludes. It earns him a prompt elbow to the side from his younger brother, whose cheeks are either flushed from the whiskey or embarrassment. 

It had been the story about Benny getting told off by a group of older women during a group trip to Panama. Not in English, but in Spanish. The icing on the cake was that they had been pausing every few words so Santiago could translate for them in real time. 

As their amusement begins to settle, they look around at each other and shake their heads. It’s been too long since they’ve gotten together like this. Frankie takes a small swig from his beer and lets his head rest against the wall behind him. 

Under the dim lights, with drinks on the table, and surrounded by strangers, it feels as though no time has passed at all.  

Benny’s eyes rove over to the recreation room, where people shoot pool and throw darts. 

“I don’t know about y’all, but I’m ready to kick some ass in a game of 501,” he says. 

William folds his hands on the table. “We puttin' money up?”

“Hell yeah, we are,” Benny scoffs and pulls a face. “I’m leaving here with something.” 

“Twenty-five each and the winning team splits the pot?” Santiago proposes. “I call Fish on my team.” He gives Frankie's shoulder a squeeze.

Benny drums a beat on the table. “Let’s do it.” 

They’re in the middle of scooting past other patrons when Frankie’s phone begins buzzing in his pocket. He doesn’t expect to see a picture of your face light up the screen. Santiago is the only one in the group who notices. 

“Gotta take this,” Frankie tells him, and answers the call as he turns away. 

“Hang on one second, honey, I’m getting someplace quiet.” 

To make it to the front of the establishment, he shuffles between a small sea of tables filled with people with loose smiles and glowy faces. He holds the door open for a group of young ladies filing inside, which earns him a series of chirpy thank-yous. The giddy energy of the night fades once he’s outside, as if it was all stuffed within the walls of Dave's Bar and Grill. With the patio being around back, only a few people stand smoking out front. 

The air is warm. A couple of the parking lot lights flicker. Frankie heads toward one of the benches as he says, “Alright, sweetheart, I’m here.”

A heavy breath is the first thing that greets him from the other end of the line. 

“Frankie,” your voice is shaky, and his brow furrows as he takes a seat. 

“Talk to me,” he coaxes, his voice even softer. 

“I’m cramping pretty bad right now.” You take another deep breath. “I think it’s the Braxton Hicks the nurse was telling us about. They’re finally happening.” 

He stands from the bench and begins pacing along the curb. “You sure they're the false ones?” he asks. “You know you’re body better than anybody else…” 

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure.” Another sharp ache pulses low in your stomach, and makes you bite back a small whine. 

Frankie releases his lower lip from between his teeth as guilt tugs at his chest. “Go lay down, okay?” he says as he fishes his truck keys out of his pocket. “Or run yourself a bath if you can manage. Nurse said that’s supposed to help.” 

Shuffling arises on your end. “Okay,” you murmur.

“I’m on my way.” 

Tonight, you can’t muster the willpower to tell him to stay out with his friends. Ever since you hit the thirty-four-week mark, you’ve been hyper-aware of every pang, flutter, and gurgle. Even if you were the one feeling the heat, it was easier to walk through the flames with him. 

“Drive safe, okay?” you say. “Go the speed limit.” 

“I’m always safe.” It’s a white lie, but he was getting much better. Especially now that he was about to have two people looking forward to him arriving home in one piece at the end of the day. 

Life is a delicate, fragile, remarkable thing. It’s a fact that solidified all the more the first time you showed him a black-and-white ultrasound and pointed out your little girl. 

“I’ll be there soon,” he promises. 

Santiago steps outside as he's hanging up, immediately scoping out Frankie. 

“Everything alright, man?” He searches Frankie’s gaze. He’s always analyzing and piecing together. People, places, things. Frankie doesn’t have to say anything. “Your wife and baby okay?” 

Frankie nods, but there’s worry etched across his face. “Gonna head home to be on the safe side.”  

“I’ll let the guys know.” Santiago pulls Frankie into a hug and gives him a few pats on the back. “It was good seeing you tonight.” 

“Likewise.”

“Guess it’ll have to be a playdate next time,” Santiago teases. 

Frankie cracks a smile. 

•••

With the bathroom door cracked, you can hear the familiar shuffling of Frankie entering the house. His keys clink into the bowl shortly before the steps begin to creak under his weight. One purposeful footstep after the next, until he’s filling the doorway with a hand on his hip. But you sit in the bathtub with your eyes closed and your head tipped back. The subtle scent of lavender fills the humid air. You’re only visible from your collarbones up, and your pregnant stomach rises above the bubbly water. 

Rather than speaking, he stands there and takes you in with those soft, dark eyes. You’re beautiful where you lay. His gaze is palpable, and opening your eyes to meet it solidifies for him that you’re okay. It's a silent assurance. These moments when you don't need words have only grown in number. Every trace of worry that once existed has dwindled away.

As he takes a small step inside, he tosses his baseball cap onto the sink counter and runs a hand through his hair. Tension melts from his shoulders in real time. Makes him look even taller where he stands.  

“Hey,” he breathes.

“Hi,” you say, then note, "Your shoes."

The teasing undertone to your words makes him chuckle. At himself, at the fact that he’d rushed home, despite your warning, with a head full of clamoring thoughts. Thoughts of arriving to you in labor and having to deliver his own child. Or packing you into his truck and needing to pull over and do the very same. There was no middle ground.

He’d dedicated years of his life to working under the most intense pressure, but it was his pregnant wife who’d finally thrown that composure off course.  

Yet here you were pointing out the fact that he had tracked his shoes upstairs.

Frankie crouches to untie his boots before kicking them off his feet. He stumbles in the process and has to brace himself on the sink. The smile already budding on your face blooms into a fuller one when he huffs and peeks over at you. When you straighten up, the water sloshes and reveals more of you chest. 

A long sigh escapes him as he sits alongside the tub and stretches his long legs out in front of him. That’s when a laugh bubbles up your throat. Despite his best efforts to retrain his own amusement, he can’t help but join in. The two of you sit there laughing in a mix of relief and acceptance of the fact that your worlds have only just begun to change. 

A comfortable silence soon settles in the space between you. Frankie gets an almost wistful look about him as he stares straight ahead. 

“What are you thinking about?” you ask after a while. 

He rests his arm on the side of the tub. “Us,” he answers. “Being parents.”  

There’s an understated sense of anticipation in his tone that he still hasn’t been able to put into words. A small hint of apprehension lingers too, but the type that propels as opposed to paralyzes. 

You hum as you run a wet hand over your glistening stomach. 

“I love you,” he continues softly. “I love her.”

He reaches out to splay his large hand over your stomach. You smile as he continues talking, “Love that I get to do this with you.” 

Fondness swells in your chest all the more. Like a third lung set on sustaining you too. 

“I’d kiss you right now, but I don’t know how,” you admit. 

Without hesitating, Frankie shifts so he’s able to steady your chin and press his lips to yours. You lift a hand to rest the tips of your fingers against his scruffy cheek. Frankie hums when you ghost your tongue along his lower lip, only to pull away like you have something to say. Before you can speak, he presses back in for one more soft peck, then touches his forehead to yours. 

You feel yourself smiling. “What I was trying to say,” you start, but Frankie kisses you again because you’re right there, and because he can.

Butterflies erupt all throughout your stomach. 

“Go ahead,” he finally coaxes with a small smile, lips brushing yours. “What were you gonna say, hermosa?” There’s a gruff, honeyed quality to his voice that you’re certain is intentional. 

“That I love you too,” you whisper. 

-

Thanks for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. I promise I see them all! 

FRANKIE MASTERLIST 

ALL MASTERLISTS

[bootsukki]

the first time tsukki buys you flowers, it’s almost by accident.

he’s on his way to your house after practice, passing by a small flower shop, when a bouquet of soft yellow tulips catches his eye. he has no idea why he stops to look at them—maybe it’s the way they remind him of you, always bright and warm. checking his wallet, he enters the shop and buys them.

truth be told, he doesn’t expect much of a reaction from you, you have been dating for four months and he doesn’t even know if you like flowers (he knows you’re not allergic though because you always tend to the school garden with one of your friends) and when he arrives, he just shoves them into your arms.

but, when your eyes widen in delight, your fingers tighten around the stems and you look at him like he’s just handed you the stars, he knows he’s fucked.

you cling to his arm all the afternoon, giggling every time you look at the flowers and kissing him endlessly, he feels his cheeks burning.

“I should have just brought you candy.” he mutters, pretending to be annoyed.

but he does it again. and again. and again.

sometimes, he starts picking up flowers on random days—after practice, when he sees sales on his konbini… you react the same way, eyes bright, arms thrown around him, pressing kisses to his face. he mumbles under his breath but he never pulls away from your hugs and precious kisses he cherishes so much.

he continues doing so when you go to tokyo to study and he stays in sendai. every two weeks, without fail, a bouquet arrives at your doorstep, always with a note scrawled in his familiar and neat handwriting, “try not to kill these before i visit you, pretty.”

and when he sees you again, you throw yourself at him in the middle of the train station and, like always, he lets you. because he’s missed this and you.

even after college, the flowers never stop.

the day he thinks about proposing, he goes back to your old text messages, finding your messages and pictures about every single bouquet he has given you and asks for a special bouquet filled with one of every single important bouquet he has given you, from the tulips to the roses he gave you last anniversary.

as he hands you the bouquet and goes down on one knee, you tear up and nod, hands shaking as he puts the ring on your finger and he knows he made the right choice by choosing you.

the morning of your wedding is a blur of soft laughter and excitement as you sit down on the chair to start getting your makeup and hair done.

but before they can start, yachi clears her throat, drawing your attention.

“i have something for you.”

yachi grins, stepping aside to reveal the most beautiful bouquet resting in one of the vanities.

you gasp—the bouquet is a masterpiece filled with pastel calla lillies, clemantis, veronicas and slipper orchids. you stand up, reaching out for the flowers, brushing over the beautiful petals. and then, you see your name written in his familiar handwriting in an envelope.

baby,

i’d like to say that i planned all of this from the beginning, that the first time i bought you flowers, i already knew i would be doing it for the rest of my life, but the truth is that i didn’t realize until i saw your beautiful eyes and gorgeous smile when you saw the yellow tulips.

i love your smile and i wanted to see you smile. you looked at me like i had given you the world and you held to them like you never wanted to let go.

so, i kept bringing them every chance i had. do you remember how sad you were when the wind ruined the bouquet i gave you during your last finals weeks? i got so mad and sad that i ran to the store at nearly 2 am to buy you some and get them sent to you the following day.

i am not good with words, you know that so i guess that i found everything that i wanted to say through flowers: i miss you, you’re the best thing that has happened to me, i love you, i want to spend the rest of my life with you…

i think that this one is the most special one. do you remember all those late night work i had to do? i lied, sorry.

i was getting special lessons from the florist down the street: how to prepare a bouquet, how to cut the stems perfectly so they last longer, how to take care of them… all of that so i could get you what i think it is the prettiest bouquet of all the ones i have gotten you although i don’t think they are as beautiful as you are but i have selected them because their delicate colors and smoothness makes me think of you and i don’t know, i wanted to remind you that you are always on my mind.

holy shit, you and me forever. FOREVERRRRRRRRR (if you see tear marks while you read this, those are NOT mine).

i love you baby, i’ll wait for you at the end of the aisle so, take a deep breath, wipe those tears (I know you are probably crying) and see you soon. can’t wait to make you my wife.

-kei.

you clutch the letter to your chest as tears spill freely onto your cheeks and your friends laugh softly, cleaning their own tears as well.

“is it too late to use this as my wedding bouquet?”

[applciderr]

⊹₊⟡⋆ Crack Baby ⊹₊⟡⋆

First time properly rendering and drawing Shadow + his horrendous wings so forgive me if its inaccurate nd stuff...

No text version + additional text under cut

I think you can genuinely tell where i gave up butt whatever

I really wanted this one print of shadow but it got taken down and i was blasting mitski so i had an idea for a print of my own!! Took me a really long time but yeah!! Its completely free to use however you want! Want it as your own poster? GO FOR IT!! Pfp? SURE!! go nuts!!

[fandomfluffandfuck]

*Timidly raises hand* ✋️ I think I have a new kink 😵 I want my mouth fingered 🫣🫣

P.S. I'd kill for you to write about any of the boys as the drooly bottom having his mouth fingered 😵‍💫😵‍💫

related to this

I'm always happy to help with some good old fashioned self discovery 👀

And maybe it's how clear my recent memories are, maybe it's just my desire to submurge myself in those recent events, or maybe it's even the urge to further explore, but, whatever the reason, you made it impossible for me to not think about this...

So, how about some pussy Buck? He was the first, sweetest boy who came to mind, and something tells me he's who'd enjoy this the most 😏

(Beware of: somnophilia/soft cnc, dumbification, generally filthy pornographic things, etc.)

Hmm.

Steve sighs to himself, growing bored with the flickering light filling their living room as it eminates from their TV. This movie isn't as good as he hoped it'd be. A weekend of no real happenings has further bored him. He's a man of action. He doesn't like to lay out often. He moves, no, plows forward. And now he's restless, searching for something, anything, to capture his attention. Although, it doesn't take any effort to find something so worthy, barely having to search, drawing his eyes easily from the uninteresting show, and dragging them down to find--

What, oh, what do we have here?

Steve's lips curl sharply into a cunning yet fond grin, the playful and dark feeling of mischief unfurling in his broad chest, beating in time with his heart under his hairy pecs.

As it turns out, somewhere between the engaging opening of the movie and this low lull, Bucky--his sweet, sweet boyfriend--has fallen asleep with his head of silky chocolate hair pillowed on the rounded muscle of his chest. The front of his body is pressed against the back of Bucky's. They're melting into each other in the late evening, Steve's legs straight out on the end of their L-shaped sofa, his back upright, and Bucky is draped like a blanket over him. Both of Bucky's long, shapely legs have fallen between Steve's widely spread ones. But, the position of Bucky's body at large is of much less interest to Steve than his head and face specifically.

His head is resting on his chest, tipped back there rather than on his shoulder because he's slouched down in his sleep, curling up, sweet as ever. His neck, to accommodate the position of their bodies, is arched, exposing the pale column and seducing his jaw into falling open just so. Ever so slightly open. At once, it's precious and filthy; his little pink rosebud mouth gaping around nothing, the petal of his fat lower lip gently unfurled to soaking up the sun--if the sun were trapped in their room. And who knows, maybe it is, Steve is starting to feel the heat of it all over his body.

Every gentle inhale and exhale comes with a whispered sound, rolling off his soft lips like morning dew.

Steve doesn't think he just does, reaching out to find the damn clicker and turn off the movie. He couldn't give less of a fuck about it suddenly. Everything that comes out of Bucky is precious. He'll know and memorize every gasp and dreamy murmur.

Startled into quick, fluid movement once, the momentum of desire sweeps Steve up further, spurring him into a caress of Bucky's pillow soft cheek. Bucky doesn't stir. Steve can't stay away, the warmth of the sun building inside him, he'll gladly be burned if it comes to that. He's going to stay here, exactly here, with Bucky. Bucky himself isn't immune anyway, as Steve draws his thumb over the sharp line of his jaw, pressing softly against that sweet bit of baby fat he's never lost under his equally precious cleft chin, Bucky is turning more pink.

Steve admires the landscape of his sunrise colored sunburn. He is gorgeous. He is totally irrestiable--

Steve has to tease the pads of his fingers, feather light, back up his cheek, around the other side of his face, and feel the high point of his pretty cheekbone. He touches the vulnerable, delicate skin gracing his eyelids, colored with veins, so near the surface. Steve's fingers skim the slope of his nose, hopping off to find the tempting cavern of his mouth.

Those soft, pouty lips...

God, the prettiest fucking pink Steve could ever imagine. Not to mention the goddamn wet dream red they turn when they're plundered by Steve. Bucky begs to be claimed. Bucky moans and cries and get so fucking spacey and sweet with the right touch--the roughest touch. He likes it. He likes having this mouth--this mouth right here--not just claimed but fucked.

Defiled.

Violated.

He's not happy until he's dizzy and his lips are swollen, glistening wet with his own smeared spit and ruined to a candy red.

Steve shivers involuntarily, thinking about how dirty his sweet boy is, and it jostles his body enough to leave Bucky murmuring. Something useless and incoherent underneath a chest-expanding sigh.

Steve licks his own lips, watching Bucky's lower lip pout out just a touch more with that exhaled breath. He smears his thumb over the plush surface of Bucky's lower lip, catching it just enough for it to bounce back into place. God. Steve can't help the way a growl builds deep in his chest, the heated pressure growing, but he can swallow it down. He'll keep that down, he'll keep it down. He's not done taking Bucky in yet. He's so pretty like this.

Sleeping.

He's beautifully slack and vulnerable. He can't stop Steve from doing a damn thing. All he can do is absorb it. Take it. He's a pliant little sponge, soaking up Steve's body heat and any bit of pleasure Steve offers up--anything he wants to place on his tongue, he can.

Steve caresses the perfect bow of his lips--both of them, upper and lower, touching every part of them, leaving nothing un-teased--before daring to sneak in and place two fingertips on his tongue.

His tongue is surprisingly wet for cat napping with his mouth agape.

Steve shuts his eyes in pleasure, savoring the searing hot sensation of that wet muscle. All smooth and soaked. Steve, just a little, thinks about doing the same with his other hand but lower, diving between Bucky's legs and finding out if he's wet down there, too. It wouldn't surprise Steve if he was. He's so sensitive, just a little bit of touching, petting that's not even too heavy, and he's panting like a dog, starting to drip into his boxer briefs, hips twitching every now and again, sharp and jerky, like he's just aching to grind against anything.

Sweet Jesus, Buck.

Steve loves him so much it hurts. Steve's so deeply in lust with him that it'd be embarrassing if anyone but Bucky knew. He's wrapped around his daintiest finger, always thinking of sticking his cock in him, or, hell, not even his dick, thinking just like he's doing right now--

Pushing his fingers into that lush mouth and feeling around, curling his fingers as if he's searching for his sweet spot. Bucky's eyes, if he's awake when Steve's doing it, that is, even roll like he's got one in his mouth. A sweet spot for a sweet boy. Well. Maybe two sweet spots, one somewhere on his tongue, pressing down hard enough leaving him shuttering, and the other in the back of his throat, hitting it and watching him gag, eyes instantly saturating with desperate tears that beg Steve to go deeper.

Fuck.

Steve wants to bury himself alive in his sweet, tight little throat.

Steve wants to lay him out, limp and helpless, on the edge of the couch, his head hanging off, and shove right in to bulge his throat. Steve wants to curl his fingers in his mouth until Bucmy cums as if he's three fingers deep in his pussy instead. Steve wants to try and fit his fist in there, forcing his jaw wide, making Bucky drool all over himself, wet like he gets when he squirts for Steve. Steve wants to shove a gag in there, not to shut him up, not to muffle him, but to please him, he loves to see how cloudy Bucky's eyes get and how far away Bucky's smarts get when his mouth is stuffed full.

Steve wants so much. He's a hungry, bad man. And like this-? All Bucky can do is give. So, Steve takes.

Plunging his fingers in and in, Steve is wickedly thrilled to learn that Bucky's so deep in dreamland that his tongue doesn't even twitch, and it especially doesn't curl around his fingers and suck.

The novelty of nothing happening when he sticks part of himself in his eager boy's mouth turns Steve on more than it has any right to. He's not doing anything, and that's precisely it.

Take it.

Steve explores, stomping around. What? He has every right to. Bucky's his. He can scrub his fingers against the flat, wet muscle of his tongue, scratching his fingernails tantalizingly light across his tastebuds. He can push his fingers between his teeth and lip and find the sweet, delicate spot where the ever-so-slightly tougher flesh of his bottom lip melts into the smoother, wetter, softer inside of his mouth. He can find each and every arch where tooth meets gum. He can travel back farther, darker and deeper, past just his mouth and into the top of his throat. Two fingers. Searching deeper. Feeling the slick velvet of his throat and just teasing the clutch of a deeper part, his body foolishly trying to keep Steve out. Too bad. He can--

But, god, is it ruined in the most perverse, arousing way.

Then. Exactly then. All at once, Steve's private, uninterrupted time with Bucky's body is ruined.

It's totally fucking worth it.

Bucky launches into action, flailing uselessly as his sweet, hot throat suddenly spasms, clutching like a vise around his plundering fingers. It's exactly fuckin' like when Bucky can't hold on any longer and just can't hold himself back from cumming, his pussy squeezing so painfully tight, wet and hot, around his rock-hard cock, shoved deep into him.

Steve overwhelms Bucky no matter what hole he sticks it in. His pussy. His mouth. His ass. Bucky once squealed, near-sobbed that he was pretty sure Steve was hitting his cervix while he fucked him, but he'd kill him if he stopped, so full and fuckin'-fucking full.

Yeahhh.

This is just like fucking his tight little pussy loose.

He's deep in his throat, two fingers deep, hitting his upper esophageal sphincter, but rather than squealing, Bucky's choking.

It's still a useless, obscene little sound made of pleasure. Of course, it's pleasure. Bucky's choking on air and spit and Steve's fingers but as soon as he's been awake for just a second he's rasping out jagged moans, too.

There he is.

That's Steve's boy.

Jolted into consciousness by invading pleasure and taking it. Just taking it. Adjusting to it so seamlessly. He's an undeniable slut who likes filling. Fucking. He likes everything.

And his enjoyment is painfully obviously in the way he chases Steve's fingers, arching and straining his neck when Steve tries to pull his hand back. He's not just moving his mouth, though, moaning, desperate to suck on his fingers and have his throat fucked, but he's moving those pretty hips, too. Squirming around in an uncoordinated manner that really fucking works for Steve. He's too horny to try and be cool. He can't be smooth. He's just needy, so beyond everything else.

Steve just barely gets a hold of him, hand tight on his hip, biting bruises into his precious body for his own good. He'll get there. He'll get to his achy, throbbing pussy squeezed between his legs. He will. He's just not done with his other hole yet.

His chin is already slick, but he wants to see how wet he can get him. He wants his pussy soaked by the time Steve finally splits his legs and paws at his swollen, wet slit, teasing up to flick his clit and make his shriek. He doesn't want to be kind.

Yeah, he's wet, so fucking wet he already knows, but he could always be wetter. Messier. So, he sticks his fingers deep in one of his holes--his mouth, of course, just a hole that was made to be fucked--and curls them hard. The same way he does when he's got his thumb on Bucky's clit and his fingers inside him, pressing hard, knowing he's gonna squirt everywhere. His messy, dumb boy is so easy to play. He's so easily reduced to nothing but a popsicle, sticky and sugary, soaking their bed in the summer sun, flushed with his bright red sunburn.

[bestworstcase]

I hope I’m not weird or offensive for thinking this that Oz and the GoL relationship has abuse undertones. I go as far as it reminding me of sexual violence. The violation of bodily autonomy, lack of informed consent, using someone else’s body for one’s personal use, sense of domination from the perpetrator, the victim having a fucked sense of self and self-hatred. The GoL is also Salem’s abuser who violated her autonomy and consent so it’s not out of character for him. RWBY has handled similar topics like Adam and Blake so it’s not like uncharted territory. I even seen ppl claim that the Curious Cat has similar undertones considering what they did to Neo.

"undertones"--even in the extremely biased narration of the lost fable, jinn, telling the story as ozpin understands it, draws an overt equivalency between the god of light and SALEM'S FATHER. you know,

What more could a man want? Just one thing: a son and heir. When his wife became pregnant, the whole castle rejoiced. But soon the lord’s fortune reversed. His beloved fell ill, gave birth to a baby girl, and lost her own life in the process. The lord locked his daughter in the highest tower of the castle and retreated to his chambers to grieve. Only he and the girl’s nanny were allowed in or out of her tower room, on punishment of death. Many weeks passed before the lord visited his baby girl for the first time, and he refused to hold her no matter how much the nanny encouraged or even begged him to. Over the years, his daily visits grew shorter. Then they became visits two or three times a week. By his daughter’s eleventh birthday, he was visiting only once a week. “Why must I stay in this tower?” the girl would ask him. “I am protecting you from anything or anyone that might harm you. You are the most precious thing in the world to me. I could not bear to lose you.” He brought her food and presents: dresses and hairpins, brushes and dolls, but nothing that she could use against him or to take her own life. [...] Meanwhile, miserable and alone, the lord’s sorrow gradually twisted into resentment. He raged against the unfairness of the gods and took out his anger on his staff. He became obsessed with increasing his wealth, as if money could replace the love of his life, increasing land taxes on his tenants and cutting his staff’s wages. Paranoid about losing all he cherished, he dismissed half of his servants and replaced them with trained soldiers to protect his riches and defend his castle. By the girl’s sixteenth birthday, the king was visiting only once a month, whenever the whole moon was visible from her tower window. “This was your mother’s favorite place in the castle,” he told the girl. “She loved gazing out that window.” “And now it is my prison,” the girl said. “You aren’t my prisoner. You’re my daughter.” “Then let me go,” she begged. “I cannot. Someone would abduct you and demand a ransom,” the lord said. “Or worse.” But the girl realized that the lord did not love her as a parent loves a child. Rather, he thought of her as just one of his treasures, to be jealously hoarded like his gold and jewels. […] “What is it?” the knight asked. “What else would make you happy, my dear?” Freedom, she thought. But she bit back the word, for that kind of talk made him angry and violent.

the man who was so viciously abusive that this is how ozpin depicted him in a sanitized fairytale account of what happened.

note, for emphasis, that by the time salem was eleven she was so actively suicidal that her father had to vet every object that went into her room against the risk that she might try to kill herself with it, and he didn't care.

ozma modeled beacon academy after salem's father's castle and put the headmaster's office at the top of the tower—in her cell. whether or not he could actually articulate this feeling consciously, deep down he regards the god of light as an abusive parent too powerful to defeat or escape. and we have seen, with light, that he becomes angry and violent whenever something doesn't go his way and that his immediate, first reaction to one of his creations doing anything he doesn't approve is brutal murder. he tears jabber apart, incinerates ozma, bites salem, shrugs when his brother vaporizes mankind. his ultimatum for remnant is "obey me or die." there's no undertones he is explicitly abusive toward everyone he comes into contact with including his brother.

[lokidips]

Your little Loki is too precious 😭🙏 Do you think he ever gets babysat by any of the Avengers? And do you think he likes having his hair done (e.g pig tails, braids, etc) :3

oh my god I love this question~

my goodness, braid that boy’s hair and he’s out like a light.

I have a little headcanon that I believe Loki would be drawn to the women in his life on instinct. with how close he is to Frigga, I can imagine him latching onto Natasha and Pepper (my ladies <3) and they would undoubtedly dote on him. they fawn over his tumbling (unfairly perfect) curls and delight in braiding his hair before a nap or an outing. they provide quality cuddles and comfort when Loki’s separation anxiety stirs, reassuring him in sweet, saccharine voices.

Tony is a tough one for Loki—fun, but a little overwhelming. fuelled by the time he accidentally made him cry, however, Tony learns quickly when to tone it down when the baby’s feeling a little fragile. he certainly fuels Loki’s desire for chaos, and once they’re comfortable with one another, they’re a bit of a terrifying combination.

Steve looks an awful lot like Thor, according to Loki. so he’s the first of the boys he gets comfortable with. Loki takes a great interest in Steve’s art and insists on drawing alongside him with his crayons. Steve is also the only other Avenger whobcan pick him up! if Thor’s not around and Loki’s feeling a little extra clingy, you’ll most likely find him cuddled up in the Captain’s strong arms, head resting wearily on the man’s broad shoulder.

Bruce is understandably a little nervous when he first meets Loki. kids aren’t always the most predictable and Loki being Loki (even with such a young headspace) has a love for chaos. but after he makes breakfast for a couple of drowsy gods (homesickness can be hard for the baby; sleepless nights and tears ensue) he sees the sweet, cuddly side to the youngest Odinson that warms his heart. not long after, however, he witnesses a tantrum. but instead of anxiety, Bruce finds himself empathising with such a ferocious temper and even helps Loki calm down.

Clint is, unsurprisingly, great with Loki off the bat. he’s a father, after all! and he makes it known. he’s quick to ensure Loki gets all the nutrients he needs from his heals. when Loki comes down with a tummy bug one day, he’s ready with home remedies: apple juice, toast or oatmeal to ease his tummy, blankets and movies at the ready. he’s also great with guiding a flustered Thor through tantrums, when it’s best to ignore the obvious plea for attention and when to comfort.

if it’s not obvious, I’m a huge sucker for the Loki + Avenger trope. this ask was wonderful, thank you <3

[mrs-starkgaryen]

Well, well, well, dissecting time just so I can remind Maggie that I am in her walls (thanks you've passed your illness onto me)

1. "Afterwards, Mason pulls his clothes back on as you are absentmindedly drawing stars in the steam on the windows of his Chevy Silverado."

A) Even at home, she's dreaming/ thinking about the stars (Hollywood stars)

2. "It was good, not that you finished; you didn’t say anything, he didn’t ask, but even if he had you would have told him not to worry about it. It can take forever, especially with an audience. You’d rather wait until you’re alone."

A) Don't worry baby girl, Aegon is gonna make you finish in front of him and I'll you'll love it

3. Mason smirks and taunts: “I don’t know, with the way you talk about him you sound kind of obsessed.”

A) we all are Mason, shut up

4. “You ever feel like people are the best versions of themselves before you really know them? Then you get too close and all the cracks start showing.”

A) well I didn't like that foreshadowing

B) she's gonna get close to Aegon and we know he's a messed up man 😭

C) I'll she'll still love him though

5. “And it’s only until the end of the year,” your father adds. “Then the vacation is over.” Then the meager allowance they are funneling to you will stop and you will be ordered to return home to pursue an honorable course of existence. You have six months to succeed in Hollywood, or the dream dies."

A) Or when Aegon dies...

B) Maggie, are you in my walls? This is my family 😭

6. “Well, regardless of whatever you have going on in California, you’ll either have to get them done now or after you have children,” Mom says. “I love you and Clara and Tripp, but you destroyed my body. At least doctors can repair breasts. My bladder is still useless."

A) mother? What you doing here, loca?

B) how Sunshine is so sunny, idk. I guess you have to have rain to appreciate the sun

C) no wonder she think she needs plastic surgery- not just for Hollywood but she probably feels like she needs to live up to her parents expectations somehow (cuz she feels like she is disappointing them with her choice of job?)

7. Outside the sun is setting, and you gaze westward as the aging daylight turns the tall green grass and silhouettes of horses to gold like the mines that first brought settlers to California. You slide your phone out of the pocket of your denim shorts and take a photo, then post it to your Instagram story with the caption Home and a smiley face emoji.

A) Sunshines reminder that social media is fake lmao

B) but this is a mood- it gives crying whilst doing a thumbs up picture 😭👍🤳

Also those dogs? I love dogs but these ones are scary! The family and the dogs seem to hate her?! My God. Are they picking up on the family hostility to her?

If they don't shape up, unlike the bats- I won't mind if Jace steps on one of these.. (jk)

8. A minute later, you receive a DM. Aegon has typed: This explains the big horse girl energy

A) Aegon ever heard of playing it cool?

B) damn he's down bad

9. You have just finished ringing up a Like It-sized Apple Pie A La Cold Stone when Josh says: “Hey, there’s an old guy asking for you."

A) oh an old man, imagine if he meant Aegon-

B) HE DID! Mf ain't old

C) I also squealed like she did when I recognised the shoes 🥰

10. When Aegon begins to pull it away, you grab his hand and don’t let go until you’ve licked the spoon clean. He laughs hysterically as he watches you. “I haven’t had strawberry ice cream in forever,” you say.

A) and if I say 👀

B) foreshadowing...

C) also hello Simon Bassett from Bridgerton?

11. “Don’t tell me you’re a vanilla girl.”

A) for now Aegon...

B) He will show her the different flavours

C) also could symbolise that she is kinda naive and then as the story progresses- she's not so sweet anymore 😀

13. “It’s small,” Aegon warns. “It’s an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.”

A) said every man ever 😉😂

B) ooh will she be in season 56, episode 28?

14. “Because once you begin to treat scalpels and needles as prescriptions for everything you don’t like about yourself—or everything that other people don’t like about you—..... that are carving away your humanity one incision at a time. I’ve seen it happen to more people than I could count, and I don’t want it to happen to you. Because you seem very, very human, and I’d like you to stay that way. Which means you don’t cut yourself up because some agent or producer or casting director told you to.” Then he adds, perhaps as an afterthought: “And anyway, you don’t need implants.”

A) did he have to do something to make people (or him) like himself more?

B) omg did his dad make or encourage his siblings/ family to change to become more famous, to carry on his legacy in Hollywood? Did Aemond try and change himself and now he's took a step back into scriptwriting cuz atleast then he can control his own story?

C) she's gonna lose or nearly lose her humanity in this industry, I can see it. It's gonna break her down and then Aegon and her have feel better sex..

15. “Always so agreeable,” Aegon muses. So desperate is more like it.

A).... need I say more

16. “The Chinese zodiac. You’re a horse. So you’re the only horse I like.”

A) you're killing me

B) she's gonna like riding this horse 😭 (I'll let myself out)

17. His face is some amalgamation of emotions you can’t read, and this is unusual.“Why do you think I paid in cash?”

A) either becca is crazy

B) or his family are and they'll update becca

C) or both. Like I said before- maybe they set him up wirh becca to calm him down, to make him (the targaryens) look good in the papers

18. “I got you a vanilla latte, vanilla girl.”

A) a possible other nickname?

B) all her nicknames are cute and sunny, like her until this industry snuffs it out 😀

19. Then you are in the scenes under intensely radiant artificial light, and just like it did in your roles back in Minnesota, the real world vanishes and all that exists are these characters, these moments, and your body and mind become theirs, and perhaps even your soul too. Your husband is handsome and kind, and here in this liminal fictional space you love him, and when the surgeons wheel him off to the operating room you are full of blind naïve surety. Then the doctors update you on his condition and you are still hopeful, but it becomes a fragile thing, like something that shatters when it’s dropped from a height. And then he is dead, he has been taken away from you, he has been stolen, and you are eclipsed by a blood-red wrath that is animalistic and unforgiving. After each take when you are ripped back through the veil and into reality, you can’t remember exactly what you did or said, and the director doesn’t have many critiques so you aren’t sure how it’s going.

A) This whole thing felt like a summary for the story

B) at first she's whisked away in a world of Hollywood: glitter and glammer. She's "full of blind naive surety"..

C) Then it's she's less so but she still tries to be optimistic? As she realises this is not what she signed up for

D) husband is dead, Aegon is dead? Then she's full of rage

E) under artificial light? The Hollywood spotlight..

F) she starts to give them her body (plastic surgery), her mind (she starts to doubt and panic in fame) and then her soul (Hollywood kills her optimism and dream)

Also- Are the eyeshadows representing things?

A) In the first chapter she had shimmery, pink, warm brown eyeshadow (showing that she is warm, positive and sparkling with a dream, it's all new).

B) when she's with Mason, it's sparkly black. Like she's not 100% with him but that's okay because she still has her dream that she's gonna be able to be an actress and subconsciously be with someone better...

C) in the ice cream shop, she has bright pink- so bright in optimism still and pink meaning flirtatious feelings for Aegon?

Idk, all this is my crazy mind and I love whatever you come out with!

A Curse [Chapter 2: Harbor Gateway]

A/N: Thank you for the warm welcome you have given this series!!! I am sick with bronchitis currently so this has been a big bright spot in an otherwise miserable week 😅 I can't wait to show you where this story is going, I hope you're ready for it 🥰💜

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent...at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon's right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap relationship, entertainment industry misogyny, some body dissatisfaction/dysmorphia, ice cream, judgmental parents, aggressive Akitas, we're literally in Minnesota!!!

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

Afterwards, Mason pulls his clothes back on as you are absentmindedly drawing stars in the steam on the windows of his Chevy Silverado. On the other side of the glass is inky Minnesota night, a full moon dissolving away, glowing freckles of constellations. You’re staying with your parents and Mason has roommates, so the truck was the expedient choice. It was good, not that you finished; you didn’t say anything, he didn’t ask, but even if he had you would have told him not to worry about it. It can take forever, especially with an audience. You’d rather wait until you’re alone.

Mason glances down at the used condom on the floor of his Silverado, hastily discarded, viscerally slick in a way that becomes sickening in the letdown, as the endorphins and the adrenaline slip away and the blood pumps slow and unclouded. He smirks as he asks: “You sure you don’t want to get back on the pill?”

You sigh, drawing another star. You are still naked and sprawled across the back seat, glistening with sweat in the moonlight. “Well I tried three different prescriptions and had three miserable experiences, and I’m really not interested in playing side effect roulette again. And I can’t risk my skin going insane and random bleeding when I’m running around all over L.A. trying to get parts.”

“What about that little sperm assassin T-shaped thing?”

You look at him. “An IUD?”

“Yeah.”

You wince, engraving another star into the steam on the window. “I don’t think I like the idea of having a piece of metal shoved up inside me.”

He laughs. “But you’ll get silicone implants?”

You shrug; you can’t deny the irony. “I don’t need an IUD to be an actress.”

“Look, I’m not complaining about the tits thing,” Mason says, holding up his hands. “Obviously I’d enjoy them too. And you’d still have them when you move home, so it’s not a waste even if the acting thing doesn’t work out.”

You already know he feels this way, and yet still, it hurts. “When I move home?”

He smiles and crawls back on top of you, his Carleton College hoodie whispering against your belly and chest, soft royal blue cotton on damp skin. He had been a Political Science and International Relations major who took Theater Arts 195: Acting Shakespeare for an arts credit. He was beyond terrible and had no appreciation for the field whatsoever, but he was tall and strong and jolly, an earnest corn-fed Midwestern boy, and when one day after class he’d asked if he could take you to Culver’s for a burger and frozen custard, you’d said yes.

Here and now, in the back seat of his Chevy Silverado, Mason kisses your forehead. Then he ghosts his thumb over the ridge of your orbital socket and cheekbone, where your dark glittery eyeshadow has smudged like a spreading bruise: Galaxy by Anastasia Beverly Hills, Elysian by Natasha Denona. “I’m not saying you aren’t good. But how many people on this planet get to be movie stars? It’s just not realistic. And it’s about so much more than talent. It’s about who you know, and luck, and chemistry, and looks, and a bunch of other things that are mostly out of your control. You’re never going to be the type of girl who’s an influencer or winning Miss America, you’re just not. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t very, very pretty. And I loved you anyway.”

Loved, past tense. You and Mason stopped using that word a year ago; now the nostalgia is painting memories like the walls of an old house. His memories, anyway. You sit up and start yanking on your clothes: oversized yellow Santa Monica crewneck, black sweatpants with elastic cuffs at the ankles. “I think I’m going to get the gummy bear implants.”

Mason licks his lips. “Yum.”

“They’re a type of silicone, but they’re supposed to feel more natural and be less dangerous if they rupture.”

“Will you have scars?” he says as if the notion has just occurred to him, troubled, perhaps a little revolted.

“Well yeah, they have to end up under my skin somehow.”

Mason shudders, then he has another thought. “Who’s going to take care of you after surgery when you’re all sore and zonked out on opioids?”

“My roommate Baela said she would. She’s had friends who have gone through it already.”

“Okay, good. I wouldn’t want you to be alone out there.” Mason touches the back of your head, a quick fond gesture. He’s the only man you’ve ever been with, and even that took a while, months of trying to envision him undressing you before you were sure you could do it without flinching, without being afraid or shy or bewildered. But in the end it had been easy, always easy, which is why you keep coming back to him like a comet. Your elliptical orbit takes you far away and then close again, and such natural patterns are effortless to keep.

You say, the edges of your lips curling into a furtive smile: “I’m definitely not alone.”

Mason groans. “You’re going to hook up with that new agent guy, aren’t you?”

“What? No! No way, he has a fiancée.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s more amused than annoyed. “Okay, whatever.”

“You know I don’t date anyone.” Which is why each time you’re home visiting, Mason gets a text: Want to get lunch at Culver’s? or Can you drive me to Target? or Pick me up around 9 p.m.?

Mason smirks and taunts: “I don’t know, with the way you talk about him you sound kind of obsessed.”

“I’m just grateful. Someone finally gave me a chance.” You look to the window; the steam and your hand-drawn stars have evaporated away. “And yeah, he’s interesting and he’s cute, and he’s kind of mean but then unexpectedly caring sometimes, and I think he’s one of those people who are really good at what they do but only when they’re inspired…but that doesn’t mean I’m into him romantically.” A pause. “And even if I was, there’s no harm in a super-secret, one-sided crush.”

“Okay. Have fun with all the adulterous sex.”

You chuckle. “Thanks, but that is not the plan.” You slip on your flip-flops, shimmy out of the back seat, and trot around the Silverado to the passenger’s door. Mason climbs into the driver’s seat and turns his key in the ignition. You ask: “What happened to that ballerina girl who was in your Instagram stories for a while?”

“Had to ghost her, she got super clingy and controlling. She was texting me at work all the time and got pissed off when I was putting a ton of hours into that election thing for CNN.” Mason is a political analyst. He turns to you. “You ever feel like people are the best versions of themselves before you really know them? Then you get too close and all the cracks start showing.”

“I think people are wonderful. You just have to find the ones you click with.”

“I should have figured you’d say something like that.” He steers his truck out of the otherwise empty parking lot in Lac Lavon Park. “I’m looking forward to you being home again.”

“I’m not.”

You both laugh, and then Mason drives you to your parents’ house.

At the dining room table, Mom and Clara are researching wedding venues, vast countryside estates and metropolitan historic hotels. Clara got engaged two weeks ago during a vacation to Turks and Caicos. In the living room, Dad and Tripp are watching commentary on the NBA Finals. Tripp’s name isn’t really Tripp; he is the third James in a row, named after your father and grandfather, and Tripp is short for triple. All over the house, there are Akitas lolling in plush dog beds and clicking around on Brazilian Cherry hardwood floors. They have faces like teddy bears, but their dark eyes track you mistrustfully, as if you are an intruder.

No one asks where you have been. They barely acknowledge that you are back. “Hello, dear,” your mother calls distractedly from the dining room, and that’s all. You jog upstairs to the bathroom you share with Clara before anyone can notice your smeared makeup and the unsavory post-car-sex sweat gleaming on your skin. You get into the shower, turn on water so hot it is nearly scalding, and close your eyes. With your back pressed to the jade green tiles, your hand wanders down over your belly and stops between your legs. Your mind cycles through fantasies, but nothing seems to be working.

It’s not real. It can’t hurt anybody.

You imagine that Aegon is the one touching you, and in under a minute it’s over.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I want there to be horses,” Clara says, scrolling through her phone and ignoring the food on her plate: roast chicken, homemade mashed potatoes, green beans sauteed in garlic and olive oil, panzanella salad. Mom prepared it all herself, not because there was no help available—your parents have a housekeeper named Angela who comes by several days per week—but to prove she could. In the living room are shelves heavy with books by Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, Cat Cora, Julia Child, Nigella Lawson. You hear echoes of ambient clicking, Akitas meandering down hallways and staircases.

“Horses?!” Tripp replies with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, gesturing to the sliding glass door. “Don’t you get enough horses in your everyday life? Don’t you have like five right out there?” Your parents’ house sits on ten acres of land, including a barn and several paddocks for Clara’s rescued Thoroughbreds.

“I want beautiful horses,” Clara insists. “Unusual, photogenic, so they can be in the background of all the photos. Maybe Friesians or Haflingers?”

“I’m not sure we can sort the venues by types of horses available, dear,” Mom says. All that’s on her own plate is a heap of green beans and a few pieces of skinless white meat chicken.

Clara moans and drops her face into her hands. “It’s so overwhelming!”

“You’ll find a place you like, Clara Bear,” Dad says mildly, painstakingly slicing meat off a drumstick with his fork and knife.

“And Owen is no help at all. Every time I ask for his opinion he just tells me to do whatever I think is best, but I don’t know what’s best, that’s why I’m asking him!”

Your mother pats Clara’s shoulder reassuringly. “Guys don’t care about weddings,” Tripp says, twisting around in his chair to see the television in the living room. On a rerun of E! News, the hosts are discussing Chris Hemsworth’s rigorous fitness regime and Meghan Trainor’s “mommy makeover.” You peek under the tablecloth. One of the Akitas, Yuki, is glaring as she waits for you to drop something for her to eat.

“You could do something like that,” Mom says to you, and you realize you haven’t been listening to the conversation.

“Sorry, do what?”

“You could be a wedding planner or a real estate agent. Those are actual careers, but there’s more creativity involved, isn’t there? And didn’t you take a design class in college? That would certainly come in handy.”

“Hm,” your father says with a frown, still dissecting his chicken. He would rather you go to law school like Tripp. You would rather lie down in traffic.

“I took a set design class, Mom. Because I was studying how to be an actress. And that’s what I’m doing right now in Los Angeles, trying to be an actress.”

“You could become an architect!” Mom bursts out with sudden enthusiasm. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

You titter evasively. “I can’t draw, Mom. Or use the modeling software, or do math.”

“You know, you don’t need any specific degree to get into law school,” Tripp says, and your father gives him a nod of approval. “You could have majored in dance or bagpiping or Egyptology, it doesn’t matter. All they want is a high undergrad GPA and a 168+ LSAT score, and I bet you could get that if you studied. You can even retake the test a few times if you need to.”

“Why do you do that?” Clara snaps at him. You eat your panzanella salad and pretend not to be listening. Beneath the tablecloth, Yuki growls. You toss her a few cubes of Italian bread so she won’t bite you.

Tripp shovels mashed potatoes into his mouth. “Do what?”

“Why are you always wasting your time trying to convince her to grow up and get a real job? If she wants to embarrass herself, let her. I have problems that I’m trying to solve, so how about applying yourself to those instead?”

“Are you serious? You think I should be calling around to wedding venues asking about their selection of exotic draft horses?”

Clara aggressively stabs at her green beans with her fork. “Fuck off, Tripp.”

“Hey, hey, kids, no swearing,” your mother says. “It’s Father’s Day. Be respectful.”

Dad turns to you. “You could be an entertainment lawyer, how about that? You could work in intellectual property or negotiating contracts.”

You smile warily. “I’ll think about it, Dad.”

Clara says to your parents: “Well I hope all the money you’re throwing out the window to support her in California isn’t coming out of my wedding fund.”

You close your eyes and think: I can’t spend my life in a cubical. I can’t spend every minute of every day trying to forget who I am.

“Shh, shh,” your mother pleads, rubbing the back of Clara’s clenched hand. “You will get exactly what we promised you, that amount is still set aside for your wedding. Nothing she does affects you.”

“And it’s only until the end of the year,” your father adds. “Then the vacation is over.” Then the meager allowance they are funneling to you will stop and you will be ordered to return home to pursue an honorable course of existence. You have six months to succeed in Hollywood, or the dream dies.

Your father is now asking Tripp about his summer associate position at Latham & Watkins in Chicago. Your mother is advising Clara to get a wedding dress with a corset back so it can be adjusted in the event she gains or loses weight at the last minute. Underneath the table, Yuki is growling again; she noses your knees threateningly.

“I got an agent,” you say, and everyone looks at you.

“Really?” Mom asks, sounding a little perplexed.

“Who is it?” Dad says.

“Aegon Targaryen. He has a small office in Elysian Park.”

“Oh, I think I recognize the last name.”

“His family is in the industry.” You are beaming; you can feel the heat rising in your face. “But Aegon kind of does his own thing and tries to stay out of the limelight. He was an actor when he was my age. And I guess he thinks I can get roles, so that’s really exciting.”

Your mother seems concerned as she nibbles at a shred of white meat. “Is he an older man?”

“Not that much older. He’s thirty-five.”

“Well, be careful, darling,” your father says gravely. “Who knows what his intentions are.”

Clara evidently agrees. “Men can be so creepy. I had this one professor in pharmacy school who cheated on his wife with one student, then cheated on her six months later with a different student. And then he retired to Boca Raton and was never heard from again.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Tripp says to your father. “We read about Clinton v. Jones in torts class, it was wild, I didn’t know he was such a freak even before the Monica Lewinsky thing…”

After dinner, while your father and Tripp are flipping through television channels in the living room and Clara is upstairs on the phone with Owen, you go to the kitchen where your mother is washing dishes in a bubble-filled sink. Again, she doesn’t have to do this; Angela will be here to clean the house tomorrow. But it’s part of being a perfect homemaker, and if she’s not good at this then she’s not good at anything.

She glances over when she hears you come in. “Did you get an appointment with one of the doctors your father recommended?”

“I did, yeah. I have a consultation on Friday.” You lean against the marble countertop and cross your arms so you don’t fidget nervously. From a dog bed on the floor, Mochi glowers at you. “Do you think I should get the surgery?”

She shrugs; you’re not certain if she is more indecisive or apathetic. “Your cousin Madison had a nose job the summer before college. Your old classmate Emma got a blepharoplasty and then met her husband three months later. Practically all of my friends have had breast augmentations, and I’ve certainly never regretted mine. I think if you’re going to get anything fixed, it makes sense to pick that.”

You try again to elicit a strong opinion, whether an endorsement or objection. “I don’t think I’d want to do it if I didn’t feel like it was necessary to be an actress.”

“Well, regardless of whatever you have going on in California, you’ll either have to get them done now or after you have children,” Mom says. “I love you and Clara and Tripp, but you destroyed my body. At least doctors can repair breasts. My bladder is still useless.”

You stare at Mochi distractedly. The dog huffs, unwelcoming. “What was the recovery like?”

“Oh, hell,” your mother says. “But once you heal up it’s worth it. I can wear square necklines and strapless dresses again.”

“Technically, you could have worn whatever you wanted.”

She gives you an impatient look, a you’re too old for that sort of frustration. “No one wants to see some sad flabby woman.” She is including your father in this statement. You remember being home for Thanksgiving Break during your freshman year at Carleton and inadvertently stumbling upon emails from one of the hospital interns when you used his laptop to buy movie tickets: indecent inuendoes, flirtatious photos, no smoking gun but certainly more than was appropriate between colleagues. You had tried to tell your mother, and she had deflected over and over again until you realized that she didn’t want to know; it was easier to be carried by the currents of momentum than to rock the boat until it sank. “This agent of yours…is he celebrating Father’s Day with his family?”

“No, Aegon lost his dad when he was in college.”

“That must have been difficult,” she says vaguely as she scrubs a pot with a green Scotch-Brite dish wand. Your parents are now at the age when their friends have begun to succumb to strokes and heart disease and cancers, and the lurking specter of mortality both horrifies and fascinates them. “What did he die of?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Mom?!” Clara shouts from upstairs. “Osaka is puking in the hallway!”

Your mother sighs and dries her hands on a dish towel, then leaves you alone in the kitchen. You linger there for a while, listening to the faint drone of CNN from the living room television, then leave the house through the sliding glass door in the dining room. Outside the sun is setting, and you gaze westward as the aging daylight turns the tall green grass and silhouettes of horses to gold like the mines that first brought settlers to California. You slide your phone out of the pocket of your denim shorts and take a photo, then post it to your Instagram story with the caption Home and a smiley face emoji.

A minute later, you receive a DM. Aegon has typed: This explains the big horse girl energy

You laugh and respond: They belong to my sister, I am personally very anti-horse

You hope he’ll continue the conversation. You don’t have to wait long. How’s Minnesota? Aegon asks.

You stop and consider how to answer, then decide not to overshare. Devoid of palm trees…but good!

There is a pause—perhaps thirty seconds—and then Aegon types: How’s the ex-boyfriend?

Is he curious or jealous? You smile. Still not standing in the way of anything :)

Aegon reacts with a heart emoji, then immediately switches it to a thumbs-up. You cannot ignore the wave of warmth and fondness and exhilaration that overwhelms you. Logically, you know he’s engaged to another woman. Emotionally, it doesn’t seem relevant.

You think: It’s just a crush. It can’t hurt anybody.

Then you remember what your mother asked, and as you stand outside in the fading dusk light you Google Aegon’s father Viserys Targaryen. He has his own Wikipedia page. You scroll to the bottom, where it reads in nondescript black letters: On October 27, 2009, Targaryen passed away at his Malibu residence after a long illness.

~~~~~~~~~~

You have just finished ringing up a Like It-sized Apple Pie A La Cold Stone when Josh says: “Hey, there’s an old guy asking for you.”

“What?” You look towards the ice cream freezer and there he is, dark jeans, green Nike Killshots, a yellow Hawaiian shirt that’s too big for him. “It’s my agent!” you shout as you rush over to meet him, loud enough that everyone in the shop turns to stare.

“Shh,” Aegon says, but he’s laughing.

“What are you doing here?” you ask from behind the counter.

“I got some good news, and I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Cool! Should I make you ice cream first?”

“Um, sure.” Aegon surveys the menu of Signature Creations. He seems overwhelmed; he actually looks a little panicked.

“Are you usually a chocolate or vanilla person? Or peanut butter, or coffee? Or mint?”

“Strawberry,” Aegon says.

“Strawberry,” you echo, surprised. “Okay, I think you’ll like Our Strawberry Blonde.”

“Neat.”

“Because, you know, it has strawberries and you’re blonde.”

“Sounds literally perfect for me,” Aegon says, smiling.

“What size?”

“Uh…” He reads the labels on the cups in the display case. “The big one.”

“No, you have to say the real name.”

He chuckles. His cheeks are pink, his turbulent blue eyes sparkling. “I’m not saying that.”

“Then I’m not making you ice cream!”

He groans. “I want an Our Strawberry Blonde in the size Gotta Have It.”

“Cup, cone, or waffle cone bowl?”

“Stop asking me questions or you’re fired.”

“Waffle cone bowl,” you decide. Aegon studies you as you work, his head tilted thoughtfully to the side: scraping a mound of strawberry ice cream out of the freezer with your metal spatulas, taking it to the cold countertop, and smashing in graham cracker pie crust, caramel, fluffy whipped topping, and fresh strawberries. You use one of the spatulas to expertly scoop the mixture into a waffle cone bowl, not spilling a drop. Then you hand Aegon his ice cream and ring him up at the cash register. He pays in cash.

You ask Josh, the manager on duty, if you can take your fifteen-minute break now. He frowns. “I thought you were going to refill the yellow cake and Oreo cookie mix-ins first.”

“Hey,” Aegon says. He waves a ten-dollar bill in the air to show it to Josh and then dunks it in the tip jar. “Do it yourself.”

“Fine,” Josh mutters to you. “But you don’t get a second over fifteen minutes.”

There’s no time to waste. You hurry to a small table by the window. It’s 8:30 p.m., and outside the world is indigo-dark and threaded with inorganic sparks of headlights, streetlights, kaleidoscopic neon signs. Your eyeshadow is vibrant and pink, because no one cares about that when you work at an ice cream shop: Push by Natasha Denona, Coax by Urban Decay.

Aegon takes his first taste of his ice cream as he sits down in the chair across from you. “You were right, this is delicious. A bop, not a flop.” Then he notices the bruise on your right wrist. “What the hell happened to your hand?”

“Oh. One of the Akitas bit me. Don’t worry, I can cover it up with concealer.”

Aegon is irritated. “Why is your mother letting her Akitas bite you?”

“It was my fault. I forgot that Oni doesn’t like when people pet his feet.”

Aegon sighs, stirring his Our Strawberry Blonde. “You want some of this?”

“I can’t,” you say reluctantly.

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I already had a little cup when I got here this afternoon so I have regrettably hit my ice cream quota for the day.” And then, when Aegon clearly does not approve: “I try not to restrict too much but obviously staying the same size takes effort. That’s not a disorder, it’s just reality.”

Aegon seems to debate arguing, then instead scoops up a heaping spoonful of ice cream and holds it out across the table. “Come on. It doesn’t count if it’s on my spoon.”

You smile sheepishly and open your mouth for him. Your lips close around the plastic spoon: coldness, sweetness, the grit of pulverized graham cracker pie crust, the infinitesimal black seeds of strawberries that catch between your teeth. When Aegon begins to pull it away, you grab his hand and don’t let go until you’ve licked the spoon clean. He laughs hysterically as he watches you. “I haven’t had strawberry ice cream in forever,” you say.

“Don’t tell me you’re a vanilla girl.”

“I am,” you confess. “I know the joke. But I really do always get the vanilla-adjacent flavors. Cookie dough, French vanilla, sweet cream, cheesecake…”

Aegon smirks playfully. “Pathetic.”

“So you’re an enlightened being because you eat strawberry ice cream.”

“Boring people like vanilla. Kids like chocolate. Interesting adults like strawberry.”

“Do you actually have good news for me or did you just come here to be a ghoul?”

“I got you a part.”

“What?!” you squeal, and people are gawking again. This time, Aegon doesn’t tell you to be quiet. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he replies, grinning like he can’t help it.

“A part in what?”

“It’s small,” Aegon warns. “It’s an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.”

You scream; Josh scowls at you from behind the counter. “Oh my God, no way, no way!”

“You’re going to be the wife of a guy the doctors kill with negligence. Three scenes, two are pretty short and unremarkable but then you get to yell at the surgeon in the last one. Gives you the opportunity to show some range and make an impression.”

You can’t believe this is happening. “They aren’t going to make me audition first?”

“Well…it’s very last-minute,” Aegon says. “The actress who was supposed to do it has a drug problem or something, I guess, so she ghosted and they were scrambling for a replacement. And I completely fabricated your credentials.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, I typed up a resume and sent it over and they loved it. So try not to talk about your actual experience because none of it will match.”

You shake your head, stunned, amazed. “What if they try to contact one of my alleged former employers?”

“Then they’ll be talking to Aemond, and he will lie and say you were an absolute pleasure to work with.”

Aemond Targaryen: Aegon’s younger brother, a screenwriter, a philanthropist, a well-respected entity in Hollywood, and you know this from the Googling that preceded your first meeting with Aegon last week. “And Aemond doesn’t mind helping you commit fraud?”

“It’s not a favor I call in very often.” Aegon finishes his ice cream, then begins breaking apart the waffle cone bowl and shoving shard-like pieces into his mouth.

“When’s the shoot?”

“Very very early on Thursday, that’s the bad news.” Thursday is two days from now. “So I’ll have to pick you up at your apartment at like 5 a.m.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be ready.”

He smiles, gnawing on a chunk of his waffle cone bowl. “I figured.”

“You’re going too?” The hope is unmistakable in your voice.

“Of course I’m going.”

“I didn’t think agents usually went to film shoots.”

“Well, fortunately for you, your agent is imminently fleeing Los Angeles and has already parted ways with most of his clients and really has nothing else going on besides hiding in his office and playing a Nintendo 64, so I figured I could make it. And also if I’m going to be enthusiastically recommending you to people, I should probably see you work at some point.”

You wiggle your eyebrows flirtatiously. “Do I get to make out with my fake husband?”

Aegon is amused. “From what I understand, you get to chastely kiss him once. They’re sending the script over to my office first thing in the morning, so you’ll only have a day to learn your lines.”

“That’s enough time. I’ll make it work.”

“Always so agreeable,” Aegon muses. So desperate is more like it.

Thursday. “Is the shoot just one day?”

“Yeah, they should be able to get everything they need from you on Thursday morning. Why?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday and I was just wondering if I’d have to reschedule it.”

Aegon is immediately vigilant. “What kind of appointment?”

“Uh…” You smirk guiltily. “It’s just a consultation. No slicing yet.”

“And you’re going to cancel that,” Aegon says flatly.

“Seriously?”

“Do you want implants because you want them or because you think other people want you to have them?”

You hesitate. “Both.” That’s probably a lie.

Aegon leans back in his chair and studies you. “Yeah, you’re cancelling that appointment.”

“Why?”

“Because when I agreed to sign you, you told me that you’d do anything I say. And I’m telling you to cancel it.”

“But why don’t you want me to get implants? Everyone gets implants.”

“Because once you begin to treat scalpels and needles as prescriptions for everything you don’t like about yourself—or everything that other people don’t like about you—it’s very difficult to stop. First it’s your tits, then it’s your eyes and your nose, then it’s your chin and your cheeks and your neck and your ass, and it’s just this revolving door of painful, dangerous, unnecessary procedures that are condemning you for being mortal, that are carving away your humanity one incision at a time. I’ve seen it happen to more people than I could count, and I don’t want it to happen to you. Because you seem very, very human, and I’d like you to stay that way. Which means you don’t cut yourself up because some agent or producer or casting director told you to.” Then he adds, perhaps as an afterthought: “And anyway, you don’t need implants.”

You smile, then reply quietly: “You’ve never seen me.”

Aegon grins. “I don’t care if you have twelve nipples under there like a fucking beagle, you don’t need plastic surgery.”

You both laugh, and the tension evaporates, and even if you don’t cancel the appointment—Aegon is one person, the entertainment industry is omnipotent and eternal—you are glad he seems to like you the way you are. Behind the counter, Josh is waving manically to get your attention and summon you to return to work. You pretend not to see him.

Aegon asks: “Why don’t you like horses?”

“They freak me out. They’re all teeth and legs and they’re huge, I’m always scared they’ll step on me.”

“Your dad’s a doctor, right? I thought all rich girls had horses.”

“Where I’m from, a lot of women ride horses to distract themselves from the fact that their husbands are riding their receptionists or interns. I’d rather have no horse and no awful cheating husband.” And Aegon stares at you and turns serious, because perhaps you’ve inadvertently addressed the elephant in the room: he has a fiancée, and neither of you are acting like she exists. You swiftly pivot. “I’ll make an exception for you, though.”

He appears startled. “What?”

“The Chinese zodiac. You’re a horse. So you’re the only horse I like.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Aegon chuckles uneasily and gets up to throw his trash away, then stands under the florescent lights with his hands in his pockets, his blonde hair falling out of its gel and hanging over his forehead. He gazes down at you pensively; you are still seated at the table. “When does your shift end?”

“I’m closing tonight, so I’ll be done around 10:30 or 11.”

“Okay. Can I come back to pick you up and drive you home?”

You are puzzled. “Why?”

He gestures to the inky dark window, incredulous. “Because obviously you shouldn’t be walking alone in Harbor Gateway at midnight? You know there was a shooting a block from here last week. I looked it up.”

“I walk home all the time.”

“You really need to stop doing that.”

“You are being very dramatic for a non-actor.”

“Listen, I can’t go to my house and try to fall asleep while I’m wondering if you’re getting mugged or murdered.”

You look at Aegon. He does seem genuinely worried. “You can drive me home.”

“Great. See you in two hours.” He strides away and shoves open the glass door; the little metal bells hanging there jingle.

“Aegon?”

He halts mid-step and turns around. “Yeah?”

“Does Becca know where you are right now?”

His face is some amalgamation of emotions you can’t read, and this is unusual.“Why do you think I paid in cash?”

And before you can reply, he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

On Thursday, June 19th, Aegon picks you up in his white Chrysler Sebring convertible while the city is still asleep. The sky is dark, the streetlights passing by overhead, infinite pinpoint supernovas. There are hardly any other cars on the road. Aegon’s hair is a mess and his eyes are bleary; he’s sipping a Starbucks coffee with one hand and holding the steering wheel with the other. He is wearing a suit, but he still manages to look unpolished, his white shirt half-untucked and his black tie too skinny. He sets his coffee down in one of the cup holders and passes you something venti-sized and iced.

“I got you a vanilla latte, vanilla girl.”

“Aw, thanks! Skim milk?”

“Nope,” he says, smiling. You smile back and take a gulp of it, cold and sweet and bracing. “What’s your hype song?”

“I can’t tell you,” you say, embarrassed.

“Why not?”

“You’re going to terrorize me.”

“Don’t Stop Believing? Don’t Stop Me Now? I Gotta Feeling?”

“Lose Yourself.”

Aegon throws back his head and cackles, his hair flying in the wind. “That’s definitely a fireable offense. I’m ditching you the second we finish this shoot.” But he taps around on his phone and plugs in the aux, and then Eminem is thudding through the speakers as the Sebring sails north and the red-gold dawn rises on the horizon, a celestial message from the East Coast, an omen from the future.

Aegon drives you to Prospect Studios in Los Feliz, just east of Hollywood. Filming will be indoors on a soundstage. You spend what feels like forever in hair and makeup, and the costume designer—who had prepared for a different actress—dresses and redresses you over and over again, frowning at your chest and waist and thighs, and you have a sudden pang of nauseating panic and dread: I don’t belong here. What the fuck was I thinking?

Then you are in the scenes under intensely radiant artificial light, and just like it did in your roles back in Minnesota, the real world vanishes and all that exists are these characters, these moments, and your body and mind become theirs, and perhaps even your soul too. Your husband is handsome and kind, and here in this liminal fictional space you love him, and when the surgeons wheel him off to the operating room you are full of blind naïve surety. Then the doctors update you on his condition and you are still hopeful, but it becomes a fragile thing, like something that shatters when it’s dropped from a height. And then he is dead, he has been taken away from you, he has been stolen, and you are eclipsed by a blood-red wrath that is animalistic and unforgiving. After each take when you are ripped back through the veil and into reality, you can’t remember exactly what you did or said, and the director doesn’t have many critiques so you aren’t sure how it’s going.

But when it’s over, while you are still standing on the soundstage with the other actors, Aegon puts on his sunglasses and smiles at you from across the room; and you remember what he said outside his office on the day you first met—you are so bright, sunshine—and you know you’ve done a good job.

[wickermayne]

Decided to do another month kink event 🤪

Kinkuary 2025

Short Naruto/Hinata smut drabbles that I hope I can fill up the month with, enjoy! Chapter 1 is Age Gap.

She’s barely legal, though you’d never guess it from the shape of her body.

An hourglass figure with fat tits and a thick ass, her youth showing only in the pristine features of her face.

And her attitude, so worshipful and in awe, even though she’d have been a child during the Pain invasion and the war — a fan girl, high on the stories her elders told her, from what was taught in her history books, and close enough to the figure itself that she could develop a crush, or maybe something more deep-rooted.

Naruto had seen it many times before, and this wasn’t the first time he’d taken advantage of it — but Hinata was different than the rest of the girls.

There was something more genuine about Hinata, something about her nature, so docile, shy and sweet, that tickled Naruto in a way that the others didn’t.

Maybe it was because of how Hinata was so innocent….so corruptible.

Always clinging to every word Naruto said, like it was gospel.

“When’s your jounin exam again?”

Hinata blinked up at him, trying to clear her brain from its lust-addled state, her cunt with cute, baby clenches on his cock as she dealt with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

Naruto smirked down at her and made it worse, rolling his hips, forcing out a low moan from Hinata as her thighs continued to twitch, her arousal dripping down the latex of the condom until it soaked against the edge of his pubic hair.

“A-ah, it’s next month, Naruto-sama,” Hinata managed to gasp out, lavender eyes glued to where they connected, whining when Naruto pulled out.

“Y’know,” Naruto drawled as he pressed his length down on Hinata’s throbbing clit, rubbing his girth lazily back and forth on it. He watched as she bit her lip, eyes nearly rolling back in her head, and he knew she’d accept his word like God, then. “I think you should postpone your exam.”

“P-postpone it?”

Naruto hummed in acknowledgement, drawing his hips back and thrusting his fat tip against her clit.

“Ooooh, Naruto-sama!”

Naruto loved the way she moaned his name, and how easy it was to get her to do it too.

“Yeah, I think you should wait to take the exam…wait until after you have my baby.”

Her eyes were sharp now, cutting through her arousal, her mouth trembling as she stared at him in a mixture of disbelief and awe.

Kakashi would scold him later for taking out a productive member from their work force — but how could Naruto hold back when Hinata looked at him like that?

“You want that, don’t you, ‘Nata?” Naruto purred, his hand caressing her belly, where her womb would be. “To have my baby?”

She answered by reaching between his legs, clumsily grabbing at the condom before she ripped it off and threw it the side. She thrusted her hips up off the bed, sliding her cunt over the underside of his cock, her arousal staining into his skin.

“Please, please, please, oh, Naruto-sama, I want it more than anything!”

Naruto slotted his cock against her entrance, watching her lips stretch in acceptance around his tip.

“And then, what if I don’t want you to do exam after that? What if I want you to stay home so I can keep gettin’ you pregnant?”

Hinata wrapped her legs around his hips, her heels digging into his back and drawing him into her hot, needy cunt. She stared up at him with the skin of her cheeks burnt red, and her eyes filled with devotion.

“That would make me the happiest woman in the world, Naruto-sama…please don’t tell me it’s a joke. Promise me.”

Naruto cussed as he thrusted into Hinata’s eager cunt, her walls pulsing around him already, primed to be bred.

For a moment, Naruto thought maybe he was the one wrapped around her finger.

Well, he didn’t mind it.

“I promise, ‘Nata.”

And then he fucked her like a beast, with the instincts of animal ready to rut, building up to painting her walls whiter than her porcelain skin. Turning her into an eager teen mother, ready to build a clan with him.

[skwc]

started yakuza 6 over the weekend ❣

[turtleblogatlast]

Leo learns something about himself 🏳️‍⚧️

Based roughly on this old post.

Bonus:

[Leo is taking the fact that he was born biologically female simultaneously very well and also not so well but overall he’s mostly coping with the fact that it was Draxum that just essentially gave him the turtle equivalent of ‘The Talk’.]

[thelostmoongazer]

so i recently watched all the sonic movies

[royaltea000]

[jttw swk oc children] tried out giving them some new clothes but I dunno bout this one… 🤔

Prev:

[lokh]

(ch 40 spoilers) au where qifrey erases olruggios memories one too many times and he forgets qifrey and ONLY qifrey

sometimes using forbidden magic that no one really knows how to wield anymore comes with unintended consequences!

eventually qifrey comes upon a solution, but it will return ALL his memories to him. will he risk it...?