#scenes from a marriage fic

[sweetsuburbanlegends]

Summary: B reading and A watching with their chin on B's shoulder

Pairing: Jonathan Levy x Reader

Warnings: boring dialogue?, probably me self-inserting in the self-insert i wrote

Word Count: 944

When you enter the bedroom, Jonathan can tell immediately that you've been crying. There are tear tracks on your face, and your breath, usually his anchor during his asthma attacks and like the flow of the river, comes in short little tides of gasps. You're trying to calm down but he doesn't think it's working. 

Letting his book fall face-open on his chest, "What's happened, baby?" He’s chewing away at some Nicorette gum, absent-mindedly, the repetitive motion keeping his mind just faintly occupied enough so he can focus on what he’s reading. 

He has a sneaking suspicion about what it was but he doesn't want to belittle you and assume things. 

"Nothin'," you give him a weak smile, your eyes tired and glistening. Your voice breaks, "I was just watching a movie." 

"Oh?" He shifts up on the bed, resting against the headboard. With his age, he's been forced to put pillows behind his back now, otherwise he'll wake up in the morning with a knot and he won't be able to get out of bed without your help. "Which one?" 

You hesitate before looking down at the ground and murmuring, "It's a Wonderful Life." 

Jonathan's not surprised. You loved that one, no matter how cheesy. You'd showed him photos of your college dorm and there was a big movie poster tacked up on the wall across from your bed. 

For your birthday, he'd bought you the colourized CD and now like tradition, you watch it when the holidays roll around. 

And like tradition you break down into tears at the end of it. 

To my big brother George, the richest man in town. 

"It's summer, honey, what are you doing watching a Christmas movie?" 

You shrug, coming over to join him on the bed. You click into his side like a magnet. "Wanted to watch it again."

“Did you enjoy it?” 

“Mmhm.” 

He shifts and moves down again, his book sliding just that way to the left of his body. “Well, that’s all that matters then.” 

Cuddling closer, so that he feels your breath against the sensitive skin of his neck, as it starts to regain its normal music, “What’re you reading?” 

“Oh,” he holds up the cover for you to see. It’s a beaten-down, yellow, almost identical to the colour The Man in the Yellow Hat wore in the Curious George books, though that’s about where the similarities end. “The Life You Can Save. Peter Singer.” 

“What’s it about?” Your hand follows down the trail of his chest, starting from his shirt collar, and rests on his lower tummy. 

You were unlike anyone he’d ever dated after his divorce. You’d been shaped and moulded by your past like him. Craving touch and running away when it was given to you. 

You’d been hurt. A guy you hadn’t named yet but talked about sometimes, just enough so Jonathan would be able to tell just what kind of accommodation you were asking of him. 

The first time Jonathan kissed you, you didn’t even give him a chance to say good night before you were gone, the lock turning sounding like the door of a coffin closing. 

Though that had been three years ago. 

Now, you tuck your head into his neck and touch his tummy. Sometimes, you get a little scandalous and run your hands up his inner thighs. 

But always in private, always alone, sharing your solitude with Jonathan. 

“The morality of people knowing about poverty and doing nothing to stop it,” he says, flipping through the pages with his thumb at the edge of the book, before he closes it and hands it over to you. 

You take it with a frown, and for a few moments, you go quiet as you read the back of it. “Is this for one of your classes?” 

Jonathan’s just glad that you’re not thinking about the movie anymore, even if you claimed to enjoy it, he doesn’t like seeing you unnecessarily cry; another little of those funny knacks leftover from Mira, like when you stay the night at someone else’s and they tour the house, teaching you how to handle every temperamental doorknob and tap. 

“Yeah, Intro to Ethics.” 

“I didn’t know they had you teaching junior-level courses again.” 

You place the book back on his chest, replace your hand where it rightfully belongs. 

He shrugs, “I taught it a couple times during my postdoc…just trying to refresh my mind. Update the content a bit.” 

With a little sigh, “I wish I had professors like you when I was in college.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. He cups the back of your head with his hand, “I do too.” 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading.” 

He shakes his head, “It’s alright.” 

But Jonathan hears what you wanted to say and picks up his book, flipping back to where he was. On cue, you place your head on his shoulder and tilt up. 

Since Ava moved away to college, Jonathan’s got a lot more time on his hands. He’s finally gotten around to building you that window seat you always wanted, finishing up shows that he’s been meaning to watch for years now. Reading, writing, sleeping, eating. 

He goes on long walks with you these days, pumping fresh, clean air into his lungs and making his attacks infrequent and far between. He hasn’t touched a cigarette or a lighter in months now. 

It’s almost strange the amount of time he gets to spend on himself and you now. Maybe it’s a brief taste of what retirement is going to be like.

Thanks for reading, if you liked it, please consider leaving some feedback! I don't usually respond, but I obsess and re-read reblogs and comments constantly.

Masterlist here. Summer Drabbles here.

[clazaries]

Old Love, New Dream (NSFW)

(JonathanLevy! x f!reader)

Summary: Just when you think you've recovered from a debilitating breakup with Jonathan Levy, all those feelings come rushing back when he walks back into your life again as your best friend's boyfriend. w/c: a whopping 10.1k Warnings: angst, Mira is included in this, NSFW; smut, fingering, p in v, oral (fem rec.), eventual fluff a/n: HELLOOOO! I'm back. Sorry took a small hiatus to finish off college and I really struggled to finish the end of this so apologies if it's shit. I also watched a spanish film called a treves de mi ventana (specifically the third one) which I loved and took inspiration from while I was writing this. Anyway hope you enjoy!!!

Fuck Jonathan Levy.

Fuck him and everything he stands for. Fuck him in the past and fuck him in the future. Fuck him and the way he treated you with love in his heart, with stars in his eyes, and with you at the heart of everything he did. Fuck him for being the best boyfriend, partner and friend that anyone could’ve asked for. Fuck him for promising you that it would last forever, that you would always have him for as long as you live. 

Fuck him, especially on that unassuming Tuesday morning when you woke up to sadness on his face, pain behind his eyes and the truth on his lips. Fuck his ‘I think we should take a break, we need to spend time on ourselves, by ourselves.’ Fuck him for making you think that life’s not fair; because how were you to know that after six years of a strong and stable relationship, especially one that guided you hand-in-hand into adulthood, would be ripped from you in a day. 

Fuck him for making you miss him so, so fucking badly to the point where you struggle to get through your day without thinking about him. The countless number of occasions where you’ve had friends and family members tell you so naively to ‘move on’, or to ‘get over him’, or that ‘you don’t miss him, you miss what you had with him.’ 

And in all honesty, they’re exactly right. You can’t bear to reflect upon what could’ve been, so your only alternative is to miss what you had, and therein lies that problem of why he still subconsciously worms his way back into your mind. Because he’s tied to it, intertwined so deeply that he’s the knot you just can’t unravel. 

It’s not like you think about him purposely, in fact, if you had the will-power to compartmentalise everything associated with him into a box, you would lock it and throw away the key. But he left such an imprint on you that in the quietest moments of thought, his name, his face, his eyes and Jesus, even the memory of his scent appears when you least expect it. What’s worse is that they’re good memories, not the ones that broke your heart, not the ones that should be reminding you of how much of an arsehole he is, but the ones that you look back on with nostalgia. 

It took a long time to come to terms that he’ll never be a part of your life again, to shake hands with the devil and accept that he will always be the one that got away. That’s the part that will never leave you. He is the big gaping wound in your heart that will never heal. 

The best you could do was move away to another state, to start afresh with the hopes of finding someone new that could give you everything he did and more. But it’s proven to be a bigger challenge than you anticipated because your desire to find someone capable enough to fill the hole and let it scar has never been satiated. No one, not even in the three years since your break up with Jonathan Levy, has come close.

You had gone for such a long time thinking that this level of pain and heartbreak was exclusive to you only and that there was no one else in this world who could empathise with you. That was until you met your next door neighbour Mira who was shockingly similar to you in every way; broken from a relationship that ended years ago, desperately searching for something or someone to alleviate years of hopeless longing and the need for fulfilment. She was the therapy you always knew you needed and vice versa. There were many nights spent drinking wine, talking about ex-lovers with the same yearning, indulging in each others’ wishes of how they could relive what you both once had. Surprisingly, divulging each others’ woes became a temporary fix to your problem and soon missing him turned from a daily issue to a weekly issue. Now, he’s a quiet thought just once a month. 

But things started to change one night in Mira’s dining room when she announced something you hadn’t seen coming.

She’s got a new boyfriend.

~~~~

You sit there, quietly in shock, at her oak dining table directly across from her, listening as she talks of her newly-established relationship as if she had been blessed by all the godly-deities of every power and religion. 

“You have to meet him,” she says with a mouthful of spaghetti bolognese, “he’s just the sweetest guy.” 

A twinge of bitterness and jealousy has your stomach clenching. “Yeah? Where did you meet him?” 

“I’ve always kind’ve known of him, like, I met him last year when I was travelling for work, but recently we’re just really hit it off.” 

“Do you think it’ll turn into something more serious?” 

The lips of your friendly neighbour beam wider, a subtle coy sparkle evident in her eyes. “I would like to think so, I think we’re both in a really good place.”

“That’s great Mira, I’m happy for you.” 

“I was actually thinking about hosting a dinner with the neighbours, like what we used to do years ago, but I might bring him along this time.” 

“Wow, so really serious then. Must be something really special if you’re willing to dig up an old tradition just for him.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Well you know, I miss those dinners. They were always so much fun. They introduced a lot of new things to us including you, and I feel it would be a good way to introduce him to the street too since they’ll be seeing a lot of him ‘round here in the future.” 

The Maple Avenue dinners were once the highlight of your week, plucked from a suburban neighbourhood’s dream. It was a tradition you inadvertently started when you first moved into the street, a way of getting to know the neighbours around you. Mira, being your next door neighbour was one of the first to receive an invite and was also the one to convince others to join. Surprisingly, the occasion started a chain of events where other neighbours wanted to host their own dinners, play games, chat and share their life over wine. It happened so often that it became a weekly ritual that you all cherished, until organising a roast for ten to fifteen people became too overwhelming, especially for those who had started a family, or who had taken a promotion at work. Having no such responsibilities, you and Mira became the only two to keep the tradition alive.

“I’d like that. Want me to get in touch with the neighbours?” 

“I’ll handle it.”

Two weeks pass and the Friday you have been silently dreading finally arrives. You had been prepared for it up until about an hour ago when you couldn’t remember who drinks white wine and who drinks red, who has an intolerance to dairy and who has an allergy to nuts. 

Spotting Mira’s open window across the way, you decide to lean out your bedroom window, hoping to catch her attention. “Mira!” Within seconds she’s mirroring you, her hair still pinned in curls and her body wrapped in her satin robe. 

“What?” 

“I was going to bring my roasted hazelnut cookies but I can’t remember who has a dairy intolerance and who has a nut allergy.” 

“Don’t you remember? Alan doesn’t have dairy, it could get hairy, and Steph doesn’t have nuts, no buts. You don’t need to worry though, they can’t make it tonight.” 

“See, this is why you’re the better neighbour. Red or white?”

“Go for red. Jonathan drinks red.” 

For a moment, your heart stutters a little in your chest, a small sense of unease tightening your muscles, but you need to remember, it’s just a name. A popular boy’s name. “Jonathan?” 

“Jonathan as in boyfriend Jonathan. As in the-reason-why-we’re-doing-this Jonathan.”

“Oh right,” you nervously laugh, “you’ve always referred to him as ‘the boyfriend’ it made me forget that he actually has a name.” 

“Yeah, well he’ll soon have a face too. Although he said he might be a little late tonight and doesn’t mind missing the starter. He'll be here for the main.” 

“Okay, can’t wait!”

Having food preparations sorted, you take the remaining few hours to present yourself; washing, bathing, moisturising, curling your hair, applying that little extra bit of makeup, and finally choosing an outfit. Despite it only being Mira and a handful of the neighbours who have seen you in worse states, you still feel the need to look presentable in front of a new face, perhaps the result of your mother’s behaviour rubbing off on you when she faced similar situations. ‘Always presentable, always welcoming. First impressions matter.’ 

Her words stay true to this day. It’s what banked you a job, friends amongst the neighbourhood, and impossibly so, Jonathan Levy’s attraction many, many years ago. 

Since the weather had transitioned well into the Spring’s warmth, you settle for a sundress knowing that Mira fully intends to use her beautiful backyard to see off the sunset after dinner. It fits you perfectly, complimented by the sparkling golden necklace that sits squarely between your clavicles; the very same Jonathan had gifted you on your 21st birthday, which to anyone should be reason enough to get rid of it, but just like how you can’t completely get rid of the thought of Jonathan, you can’t get rid of the necklace. At least, not yet. 

You arrive a little earlier than Mira had instructed but with good intentions. You help her set the table, stick the necessary food in the oven and ease her nerves. You’re glad to see her dressed similarly, having put in that little extra glamour on top of her usual appearance to appease her guests and, of course, her boyfriend which you both casually joke about.

Soon, one by one, the neighbours start arriving and quickly settle into their own seats as the first course gets plated out. Only one seat across from you remains empty. 

You’re surprised by how quickly it starts to feel like nothing’s changed at all; being here together conversing over a roast, clinking glasses and laughing over memories and you remind yourself to give thanks to Mira’s new boyfriend for reigniting a fire that burned out long ago. However it seems like you might need to wait your turn with how engrossed the rest of the neighbours are in Mira’s new boyfriend, everyone wants to meet him. His name fails to fall out of conversation with now being the only chance to ask about him before he arrives.

“So how did he ask you out?” Lisa, from number 32, asks, sitting next to her husband Tom. 

“He took me on a date to Rosano’s, very generously paid for my meal, and then we went for a walk along the pier where he surprised me with a bouquet of pink peonies that he had the ice cream vendor keep before the date. He had it all planned out.” 

Everyone around you awes with adoration, their lips pouting and their hands over their chest, almost identical to the way people reacted when you told a similar story to your friends when they asked you how your Jonathan asked you out. Only after you swallow the soft lump of potato do you force yourself to respond in the same way, too caught up in your own memories to give an immediate reaction. 

Pink peonies. Your favourite flower. 

It takes everything in you to ignore the blaring alarm in your head, screaming and fussing over the coincidences. You boil it down to emotions running high and how everything lately has been reminding you of your ex, subconsciously relating everything back to the time you spent with him. Fuck, you didn’t even need to try that hard to link the lentil soup you’re eating back to him. The first meal you had together when you both moved into your new apartment…

The starter course and the conversation concluded when Mira’s boyfriend chapped on the front door. With an understanding nod, you take the plates from Mira’s hands, offering to take them to the kitchen while she answers the door. While there, you can hear through the walls, listening to the cacophony of people greeting one another, sharing names and pleasantries while you stand over the kitchen sink. While the tap runs, you look up to your reflection in the kitchen window, twisting your strands of hair to re-curl that one piece that had fallen flat. First impressions. Better make it a good one. 

You enter the dining room once again with a beaming smile on your face ready to welcome him in, and standing there, by Mira’s side, is the last person you want to see. 

Jonathan. Fucking. Levy. 

It is by chance, or perhaps by fate's cruel hand, that you find yourselves face to face once again in the most unexpected of places. There’s barely enough time to react when your eyes meet from across the room, picked out from a sea of people being none the wiser to the unfortunate predicament you both face. In that moment, amongst the din of the dining room, time almost comes to a stand still and you’re left waiting in the doorway with bated breath, overrun by a wash of emotions as Jonathan’s eyes are confronted with the same feeling. 

Between you and him, Jonathan seems to keep up the pretence better than you do as his smile barely dips, but enough to know that he recognises you, enough to know that he too is filled with the same amount of dread and confusion as you are. And as Mira walks him over to introduce you, he doesn’t let the facade fall. 

She introduces your name to him and without a seconds’ hesitation, he offers his hand. “Hi, I’m Jonathan, nice to meet you.” 

There’s a moment’s delay before you take it, his warmth no stranger to your skin, and with a little wobble to your voice you relay his words back to him. “It’s…it’s nice to meet you too, Jonathan.” 

His eyes stay on you as Mira thankfully takes control of the conversation. Poor, oblivious Mira who is unaware of the fact that your Jonathan has just become her Jonathan…because surnames were never mentioned. “Is the food ready to come out?” 

“Uh, yeah. I can…I can help out if you need.” 

“Perfect! Jonathan, honey, you go sit and get yourself a drink, ‘kay? Dinner won’t be long.” 

You watch agonisingly as Mira peppers his cheek with a kiss and follows you into the kitchen where you finally get a chance to navigate the minefield of unresolved emotions without a roomful of witnesses. 

Mira instantly tends to the roast slowly cooking away in the oven leaving you to stand in the corner, almost not knowing what to do yourself. An explosion has just gone off inside you yet Mira and a roomful of people are expecting you to carry on as normal, as if years and years’ worth of recovery hasn’t just been stripped from you within a single second. Thousands of layers of hurt have been peeled back and left you bare and vulnerable to your biggest fear, and yet Jonathan’s pretence to not know you has forced you to deal with it as if it’s nothing. 

What the fuck are you supposed to do?

“So what do you think?” Mira pulls you from your musing and peers up to you, a proud smile on her face. Her. Mira. It’s all for Mira’s sake, the innocent party in all of this. The realisation hits you like a freight train. If she knew anything about Jonathan being the ex you talked for hours about, it would destroy her. “He’s nice, right?” 

“Lovely,” you gleam back, kickstarting your limbs to dish out the cooked vegetables. “He seems very nice.”

“I knew you’d like him.” 

If only, Mira, if only. 

Not enough time passes before everyone is sat at the dinner table once more, tucking into the delicious food warmly prepared by Mira. You wouldn’t even know, you’ve barely touched it. You can’t find it in you to enjoy the food nor engage in the jovial conversation happening around you because Jonathan Fucking Levy, your ex of six years, is sitting right across from you behaving so casually it makes your stomach churn. 

The little ball of stuffing rolls across your plate, dancing from side to side over and over again. You take the small amount of comfort you can find in the hypnotic motion, stuck in a trance of watching this stuffing ball roll back and forward while Jonathan Fucking Levy drones on about his endeavours. You try to pay him no attention of course, but when everyone else around you is sucked into his conversation narrated by his smooth-like-honey voice that used to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, it’s harder said than done. 

You dip in and out of his story telling every now and then because you can’t stop your curiosity from wondering just how different the last three years have been for him. Apparently he took ‘personal growth’ seriously and you come to realise that it wasn’t just a shoddy excuse to break up. He’s become a reputable academic, striving in the industry and made quite a name for himself which he explains so beautifully, so fluent with expression and elegant with his choice of his words that hooks everyone in which, given his career choice, makes all the more sense. Then, when you throw in his confident manner and the slightly animated way he presents himself when he speaks passionately about something (which, back in the day, used to be you), it accumulates to something you can’t help but admire. You see it in the eyes of your neighbours around you, afraid to blink for fears of missing something spectacular. 

It really makes you wonder how he can act so calm and collected. It’s been three years. Surely there has to be one little atom inside him that's swayed by your being here. There has to be. 

Oh, there definitely is. 

You don’t know it because you refuse to look at him, but every part of Jonathan is burning with anxiety. If you could just spare him one glance you would see that his fingers twitch around the thin stem of the wine glass, that his whole body shakes with his bobbing knee, and that his teeth incessantly chew away at his bottom lip. At least he has the red wine to thank, staining his cheeks with enough colour to conceal how pale he would be otherwise. 

Because he’s terrified. Terrified of not only seeing you, but missing you. Desperately, hopelessly, and unquestionably missing you. He feared he would never see you again to tell you. Yet here you are, sitting an arm’s length away from him, unknowingly tormenting him with the scent of your perfume that consumes every particle of air around him, effortlessly resurrecting memories of how he used to wish that scent would wake him up every morning like it used to. If only he could reach out to feel the buzz of your skin on his, just like it did when you shook his hand, the electricity that flowed through him when your eyes found his. He’s already experiencing withdrawal and he craves for your attention but you won’t look at him anymore. He needs you to look at him again, he needs you to know that he’s been plagued with regret since the moment you split. How can he get you to look at him? 

“So what do you do?” 

His question cuts through the running conversation like a sharp knife, demanding the attention of everyone at the table as they silence and wait for your answer. It takes you a second to realise he’s talking to you and had it been without everyone staring at you, you would’ve ignored him. But you don’t want to come across as rude to the other guests, and you settle for answering coldly. 

“Just corporate work, just a simple nine-to-five-Monday-to-Friday kind of job. It’s nothing special.” 

Mira interjects and you happily give her your attention if it means taking it away from Jonathan. Only, she’s leaning against his shoulder, softly patting his thigh affectionately. “Oh she’s being modest, she’s a finance manager, runs the full finance department with an iron fist, don’t you?”  

“I manage a small team of bookkeepers and accountants, it’s barely a department.”

“Interesting, how did you get into that?” You pan back to Jonathan who’s munching away, glaring at him through the furrow of your eyebrows, almost vehement at his audacity because he already knows how you got in financing. It was him. 

“A friend.” 

“What do you mean?” This bastard. 

“A friend convinced me to do it. I didn’t have the confidence at the time and he motivated me.”

“That was nice of him.” Sarcasm drips with every word. 

You bite back. “Yeah, he was nice. Until he wasn’t. Anyway, that’s a different story for a different time. More wine, anyone?” There’s a few mumbles of agreement, giving you enough of an excuse to rise from the table and make your way to Mira’s pantry in search of a stronger, more bitter tasting wine because God knows you’re going to need it to get through the rest of this dinner. 

Dessert comes and goes at an agonising pace. With the help of wine and the particularly boozy dessert, you become less inhibited, detangling yourself from the thick tension that’s lassoed tight around you and Jonathan. 

Instead, you find solace in Harry, who lives at number 30, sitting next to you, telling you about the struggles of being a single dad to two troublesome toddlers. It’s quite a depressing conversation and not the pick-me-up you were looking for, but anything is better than having to quietly observe the flirting that’s happening across the table. You deceive Harry into thinking that he’s got your full attention but really you’re hyper aware of Mira and Jonathan in your peripheral vision, sharing small, intimate touches, glancing at each other with stars in their eyes, embraced by the bliss of new-found love. 

That used to be you. You haven’t had anything like that since. 

“So…uh…” You have all intentions of continuing the conversation with Harry but you weren’t listening well enough to remember where he left off. “Who’s looking after the kids tonight?” 

“I hired a babysitter. Which reminds me,” he checks the time on his phone. “I said I’d be back by 8 and it’s 7:57. I better go.” To your dismay, your distraction rises from the table, grabs his jacket from the chair, thanks Mira for the meal and bids everyone a good night. Damn. There goes your distraction. 

Everyone around you is locked deep in conversation under the lowlights of Mira’s dining room. All except you. With a heavy sigh, you reach for your wine glass to once again relish the dry, bitter taste of the alcohol as it trickles down your throat. You slouch further and further back against your chair, wallowing in your isolation that no one seems to take notice of. 

But Jonathan does, and to your surprise, you feel something tentatively brush against your leg. At first you thought you had gotten too close to the table leg, but when it starts creeping up the length of your leg underneath your dress, your only option is to consider the man sitting directly across from you. Your eyes burn into the side of his head, ignorant to you while he talks enthusiastically about something you’re not privy to. Not that you want to be, especially when the tip of his shoe caresses the back of your calf, pulling it out from underneath you and hooking your ankle closer to him. He remains unfazed as your foot gently rests atop his underneath the table, tracing small circles over your achilles heel. 

Your heart beats widely inside you, violently disorientating you as much as the twisting in your stomach does. The gesture is so provocative you’re almost sweating in your seat. It’s scandalous, outrageous, and downright inappropriate, but you’ll be damned to hell if you don’t admit to yourself that it feels mildly arousing. 

Only when Mira leaves for the bathroom does he catch a glimpse of you over the tip of his wine glass and old sparks fly as you read the words in his eyes that his mouth can’t say. I miss you. I want you. I need you. 

Shaken, you draw back your leg and pull your eyes from his, feeling completely lost and indecisive about what to do. The hidden touches, the secrecy, it’s all too intimate for you to be opening an old wound that still hasn’t fully healed. You’re not ready for three years of hardship to manifest. 

Yet again Mira comes to the rescue when she returns from the bathroom and ushers all the remaining guests out into the backyard where you sit yourself as far away from Jonathan as possible, but it’s not without the touch of Jonathan’s hand to the small of your back as you all walk out through the glass panel doors, unnoticed by everyone else. There isn’t a doubt in your mind that he saw the momentary shiver that wracked your shoulders the moment his fingers splayed across the bottom of your spine, virtually feeling the heat of your body through the cotton sundress as if it was your own skin. You make a mental note to yourself to never get close to Jonathan for the remainder of the night. 

Once you get outside, you look up to your bedroom window, visible from all areas of Mira’s garden, wishing that you return to the comforts of your own bed, lost in your book and free from this emotional torment. It takes just a glimpse of your window to see everything inside it, something you hadn’t realised was possible until Mira had to awkwardly knock on your door the second week of you moving here and gently warn you to draw your blinds when you were changing. And just as the thought arises…

“Do you remember,” Mira hiccups, perhaps on her sixth glass of wine of the night, “when I had to tell you to close your blinds two weeks after you moved here? I actually thought you were maybe trying to seduce me!” She laughs wholeheartedly, nearly spilling her wine onto Jonathan’s lap. 

A blush blooms on your cheeks. “I didn’t realise you could see in! If I had known I would’ve! Jesus, Mira, way to make me out as a flasher in front of the neighbours.” 

“Listen, if it makes you feel any better, some guys would’ve paid thousands to have seen what I saw every  morning.” 

With a nervous glance of your eyes, you see Jonathan’s glare hard on you. 

“Do I need to contact the HOA and tell them we’ve got a pervert in our neighbourhood?” 

The neighbours laugh but Mira rushes to her defence, unknowingly giving Jonathan that all important detail that he might take advantage of later. “My window is right there! How could I not see you?” 

“Conversation over.” 

Against your wishes, Mira dives into many conversations of a similar nature provoked by Jonathan who annoyingly asks all sorts of questions that involve how you and Mira became friends, forcing her, in her now drunken state, to divulge all the memories you share together, including the many nights you spent talking about ex-lovers. The minute she starts spilling everything, nausea starts to pool inside you and the colour trickles away from your cheeks. Knowing none the wiser, she talks on and on and on about how you bonded over the troubles and hardships of being single, detailing everything about how you would reminisce over ex-lovers and compare them to every shitty cheesy romance film you watched together. And with just a few stories, she single-handedly exposes all of your inner thoughts and feelings towards Jonathan. Right in front of him all for him to hear. 

You silently plead with your eyes, solid in their gaze in the hopes that Mira would catch on and shut up, but she’s seven, no, eight glasses of wine deep that she can’t hold anybody’s gaze let alone yours. 

Jonathan merely sits and listens, amused by everything that is pouring out from Mira’s loud mouth. 

“I mean, it’s hard. And you’ll agree with me on this, that trying to get back into the dating scene as a single woman isn’t an easy experience! You go on dates with guys that bore you to sleep, clicking with absolutely none of them and it just leads to you going home and dreaming about meeting the one guy that sweeps you off your feet. Of course, you’ll know what I mean because you’ve already met him--”

“Mira--” 

She turns to Jonathan to give him context. Knowledge that he already knows himself. “She had this one guy that she dated years ago, the one-that-got-away kind of guy. We used to laugh about him--”

Jonathan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh really? How so?”

Fuck. 

“Mira--”

“Just the usual girly stuff, what we would wear at our weddings, thinking about baby names, and talk about owning the perfect house in the suburbs, that kind of stuff.” 

Jonathan turns to you with an emotion you can only only describe as being distressed, possibly on the verge of being disturbed and you don’t blame him. You’re sure that he could see the very same feeling in you through the gaps of your fingers as they hide your face in embarrassment. 

This is possibly your worst nightmare come to life. The entire night had dwindled into absolute ruins and there’s nothing more that you want than to bury yourself into the ground, away from Mira, away from this mortifying feeling, away from Jonathan. You know it’s not her fault, but everything in you is wanting you to blame Mira, to be judge, jury and executioner and lay out all that she is guilty of in front of her. However in reality, you’re projecting. You were the one to tell her about Jonathan. You were the one to feed her all this information believing that not a word of it would ever reach Jonathan’s ears, and when you consider all that has led up to this exact moment, you are just as at fault as she is. 

And you need to make a run from it while you can. 

“I’m…uh, I think I’m going to go home,” you announce, not realising how shaky your voice is until you speak up. Mira’s expression falls with disappointment, coming immediately to a stand and trying her hardest to convince you to stay. But you know nothing could. 

“Do you want us to walk you home?” 

“Mira, I live next door, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” 

She persistently follows you back into the house. “I’ll walk you to the door then.”

“I know where the front door is--” 

“I just want to make sure you get home okay--” 

“Mira, honey, you go sit, I’ll walk her out.” Jonathan’s voice appears from behind you both, reassuring enough that Mira follows his word and returns to the back garden with a mousey ‘okay’. Once gone, Jonathan, stoic as ever, catches you in his stride, escorting you to the door with a hand to the back of your shoulder. 

This time, when you speak, you can’t stop the sniffle as your emotions run high. “If I don’t want Mira walking me out, I sure as shit don’t want you walking me out.” 

He merely looks down to you and sighs, not listening to a single word you say. Within a matter of seconds, you exit through Mira’s front door, ready and willing to slam it in Jonathan’s face but he’s just a pace too quick and is already following you through the front garden. Your body goes into high alert, having no idea what he’s about to do now that for the first time in three years, you have a moment alone together. 

“Jonathan,” you warn. “Go back inside.” 

“Just let me walk you home.” 

“Why?” 

“Why? Because I want an explanation as to what the fuck just happened in there.” 

“You’re not getting one. You don’t deserve one. Go back inside, Jonathan, your girlfriend is waiting on you.” 

“Like hell. Will you just talk to me for one second?!” He reaches out and grabs your arm, swinging you around to face him where your bodies stand inches apart. It’s not in anger nor frustration but in desperation, as if this is the only chance he’ll ever get again to speak to you alone and he’s not willing to let it slip by him so easily. “Is…is what Mira said true? Did you really talk about all those things?” 

You look down to your fingers wringing them out while you wait for the courage to build. “That wasn’t her information to share. But what does it matter anyway, it’s…stupid.��

“It matters to me.” He tilts your chin with the gentlest of touches, his hand lingering close to your neck as he picks up the necklace sitting delicately around your neck, one that he’s all too familiar with. “I miss you.” 

“Don’t…don’t say that to me.” You begin to feel the tethers keeping the remains of your composure snapping, your mouth sinking deeper into a frown the way it always does when you’re about to cry. “You don’t get to say that to me.” 

“Nonetheless, it’s true. And I think you missed me too.” 

You roll your eyes and he immediately scorns you. “No, no, don’t do that. Don’t invalidate it just because I said it. I’m not trying to be smug or patronising, I want to know the truth. Did you miss me?” 

The wobble in your lip becomes uncontrollable. You don’t have the option to lie because he can read every minute feature on your face like it’s laid out for him in words, he would know if you didn’t tell the truth. With a deep breath, you push out the admission. “Every. Fucking. Day.” 

He nods understandably, retracting his hand from your necklace and sinks it deep into his pockets. He looks up to your window before quietly murmuring words suggestive in tone, “then keep your window open tonight.” 

And it takes your breath away.

~~~~

It’s late. A little past 1am. It’s been all too silent since the last of Mira’s guests left about an hour ago leaving only her and Jonathan next door. 

His last words to you before you separated still echo loudly in your ears but you just can’t figure what he meant. It’s the only thing that’s kept you up this late, and even as you sit on your bed just a few metres from your open window that lets in a cool, calming breeze, you still can’t fathom what he’s intending to do because her window across from you is closed, her curtains drawn and her lights out. 

Is this a joke? Is this Jonathan’s cruel twisted idea of a joke to make you watch as he and Mira settle for the night? Teasing you with something you can’t have? The foundation of that idea had developed a little less than half an hour ago and the more time ticks on, the more bricks are added to it. 

Having enough, you turn your back to your window, taking your duvet and slinging it over your head and around your shoulders, blocking out the world behind you. There’s no point trying to sleep, the embarrassment and the emotional trauma of tonight are still too raw for you to find any peace, so you reach for the half-finished book on your nightstand. 

Fuck Jonathan Levy. Fuck him and everything he stands for. Fuck him in the past and--

Wait, what was that? 

Just then, not even two lines into your book you hear the small creak of a door opening and closing coming from outside. Your eyes dart to your digital clock reading 1:10am. It could be Mark coming in from his backshift. It could be Erin, Alan’s teenage daughter sneaking in from a night out. It could be Rebecca, taking her dog out on a late night walk. All options are plausible and wouldn’t be completely out of the ordinary. But there’s one option that you’re afraid to consider.

What if it’s Jonathan? 

You don’t look to check because you wouldn’t know what you would do if it was him, and so in the meantime, you continue to anxiously sit and listen out for any other clues. 

In time, they come. The rustling of the ivy that weaves in and out of your lattice fencing on the side of your house. The breaths of a man as he scales up the wooden structure to your window. The heaviness of his boots as they thud against your floorboards. The raspiness of his voice as he mutters your name. He’s here. In your room, and yet you still can’t bring yourself to turn around to face him. Your breaths are tremorous as he makes his way closer to you, almost shaking with anticipation of what’s about to happen. 

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t make any rash decisions. For a moment, he pauses by the side of your bed eyeing you up with your duvet slung over your head and decidedly reaches for it, taking a fistful of the sheets and dragging it slowly away from you until you’re exposed to him, still dressed in the sundress you couldn’t bring yourself to take off. The tension locks you in a chokehold, unable to move, unable to speak, waiting for the moment where Jonathan’s hand reaches out to touch you once more but you know it’ll be different this time. No more gentle touches hidden in plain sight, no more casual excuses to lay his hands on you, everything that will happen here on in will be the result of three years of separation and withdrawal. 

The bed dips under his weight and only then do you turn your head to look over your left shoulder. He’s closer than you expected and you see the tufts of his curls hanging over his forehead come into sight, low and looming. His nose comes into contact with your shoulder and even the slightest touch sets you alight. He scales up the curve of your neck to hide deep within the locks of your hair behind your ear and inhales.

“That fucking perfume,” he whispers softly into your hair. “It’s just as perfect as I remember.” 

“Jonathan, we…” you heaved a breath, fighting temptation. “We shouldn’t do this.”

“You have no idea, do you?” He murmurs directly into your ear, his arm coming around to circle your waist and hug you closer to him. “No idea just how much I missed you, how much I regret what I did, and every day I spent not being with you was a reminder of the mistake I made to the point where I thought I would never get to hold you again.” 

He renders you speechless when he scrapes away the strands of your hair and mouths at the curve of your neck, humming into your skin. It’s almost the same as before, soft pillowy lips showering you with unreserved passion, except this time they’re followed by the slight scrape of his beard grown in the years you hadn’t seen him. It makes his kisses more exhilarating, stimulating. While your body screams for more, your morals just can’t shake the guilt of betraying your own friend. 

“But Mira--” 

“Mira knows.” 

You detach yourself from his lips to face him, still half-lidded and unfazed by his admission. You’re almost nauseous with the way your heart drops in your chest. “What do you mean she knows?” 

Despite your surprise, Jonathan simply tilts his head as he assesses your face in the sheen of the streetlight like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again and doesn’t stop his fingers from intertwining with the short baby hairs at the nape of your neck. 

“She had an inkling that there was something going on between us. There was a reason why she brought me up in the conversation earlier in the garden because she knew from the moment she saw the look on your face when you saw me. So I came clean. We decided to be completely honest with each other and we talked for a while.” 

“And?” 

“Well, she knew your thoughts on me…and it was more than I had ever thought to hear.”

Your cheeks flush angrily, wincing at the thought of Mira revealing every confession told with such a lack of restraint. Back then, telling Mira these things felt like securing all of your secrets into a vault, trusting that they would be safe, trusting that they were secure enough that no one besides you would have access to them. In hindsight, you should’ve perceived her as more of a time capsule, planted, hidden for the time being, and when after enough time passes, they are bound to be found by someone else. 

“I know that you hated me for a while - and I did too. I always wondered whether you resented me as much as I did, for a while I thought it wasn’t possible. And while I knew the resentment was one sided, there was a part of me that wished that missing each other wasn’t. I guess I found my answers tonight.” 

“Was Mira mad?” 

“No, darling,” he grazes his chin over the curve of your shoulder, lips inching closer and closer to your own. “She considered you to be too much of a friend to get in the way and cause you any pain, not after all that you had told her. She knew you would’ve done the same for her.” 

“I…I don’t know what to think. It’s all just a mess.” 

You turn your head towards the book in your hands, fingers fiddling with the page, while you try to figure out where your loyalties lie. With your head? With your heart? It’s a wonder how the same body can feel two entirely opposing feelings and yet still wonder which one is the right one. 

“Maybe…” Jonathan whispers, his hand reaching for the book and sliding it from your grasp, “maybe, you don’t need to think at all. Let me do the thinking for you. Let me show you just how much I’ve missed you, because fuck, as much as I love this dress you have on, I’m much more interested in what’s underneath it.” While one hand pulls you tighter against his chest, his other hand comes to slide down your thigh until curls around your knee, bunching the fabric tight in his fist and pulling it higher and higher. You watch with eager eyes, succumbing to Jonathan’s temptation and letting go of all of your inhibitions. Your eyes grow heavy, wanting to relish the feeling of his fingertips tracing the length of your inner thigh as they gently pull your legs apart, but it’s much more satisfying to watch. Jonathan doesn’t need to watch, not when he can taste the supple skin of your neck. 

It’s almost agonising how slow his pace is, how he stalls every couple of seconds to trace circles on your skin and devilishly chuckles when you whimper. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed though, talking about our life’s plan without me.” 

Just as his fingers feel the outer rim of your underwear, you tilt your head back to lean against his shoulder with a sinful sigh. Opening your legs just that little bit wider tells Joanthan everything he needs to know. It’s been years. Years since he’s had you like this, so he has every reason not to take it slowly and fuck you like a man starved of your touch, but there’s something in him, perhaps the little devil on his shoulder, that persuades him to take it slowly, to exploit the part of you that has missed him and prove to you that the years spent apart, however painful, was worth the wait. 

“Tell me,” he urges, “tell me what you had imagined.” 

Call you ignorant but you’re not quite in the talking mood. However, you feel he won’t do a single thing to you unless you do as he asks. “That…that we’d get married in the small church near the vineyard where we grew up. I imagined a quiet house in the suburbs, just us two, at least for a while.” 

“Hm, what kind of house?” 

“One that wasn’t too big that we’d feel far apart, and not too small that we would get in each other’s way. One with a garage and a garden where our dog could run around.” 

“Good,” he praises into your ear. A single digit slips beneath your underwear which instantly gets a feel of your warm, wettening cunt, and you grow impatient.  “What else?” 

“After a while, we…shit…we’d have our own kids. A boy and a girl. I’d hope they’d have your eyes.” 

After doing a few rounds of your entrance, the tip of his finger rests upon your clit, barely moving. Your hips start moving fluidly, all of their own volition but he eases his touch. Instead he gives a gentle tap tap tap, urging you to continue before you can get any more.

The hand that keeps you stable around your middle eventually slithers up to wrap around your neck squeezing with a dizzying pressure. 

“Keep going…” 

“We’d take an early retirement so that we could grow old together. Taking vacations to places we’d never been to before, being the same couple we were when we were younger.” 

“Oh yeah? I love the sound of that. Just as much as I love the sound of those moans you make. Keep singing little siren.” The moan that leaves your lips the minute he nibbles on your lobe is unrecognisable. You haven’t been seduced like this in years and every atom of you is buzzing with anxiety and in your physical form, you can’t sit still. It takes the weight and pressure of Jonathan’s thighs resting either side of your hips to keep you anchored. 

His fingers make quick work of building you up, conjuring that deep, guttural feeling of pleasure and desire to stir within you. Even after years, he still knows you so well, still knows what makes you tick and what makes you scream. There isn’t an inch of your neck that Jonathan’s lips haven’t touched; sucking, licking, biting until you’re coloured with bruises. 

“Seems like you have it all planned out, darling. But why don’t I tell you how I imagined tonight would go?” 

“Please.” 

Just as his words flow from his mouth, two fingers slide easily into you and curl into that spot makes your body restless and your lungs heaving. “Just as I did, I’d find you here, confess that there wasn’t a day that went by where I didn’t think of you, tell you how I yearned to have the sweet taste of you on my tongue again and the tight squeeze of that cunt around my cock. I’d seduce you every way I knew I could and I’d want you to want it. I’d want you to tell me that you want it and once I knew I had you again, I’d get on my knees, lift up that dress of yours and taste you. Get you nice and wet, ready to take me.”

“Fuck, Jonathan--” 

“After years, I thought my patience would get the better of me if I ever had this chance again, but seeing you here like this,” his fingers pick up the pace, drilling into you and filling the room with sacrilegious sounds. “I think I might want to take my time, let each minute that passes reflect what I have been thinking about every day we were apart.” 

“Please,” you whisper, growing evermore impatient. It all sounds too good. The more he speaks his feelings into words the more you want it. To have the feeling of him touch you everywhere, to feel him inside you, snug and shaped by him and bringing you to the precipice of losing your mind the way only he could. “I need you, Jonathan, need you now.” 

His lips come to your cheek, shaped by a smile of satisfaction. “You will, darling. Soon. I just want to savour this right now.” 

His fingers slip from your cunt, trailing all that he’s gathered up the length of your slit to come crashing down onto your clit. While he circles and swirls his fingers, you twist your head to lock eyes with him and even in the cover of darkness, you can still make out the fire that’s burning within him leaving no doubt that he truly wants to ravish you just as he has described. But it isn’t a roaring fire, it’s a slow burning candle, flickering away to slowly dissolve all of what’s left of his patience. 

Like instinct, your lips clash together hungrily not sparing a second before your tongues and welding together and tasting the remnants of the red wine you both had earlier. Inexplicably, it tastes sweeter on his palate. 

The fingers that curl around your neck tense as if they’re fighting to keep you stable, surging to keep your restlessness at bay and all of this is making you wonder ‘why not just get on with it?’.

You decide to hasten the pace, raising your hips closer to his fingers with the tips of your toes, feeling his cock grind against the small of your back where it should be grinding against your cunt. Though that may be how you truly feel, you make do with his fingers toying with you with his palm flat against your pubic bone to keep you close, once again making you twitch with anticipation and hum with desire. You’re close, so close that with just another lap of his fingers would make you explode. 

Holy shit. You’re going to cum. You’re to cum on Jonathan Fucking Levy’s fingers.

“Don’t you think we should maybe close your blinds?” He taunts, suddenly halting all of his movements. “Surely you wouldn’t want the neighbours to see how easily you fall apart for me.”

Jesus. Where did this side of Jonathan come from? 

“Um…y-yeah. Close them.” God, it’s starting to take effect on you. When was the last time a man made you stumble over your own words like that? 

With a gentle kiss to your cheek, he rises from the bed to leave you attempting to find relief from the friction of your thighs, chasing what you were seconds from having. 

When you begin to wonder what takes him so long, you turn to face him staring out of the window, his silhouette blocking the light of the streetlamp that normally floods in through the glass. The fingers that were toying with your cunt seconds ago twitch by his side rubbing together the remnants of your slick, so sensual that it has you biting your bottom lip. Before he closes the curtain he takes those fingers and puts them in his mouth as if he’s just swiped the whipped cream from atop a pudding he’s forbidden to have. But sometimes that’s what makes it all the sweeter. 

“Jonathan?” you whisper to pull him from his reverie, your patience waning. 

“Coming,” he says gently. “Just taking it all in. You, me…” he snaps the curtains closed and plunges you both into darkness, “your taste on my tongue.” 

Slowly and somewhat menacingly he turns around and his shoulders are hunched, his fists are clenched, his breathing is audibly racing. The tone instantly changes when he comes to stand over you, his fingers tilting your chin up to look at him directly. It hooks you in immediately, suddenly feeling the compulsion to do whatever he wants, to go wherever he guides you. 

Jonathan’s voice slithers through the air like a snake through the wreaths, worming its way into the valley of your ears so clear and precise. “I know I said I was going to take this slowly and I whole-heartedly intend to follow through with that. But just so you know, I don’t think I can be gentle. Can you allow me that?” 

“Yes, Jonathan, yes.” 

“Good.” 

It amazes you how one short syllable completely changes the aura of the room, how easily Jonathan commands control of the situation because all of a sudden, the gentle traces of his fingertips circling your chin changes to a clawed hand around your neck, drawing you into an all-consuming kiss that’s more powerful than before. Without missing a single beat, he forces you onto your back and hovers over you, caging you in and anchoring his weight down onto your pelvis. It should feel claustrophobic and intrusive, but instead it feels like a sanctuary; warm, safe, secure.

Where it feels like he belongs.

Shivers race up your spine and throw your hands into motion as they cling onto his shirt, luring him even closer until the beat of his heart is pounding against yours. Not only that, but you can feel his hips thrusting into yours, grinding his contained cock against your heat and it elicits a moan from both of you. With a sudden rush of adrenaline, he races to undo his belt, pulling himself free and you almost squeal with the anticipation of knowing how well he can undo you with one swift thrust. But like Jonathan promised, he isn’t going to rush this. He slowly peels off your underwear until you are well and truly exposed.

Not without a few pumps of his fist, he lines himself up and anchors you down, teasing your entrance with the head of his leaking cock, giving you a taster of what’s to come. 

“You drive me fucking insane,” he grumbles into your mouth. “Always have, always will.” 

“Please stop talking.”

“Or what, huh?” he chuckles. He takes the head of his cock and batters it against your swollen clit. Deliberately, you guess, to render you speechless. And it works, the snide quip hot on your lips quickly loses all conviction and you’re back to moans and whimpers. “‘S what I thought. You and I both know how much we want this. How much we’ve missed this.”

This time you take the chance to bite back before he robs you of it. “Well get on with it, then.” 

Now driven, he snags your bottom lip with his teeth dragging it out until it’s released with a pop. “Fine.”

Giving you a final taste of his lips, he comes to a stand taking your legs with him with a mighty pull until your hips lie just over the precipice of the bed. He hugs your legs to his chest, his cock lining up with your exposed cunt perfectly and with powerful thrust, he sinks deep into you. All of the air punches out of your lungs in a single beat and you claw at the bed sheets while you fight for your breath back. You’re momentarily debilitated while you acclimate to his size, filling you so effortlessly. Despite being slightly uncomfortable, it’s a welcome intrusion and you’re thankful that he gives you a minute.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. Holy fuck.”

Not a moment later, he pulls his hips back, completely withdrawing and just when you think you’ve got your breath back he charges into you again, snapping his hips against your ass and sending aftershocks up the length of your body. It’s a motion he repeats over and over again, giving you that pleasurable feeling of being so full of him as he grinds into you all to be taken away within a moment leaving utterly empty. You have just enough awareness to listen out for the staccato notes of his hips slapping against yours followed by your sheepish sobs. 

It’s insatiable. He never changes pace and the power of his thrusts never falters. He certainly doesn’t allude to breaking his promise of rushing things and frustratingly so, continues his slow rampage, finding pleasure in that little sweet spot where the swollen ridge of his cock drags from your cunt. It’s enough to get you going, but not enough to finish you off. 

“I need more,” you beg between breaths. “Please.” 

Jonathan doesn’t respond, and instead waits until the cheeks of your ass are red raw from his poundings (which feels like a lifetime) and only then, does he take a new approach. Your legs swing apart, forced wide open by his greedy hands and you’re left to watch with bated breath as he drops to his knees and devours you.

“Fuck, Jonathan!”

“Mm, that’s right, baby, say my name.” 

“Jonath--fuck!” His mouth completely consumes every inch of your cunt, lavishing the taste of you with his tongue from deep within you to the tip of your clit. Amongst the buzzes of his hum, the soft scrape of his beard, and the crescent-moon marks pressing into your waist, your back arches as desire slowly morphs into a desperate pain, needing to give his hot mouth more access to your cunt if it was at all possible. And just when you think you are ready to give in, he steals the moment from you. With two fingers, he slots them easily into you and starts working your pussy at a torturous pace. 

“Look how soaked you are.” His lips brush against your clit as he speaks, a depraved grunt rolling from the back of his throat. 

“I’m gonna cum.” 

“Do it. I want it. I wanna taste you. I want you.” 

Your heart grows, a small smile appearing on your lips. The warmth of affection stills you momentarily to appreciate how you have your old love back, the man you could never really get over, that all those years of waiting and wanting are over. You don’t know what it was about the sudden softness and love-drunkenness that washed through you, but God, he was stunning. Everything about him was annoyingly perfect. Stupidly, annoyingly perfect. Yet, here he was, lavishing you as if you were an elixir of life.

Your fingers itch to race through his locks to pull him closer, tempted to never let him go. Through his dark lashes, his lust-heavy eyes find yours as if he knew what you were insinuating.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’m never leaving. Let go for me.” 

You didn’t need to be told again. With the final swipe of his tongue across your clit, you internal combust, your entire body folding into itself with Jonathan trapped between your thighs. 

----

You and Jonathan spent the night catching up on all the years you spent apart, sharing orgasm after orgasm until you were completely and utterly spent. Despite only having just a few hours of sleep, you awoke early in the morning, just in time to see the sun rise over the peak of your neighbours’ houses. All is calm in the street aside from the few birds tweeting in Mira’s tree and Jonathan’s steady breathing beside you. The tranquil, blissful few moments of consciousness fills you with a sense of rejuvenation from all that has happened within the last 24 hours. If it hadn’t been for Mira’s approval beforehand, you would be drowning in guilt. You make a mental reminder to talk to her and apologise later. 

You roll over on your side of the bed to find Jonathan sleeping peacefully beside you, his hand tucked under his chin like it always did when he was deep in slumber and you quirk a smile when you realise that nothing’s changed. With a delicate finger, you sweep away the curl resting against his forehead, careful not to wake him but yet he still stirs, readjusting himself subconsciously. Though not fully awake, he reaches out for you as if it was instinct and little do you know, it is. Every morning since you split, Jonathan had always reached out for you to find nothing but empty cold space on the other side of his bed and it was a sad reality he couldn’t quite accept. But now, when his fingertips feel the warmth of your skin against his, he doesn’t hesitate to lure you into his embrace to relish the lingering scent of your perfume, the slow beating of your heart, the little content hum singing from your throat. You’re here. You’re real. And he’s certain to never lose you again.

In his drowsy state, he puckers his lips in a timid kiss to the surface of your forehead. 

“Love you,” he quietly murmurs. 

With a breathy laugh, you return his kiss, whispering the same words against his bare chest directly over his heart. 

I love you too, Jonathan Fucking Levy. 

[melodygatesauthor]

Choking in Silence

Jonathan Levy X gn!Reader

Blurb 21 for Melody's 2023 Ficversary Celebration

NSFW below the cut

“Yeah, I’ll b-be there,” professor Levy rasped to the dean, his cock buried halfway down your throat.

He’d told you to stop when she walked into his office, but you couldn’t help yourself. How were you meant to resist when you were trapped between both his legs and the back of the desk with the scent of his musk surrounding you and not do something about it. You’d tried for a moment, but it’s like his leaking tip was staring at you, begging to feel your lips around it once more, and you couldn’t stop salivating at the thought.

“Wonderful, I tried to get Sandy to participate but…”

Her voice trailed into the back of your mind while you silently, and very slowly sucked and lapped along his length. You felt his legs shaking on either side of your shoulders, a signature reaction of his as he got closer to climax.

You felt his hand on the back of your head and a tug forward, plunging his throbbing cock deep in your esophagus while he pumped every drop of cum he had into your body. You could hear him huffing deeply through his nostrils, doing well to keep himself from moaning loudly.

He let out a loud sigh, “sorry,” he mumbled. You heard him fumbling around and grabbing some tissues to blow his nose. “Thought I might have to sneeze.”

Even if the dean seemed to believe his lie, you knew professor Levy would have some choice words for you later…

Melody's 2023 Ficversary Masterlist

[shoot-i-messed-up]

Jesus christ writing this superlantern arranged marriage au from Clark’s POV is ridiculous. On a textual level, everything I’m writing is either the characters speaking Kryptonese or Hal speaking English that is translated by the power ring into Kryptonese so Clark (he’s not called that in the fic, obvi) can understand him. But on a meta-textual level, I’m translating all the Kryptonian stuff into English so the reader can understand.

So basically at its most ridiculous level, Hal is speaking English, which is translated into Kryptonese by the power ring for Clark, which I then translate into English text for the reader. And don’t even get me started on the Kryptonese words I made up for worldbuilding which don’t get “translated” into English for the reader because there’s no English equivalent, or the English words that Hal says that have no Kryptonese equivalent, so Clark can only hear the untranslated sounds that he’s making and processing it as Kryptonese syllables, which I then have to represent textually in English

[boasamishipper]

Chapters: 1/?

Fandom: Night Court (TV 1984), Night Court (TV 2023)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Dan Fielding/Harry Stone

Characters: Dan Fielding, Harry Stone (Night Court), Other(s)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Old Married Couple

Series: Part 5 of Judge Leon

Summary:

"God's in his heaven, all is right with the world, there's no way to go but up, look for the silver lining, don't give up the ship - and I'll be damned if that's not what every one of us is looking for. And I just happened to find mine, so the best of luck to the rest of you."

Or: short glimpses into Dan and Harry's twenty-two years together.

[ivystoryweaver]

EVENT CLOSED

My Masterlist

1000 Follower/Holiday Celebration Masterlist

THANK YOU for every single follow and interaction! Every single reply, comment and rb makes my heart explode! I'm a bit overdue for a 1k so I thought I would combine it with a ✨Holiday Celebration✨

There will be 2 parts to this party:

Celebration Part One✨

Based on this poll, 400 of you voted, and the Moon Dads/Hanukkah idea won.

However, the Miguel/Christmas idea was such a close second, I decided to make a holiday event. LET'S DO THEM ALL!

Here's the schedule for Nov. 26-Dec. 30: (I will try to post on Saturdays or Sundays)

UPDATE: They have titles now! Each one is a holiday song title

WEEK 1: 🫂💖 "Jingle Bells" - Santiago Garcia comfort/cheer-you-up ficlet for this busy, sometimes lonely time of year. Occurs during the holidays, but is not holiday-specific. Fun fact: Jingle Bells is actually a Thanksgiving song. Thanks to the moots who helped me pick Santi

WEEK 2: 🌙🕎 "Eight Nights (in December)"* Moon Knight System as dads/Hanukkah short story. Thanks for voting! This story is your winner! 🏆

WEEK 3: 🕷️🎄"(Everybody's Waitin' for) The Man With the Bag" Miguel O'Hara/Christmas one-shot

WEEK 4: 🎅🏼🐶 “Fairytale of New York” 18+ Pathetic Puppy Llewyn Davis on Christmas Eve one-shot ^ This occurs on Christmas Eve, but doesn't necessarily mean characters celebrate Christmas

WEEK 5: 💫🌳 "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" Poe Dameron/Life Day one-shot *"Eight Nights" is a gorgeous Hanukkah song by Rosi Golan if you're not familiar

Celebration Part Two✨

And here's how you can get involved in the celebration:

I will be taking specific requests for the following characters. Please read this entire post before requesting:

Askbox

🌙Moon Knight - Marc Spector, Steven Grant and/or Jake Lockley 🕸️Across the Spiderverse - Miguel O'Hara 💫Star Wars - Poe Dameron 🤖Ex Machina - Nathan Bateman 💵Triple Frontier - Santiago Garcia 🎬Scenes From a Marriage - Jonathan Levy

There are a few other Oscar Isaac characters I might attempt, if asked.

— rules: • must be following me & must be 18+ • No request limit at this time, but let me know your top priority request if you have more than one. • requests don't have to be holiday based, but they can be!

Pick a character (above) and request:

1.🖼️- a moodboard - you can tell me the scenario or vibe, or I can pick for you! Telling me a little about yourself will help 2. 🦸🏽- a character blurb from one of my stories My Masterlist 3. 🤔- headcanons for blorbos. Requests for stories/ficlets/one shots, etc. are not open for this event

Ideas below if you need them:

here - romantic confession dialogue prompts here - married life prompts here - tender prompts here - affectionate prompts here - protective prompts here - variety prompts: angst, fluff, smut, bittersweet

4. 🎮 - games - "Would You Rather?" or "FMK" (I'll probably answer you with kiss rather than kill) 5. 📚- fic recs - Recommend a fic for me to read - can be yours or someone else's, OR ask me for recommendations because I've been reading for FOREVER and I have some writer moots who are rad af 6. ❓- questions about me, my stories or anything at all 7. 📸- send me your favorite pic or thoughts about your blorbo 8. 🤍- get-to-know-you questions here or Top 3's here - ask me to get to know me, I'll answer and ask you one back! 9. ➡️⬅️- follow backs - I need more blogs to follow. Tell me why I should follow you. What are you into?

1000 Follower/Holiday Celebration Masterlist

My Masterlist

Askbox

[goldenspringmornings]

WIP Wednesday: The Dinner Scene

AN: I took a bit of a break from writing for a little while but I was going over this scene in my wip I remember not being happy with and now I think I was actually kinda cooking here so here's azriel ripping the ic a new one (my boi💙)

Feyre hesitates. “You, don’t think it sends a bad message if people see me learning how to fight- using weapons?” 

Azriel could tell the words weren’t her own, and mentally thanked Tamlin for repeating them enough for them to actually leave something of an impact on the girl. “It would.” Azriel confirms into the silence. Not out of any sympathy for Feyre’s ignorance, but to rub salt in the wound. “Prythian is in a delicate balance at the moment, and it’s essentially your fault- even if what you did was a good thing. Fifty years is a long time even for fae, most of the people you freed had given up any hope of leaving Amarantha’s Court. To see their very public, very young, savior readying for war? It sends a message that they’re still not safe, their families are still not safe.”

Rhysand’s anger is nearly a physical weight as Feyre curls in on herself and Azriel just wants to laugh. Whatever plan Rhysand had tonight was not Azriel’s problem. The girl didn’t belong here, and he had no problems being the one to let her know. She was and would always be closer to Jocasta’s age than anyone in this room, Made as a young adult or not, and it seemed it was high time someone reminded her and Rhysand both.

“What’s your problem tonight, Az?” Cassian finally snaps. “You’ve been weird all night.”

The gossamer thread holding back his temper breaks. 

“My problem? My problem is that you’re perfectly content to lie to this girl- promising something that you can’t give her. Selling your lies of a ‘Court of Dreams’ when you’ve done nothing to make those dreams real after five hundred years. You’re all willing to sit here, playing pretend and crying about how hard your lives have been, while the people outside of Velaris’ wards suffer and die for your negligence. Because Inanna was right. She’s always been right about you. You’re selfish, craven, miserable people who can’t stand to face your pasts so you’re content to wallow in centuries old grief and hurt and complain about how ‘change takes time’ all while you refuse to light the spark of progress you claim you want to reignite. My problem is that I’ve had to sit here all night, wondering just who it was I was sitting next to- because it turns out that I can’t recognize you. Or maybe it’s that I never knew you in the first place. And I’m ashamed that I let myself be fooled for so long.”

The shadows deepened with every frigid, clipped word, and cobalt Siphons flared in time with his breath. Rhysand’s eyes were black with rage, while Cassian gaped at Azriel in stunned silence. Morrigan was pale, looking at him like she were seeing the ghost of someone else. Feyre’s eyes were flicking back and forth across the table and she leans closer to Rhysand to try finding a new sense of equilibrium. Only Amren was even somewhat amused, her silver eyes half hooded and shining with interest. 

“Oh, and Rhysand? Your wife gave birth four days ago. You have a daughter.”

Azriel notices when Rhysand stiffens but his focus is on Feyre and the betrayal seeping into her eyes as she freezes then slowly inches away from him. He had never felt more vindicated. “Till death do you part, old friend.” He taunts, slipping into the shadows at Rhysand’s rage-filled growl.

[amtrak12]

Okay this excerpt is super late night notes and not a narrative at all, so a) don't get hung up on the wording and b) I don't know if this will come across the same way it does in my head -- but this is the latest character discovery in my fic that is making me lose my mind:

(Context: Maris has kicked Niles out for fic-specific reasons, set somewhere in early S2 timeline)

Daphne’s witnessed a lot of men after they were dumped. It seemed one or another of her brothers were always pissing off the woman they were dating or they found out their girlfriend was messing around on them. Regardless of who was at fault, her brothers all reacted the same way: by partying harder, flirting more, and talking shit about the now-ex-girlfriend. Niles doesn’t breathe a word against his wife.

*deep inhale to steady myself* I really like writing Daphne's POV, you guys.

[sieglinde-freud]

if awakening ever gets a remake in the next twenty years or so my number one want is same sex marriage + still having kids but my number TWO want is a scene after lucina’s judgement where whoever is robin’s kid confronts lucina. bc like from a player’s stand point, or really even just from robin as a character, its really easy to understand lucina’s thought process, sympathize with her, and forgive her. but if you’re one of the future kids, you came back in time to save your parents (and the world i GUESS), and your friend decides that your parent, yours specifically, is expendable, thats kinda fucked up!! her thinking is valid and potentially correct from a logical standpoint, but looking at it from like morgan’s perspective, it might feel selfish or unwarranted.

but my other thing is, unless robin’s second kid is lucina (or they dont have one), i think using their other kid over morgan would be more impactful if only because morgan lost their memories of the past and doesnt have as strong of a connection with lucina as say, someone like gerome or cynthia does. if its chrom!morgan then yeah, theres the connection, but otherwise wouldnt it be fucking wild to see the perspective of someone who went back in time with their friend who promised to go back and save the world, only to find them pointing a sword at your fucking dad? literally insane where is this confrontation. number three want is fix chapter two’s map design

[boredzillenial]

Writing Masterlist

🥰 : fluff , 🥵: NSFW

🌙 MoonKnight Bingo🌙

🎃 Fawktober 2023 🦇

Series: all 🥵

A Gift Horse and His Mouth: Doctor Strange x afab!reader (Word count: 3k)

You came to Kamar-taj for help with your mental health. Little did you know your dreams would work against you and make things a lot more complicated.

Yes Sir: Part II to "A Gift Horse and His Mouth" (Word count: 2.8k)

Dealing with the aftermath of your dream Stephen has an idea on how to work through some issues.

Attitude Adjustment: William Tell x afab!reader (Word Count: 3k)

A friend of your fathers pays you an unexpected visit you aren’t likely to forget.

One-shots:

🥵Bad Bet: William Tell x F!reader (Word count: 2.6K)

William beats you in a poker tournament, but you just can’t accept defeat, not yet…

🥵 Sweet Relief: Laurent LeClair X F!reader (Word Count: 1.1K)

Laurent finds you during a difficult time of the month, he wants to help you feel better.

🥵 Stronger Than I Look: Steven Grant X curvy f!reader (Word Count: 2k)

You and your coworker Steven are doing inventory late at night. Being a bigger girl you hadn’t worked up the courage to make a move. But an artifact hidden amongst the trinkets in stock changes things.

🥵 A Simple Arrangement: Jonathan Levy X f!reader (Word count: 1.3k)

Jonathan wakes you in the night for some much needed relief.

🥰 That Damn Smile: Matt Murdock fluff x afab!reader (Word Count: 1.6k)

You’re new to Hells Kitchen and there’s a stranger who’s caught your eye, but you’re not sure if you’ve caught his.

🥰Giftshop Steven: Steven Grant with gn!reader (Word count: 1.4k)

Steven comes to your rescue in the crowded museum.

🥵Caught: Marc Spector x afab!reader (Word Count: 1k)

You get bored while housesitting for Marc and are caught in a rather compromised position.

Drabbles/Thots/Ficlets:

🥰 Drunken Confession: GN!reader X Miguel O’Hara (Word Count: 517)

You snoop around Miguel's office and confess to the "empty" room.

🥵Blue Jones Thots: just some HC and a quick drabble on this very unstable man. gn!reader (WC on drabble: 552)

What I will and won’t write

Messy masterlist for Kinktober 2023 here

[sweetsuburbanlegends]

Summary: Sipping from the other's drink

Pairing: Jonathan Levy x Reader

Warnings: author makes certain claims about academia that may or may not be true and are entirely biased because of her own experience with it (and a huge thanks to @pennyserenade for reading this over for me)

Word Count: 2.3k

Jonathan’s brought you to a summer mixer at the Department Head’s family home, designed to maintain connections through the faculty during the slow months of the summer as well as create new ones with the incoming graduate students to the department. 

A newly-minted associate professor for the fall term, Jonathan at least doesn’t have to worry about students of his own. 

Really, he’s only here for the drinks. 

Academics’ pockets, though they don’t usually run deep, are quite generous when it comes to their alcohol, perhaps a sort of defence mechanism when it comes to dealing with the stress of their way of life. 

Everyone, however, seems to be at ease. It’s a late afternoon sort of function in order to encourage them to drink as much as they would like without feeling guilty about it, and loosened from the heavy burden of tweeds and thick wools, the faculty are clad instead in linen, cool and airy. 

Tongues are loose, smiles are quick to be given. People have forgotten the relentless competition they’re usually in when it comes to funding, to office space, to good class slots. 

All in all, he thinks that today has been a good day to introduce you to the people he’s going to passive aggressively work with for the rest of his life. 

He gazes across the room and finds the blue of your shirt, sticking out like a sore thumb in a sea of neutrals and whites. You’re talking to one of the faculty spouses, nodding your head and laughing. There’s a glass of pink lemonade in your hands, your hair falls around you as if you’re holding a secret within your chest. 

Jonathan yearns for you to be by your side again, to smell the perfume he bought for your six-month anniversary, the one you always spray into the crook of your neck because that’s always where he likes to press his face whenever he’s deep in thought. 

As if on cue, the conversation dies down and you drift back to his side. 

He marvels at how easily you’ve managed to fit yourself into this new crowd, how you laugh as the department fart tells you some lame joke that he’s probably told millions of others before you. You brush it off with grace and ease, I’ll talk to you soon, alright? 

It had taken him almost five years before he’d mastered that skill. The gentle brush off that made the other feel like you were doing them a favour. 

He loves you, that much he knows for sure. 

After the storm cloud of Mira and the past twenty years of his life had passed, he’d met you. As simple as that, as if the universe was only waiting for him before they let him hold onto the rest of his life like a delicate crystal glass. 

“Hi,” you come up close to him and Jonathan can smell your perfume and the strawberries on your breath. He wonders if he’ll be able to taste your drink if he kisses you long enough. 

He also wonders, as an addendum, how quickly he would lose his position if he did that. Despite all the shouting the university did about being progressive and open-minded, the tenured faculty members were still dreadfully hard-headed, old-fashioned. 

Jonathan supposes that he was too. Maybe he still is, simply by nature of his daily proximity to him on the same floor of the social sciences building, crumbling at the seams since the last of its renovations in the seventies. 

“Hi,” he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you in close to him. There’s a glass of whiskey in his other hand that he doesn’t care much for anymore now that you’re here. He kisses the side of your head, brushes away some of your hair from your temple, “Enjoying yourself?” 

You giggle, it rings out like a fairybell. You lean up close to him and murmur in his ear, “You work with some very strange people.” 

He can’t help but laugh at that, turning his head to meet your sparkling eyes. “Yeah, I suppose I do.” 

“Very strange,” you muse again, looking out across the room. “And I thought you were the strange one.” 

That hits him in a funny way he wasn’t planning on it doing. He remembers once in high school his cross country running coach said she’d stepped, wearing thick-soled hiking shoes, on a pebble the wrong way and ended up having to go to physio for six months. 

He supposes he feels a little like that pulled muscle. 

He hums, tries to push down the blow you’d struck at him without realising it. 

“Strange?” 

“Mmhm,” your fingers drift around his waist and rest on top of his tummy, the one Ava had pointed out the other day in passing. “Strange, yeah. You got the whole, mysterious, hot, brooding professor thing going for you.” 

“And that’s strange to you?” 

You shrug. Jonathan feels the heat of your gaze against his face and he doesn’t feel like turning to meet it. Instead, he favours the sharp burn of whiskey. He ended up with a glass in his hand because some snot-nose had offered to pour him a drink and he’d been too much of a pushover and too concerned about what other people thought of him to say he preferred a red wine. 

You’re never like that. 

You were never like him; either because that’s who you were at your core, or because you’d manage to escape the way academia chipped away at one’s soul, until there was an empty, arthritis-ridden husk of a person by the time they reached tenure. 

Opposites did attract, he supposes. 

You were different from him. You weren’t afraid to drink the pink lemonade that had been left out for the few kids running around in the back garden, you weren’t afraid to call him weird if that’s what you thought of him. 

Jonathan wonders why it took you so long to say it to him. 

He’s about to try and pry the answer out of you when someone else approaches the two of you together. A newly-tenured professor whom Jonathan never really did get along with, particularly when he was working his post-doctorate and the guy had picked up an obnoxious habit of hanging around the kitchen coffee-maker and smacking his gum as loud as he could. 

There couldn’t have been anyone worse that could have showed up at the time. 

“Jonathan!” 

Something inside him curls into himself at the thought, and as if you could feel it, your arm wraps around him a little tighter. 

The man’s trying to make some small talk, the bare bones of it before he surely starts to boast of himself and his students and the latest hotshot fund he got because of his new tenure. 

“Hi,” you smile at him sweetly and make a green little sprout of something bad shoot up inside his stomach, a bitter taste lingering at the back of his throat. You introduce yourself as Jonathan’s partner and are just about to move to go away when he speaks up again, cutting you short. 

“I liked Mina more, Levy,” he grins and shows off his teeth like a predator. Against the off-white of his linen suit, they look even whiter, standing out like a sign against his tanned skin. “Shame you two had to end it the way you did.” 

Jonathan tries to remind himself that he doesn’t know how things ended with Mira. That it’s just another poke at him and his life to get a rise out of him. 

You smile at the guy again, there’s a sharper edge to it. His prickly rose. “Well, if you’ll excuse us.” 

Then you’re guiding him away from the stuffy room and towards a bench against the side of the house. There’s a full view of the backyard, the sloping apple tree and whispering aspens all around, the toddlers playing tag in shrill shrieks. 

He sits down with a low exhale, you follow beside him, slouching and shucking off your shoes. “Christ,” you mutter under your breath. 

It’s probably the most genuine thing he’s heard all afternoon and he can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “Yeah, sorry.” 

“You deal with that everyday?” It sounds like you’re pitying him. He wonders if that’s ever what Mira thought of him whenever he took her to these events. If she ever raised her eyebrows in surprise at each precise way you had to deal with everyone in the department. 

He swallows back his thoughts and nods, “More or less.” 

“Jonathan,” you shift and face him again. Still, he can’t bear to look at you anymore. Strange and Mira have started to float around his head like a crib mobile. “I…and you…” the rest of your words are lost to your breath as you turn around again, swearing quietly before reaching for his drink and taking a sip. 

He likes how your lips were on the same place where his was.  

The alcohol burns your throat and you grimace at him, “I didn’t know you liked whiskey.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Huh,” you seemed to have heard something stitched and laced into his words that he hadn’t noticed he’d put there in the first place. 

You weren’t much of a drinker. Yet another thing that Jonathan noticed when he started dating you. At New Years’ you had some champagne, small sips whenever you clinked glasses with the people around you before you’d pass your flute onto him to finish. 

Now that he thinks about it, that may have been your first sip of whiskey ever. 

Quite early on, once he’d taken you out on your fifth date and it was shaping out to be something serious like a marble statue carving, Jonathan had cracked open his ribs and showed you the bleeding insides of him. 

You’d taken some steps together quickly, probably too quickly if it meant that he doesn’t know now if you’ve ever had spirits before. 

That had been another thing he’d noticed when he’d started dating again, seriously and for real this time. Twenty years with a person leads to a tremendous collection of trivial information that he’s not sure he’ll ever fully be rid of again. 

It was strange to sit across from someone at dinner and not know how they took their coffee, what side of the bed they liked to sleep on, what order they unloaded the dishwasher and if they had a dishwasher anyways because the renting market is growing out of control. 

“Did you like it?” he asks suddenly, hoping to catch onto a trivial fact of yours, like collecting baseball cards or butterflies with a net. 

“Hm? Oh,” you look down at the whiskey glass and shake your head, handing it back to him. “Not really my thing.” 

Something still nags at him. Maybe it was a mistake bringing you here. You’re the only sober one out of all the guests. Even the host himself is growing rosy and red. It didn’t really look good to see that all your partner’s coworkers were borderline alcoholics, that they dealt with a tremendous amount of repressed trauma and stress and didn’t seek any help for it because of the size of their egos. 

Right then and there he vows to do better for you. He throws the rest of his drink out onto the garden, sets the glass down on the wooden bench with a heavy thud of well made crystal. 

“Do you really think me strange?” he asks you suddenly. Finally, after a long while, he meets your eye. 

“I…well,” you shrug and take in a slow breath. “Yeah, in certain ways. I think I do.” 

“I see.” 

Your words imbed themselves into his skin like shrapnel. 

“But…I don’t have a PhD, I can’t really…” you let out a breath and look out at the garden and the children playing. “Besides, I haven’t been divorced…I haven’t been in your shoes.” 

“I trust your opinion of me.” 

“It’s not that I think you’re strange necessarily,” you gesture back to the house and the rattle of chatter that keeps growing louder with each drink getting poured. “I…this is all very new to me. And I’m trying to understand what it’s like for you.” 

Jonathan starts to smile, “And how’s that going?” 

“Not very well,” you laugh and run your thumb against the rim of your glass. “I just drank whiskey for the first time.” 

He starts to laugh as well, and wrapping his arm around you, he pulls you into the side of his body. His other hand comes and takes your lemonade from your hands, sipping from it as well. 

It tastes like his childhood and hot summer evenings spent with his mother and his aunt, listening to gossip he shouldn’t have been listening to as their nimble fingers worked away with their knitting needles. 

“Do you wanna go home now?” 

“You still need to show face,” you muse quietly, tracing the outer seam of his pants with your finger. “They’re probably already starting to wonder where you’ve gone off to, and it’s going to hurt their frail little egos.” 

He barks out a laugh, and kisses the crown of your head, “God, I love you.” 

“I do too,” he hears the smile in your voice and it goes straight into his chest, wraps a couple pieces of his heart together and puts them back into place. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll entertain myself.” 

Jonathan kisses you this time, properly, the way he wanted to. Your fingers run through his beard and trace his jawline all the way around his ears and back down. 

Thanks for reading, if you liked it, please consider leaving some feedback! I don't usually respond, but I obsess and re-read reblogs and comments constantly.

Masterlist here. Summer Drabbles here.

[clazaries]

Key ✨ - Fluff 🌧️ - Angst 🌶️ - Spicy/Smut (NSFW) 💀 - Dark

Moon Knight

Just a Neighbour Thing ✨ Summary: Your neighbour Marc Spector is a pain in your ass. Until he saves your life.

Karma in the Form of Justice 💀 Summary: Don't get on the wrong side about Egyptian matters when it comes to Steven and if he teaches you something, you better remember it.

Santiago 'Pope' Garcia

The Thin Line Between Victory and Survival 🌶️ Summary: Having been newly promoted, your first mission with Delta Force goes wrong and you have to deal with the consequences of going against Santiago's orders

Jonathan Levy

Old Love, New Dream ✨ 🌧️ 🌶️ Summary: Just when you think you've recovered from a debilitating breakup with Jonathan Levy, all those feelings come rushing back when he walks back into your life again as your best friend's boyfriend.

Yet to come... Miguel O'Hara Nathan Bateman Poe Dameron Leto Atreides Blue Jones

Requests are open!

[melodygatesauthor]

Jonathan Levy - Random Horny Thot #1 - The Girl in the Front Row

NSFW

He'd spent night after night jerking off to your videos online. He watched you, pretty legs spread wide with a vibrator plunged deep in your wet little pussy. He'd fantasized about feeling your walls contracting around his girth, squeezing his cock while you cum over and over again. He knew he could do better than that silly piece of plastic, he knew he could do better for you.

When the new semester starts, and he looks up to see his new class, he nearly drops the coffee mug in his hand. There you are, sitting with your eyes down staring at your notebook and writing your notes. Jonathan gulps, mouth slack open and breathing heavily. Is he having an asthma attack? No...no he's okay...

Professor Levy knows he has to have you, and when all the other students leave, he tells you to stay behind. When you look at him with those big, curious eyes he feels his arousal building instantly. You're so pretty, and his cock aches with a need to be buried deep inside of you. He takes off his glasses and puts them on his desk.

He says your stage name, the one only fans of your work would know about, and then watches the panic wash over your face. You start stammering, unable to get out a coherent thought, and he can see it in your expression so he stands, putting a caring hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, you don't have to worry honey, I'm not going to tell anyone," he trails his hand up the side of your neck and he brushes his thumb against your cheek.

"Professor I-"

"Sh," he puts a finger on your lips, "you've given me so much, let me return the favor hm?"

Within seconds he's got you bent over his desk, door locked, cock buried to the hilt in your warm little cunt. He shudders feeling it grabbing onto him like it doesn't want to let go. He rubs the globes of your ass with both hands, grabbing them and spreading your cheeks so he can watch.

"Oh god, look at you. Thought about this a lot but-oh-fuck-never thought I'd actually feel you sweetheart. So tight..."

You're like putty in his hands, whining and moaning over the desk, holding on so hard your knuckles ache. He grabs your waist, gripping roughly, leaving divots in your skin.

His slow rolling motions get more uneven as he gets closer to losing himself. It's wrong, fucking a student, especially one two decades younger than he is, but he can't help himself, and you feel so fucking good.

In fact, you feel so good that he's embarrassed at how quickly he's spilling his hot seed inside of you, filling you so full you're making a mess of his classroom floor. He's not going to let you go unsatisfied though, not a fucking chance.

He doesn't even care that he's going to have to wash his own cum out of his beard before his next lecture, he's on his knees behind you, lapping at your hungry clit with fervor. You're gasping, breathing heavily while he slurps and eats everything out of you.

He makes good on his promise, giving you one of the same mind-numbing orgasms that you'd given him time and time again with your films in the privacy of his home office. You were such a mess when he was finished that your makeup was running down your face and your stockings were ruined.

"Keep this up honey," he leans in, beard brushing against your ear, "and I'm sure you'll do just fine in my class."

Any of my blurbs can be used as inspo for a fic. Please tag me for credit. Thank you!

Random Blurbs Masterlist

[lagunaseca2013]

Hi Spence!

8,9,15 and 21 for the Lesbian Triangulation fic if you please 💕✨️

X @speciallivery

hiiii zaz! thanks for playing :))

8. What is the last scene you’ve written? / 9. What is your favorite dialogue you’ve written so far?

I'm going to connect these two bc. well they go hand in hand here lol:

Pecco’s zoned out enough, lulled into false security by the clean clothes and the third glass of wine, that she misses it, the first time Vale asks the question. “Pecchinoooo,” He waves a hand across the table, pulling her out of the sensation of Luca’s blunt, freshly-gnawed off nails dragging up her inner thigh. “Is Fabio coming? He’s nearly family,” he winks, sending a shiver down her spine. “There is still time to add him to the reservation.”

15. In as vague of terms as possible (to avoid spoiling), how do you anticipate this chapter/fic to end?

i mean i don't really believe in unhappy endings really? (quantum entanglement not withstanding, but i would consider that more of an unhopeful ending than like. an explicitly unhappy one. also they'll def get together in the sequel i don't think that's a secret). but i digress, this fic does have a happy ending. also if you want the real real sequel it's that bez transitions in her early forties and it's awesome :))

21. Share 3 songs that would belong on a playlist for this chapter/fic.

ooooh this is FUN! okay i'm gonna assign each of them a song. these are too on the nose but that's part of the fun of it! - pecco: paranoia - the marias (lol) - luca: the giver - chappell roan (duh) - bez: mutt - leon thomas (well….)

[teh-nos]

ANYWAY, back to writing pornography.

[ivystoryweaver]

500 Follower Celebration Masterlist

My masterlist

500 Follower Celebration Main Post

Drabbles (100 words)

Made for You || Orestes

Ficlets (<1000 words)

Moonglow || Marc Spector, Steven Grant

Saw You Standing There || Marc Spector

There is Someone... || Poe Dameron

One-Shots (1000-3500 words)

Purple || Marc Spector

Relief || Poe Dameron || 18+

Upside Down || Miguel O'Hara

Left Behind || Duke Leto Atreides || 18+

Can't Stand It || Marc Spector || 18+

Chaptered Fics

On My Knees || 3 parts || Steven Grant || 18+

Headcanons

Spector Acts of Service || Marc Spector

Moodboards

Marc Spector

Jake Lockley

Get-to-Know-You asks

Random Asks #1

Random Asks #2

Celebrations Mastlerist

My masterlist