#(it's a shiny bag strap)

[veritphoto]

Hannah Lim & Ye Quan — The Umbrellas of Cherbourg FD (Practice) at Four Continents 2024

[tcustodis]

I must admit I went on Etsy one night, selected "shipping from Europe" and I have no memory of what happened next. This is the most important pc update since adding 2 tb ssd.

[sometimesanalice]

For the Plot

Summary: Things aren't looking too good for you, sitting alone at the Hard Deck waiting for a man who might not show. Until Bradley Bradshaw sits down across from you and turns your entire night upside down.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Reader

Length: 7.7k

Warnings: fluff, so much flirting, and an italicized oh

Going on a first date on Valentine’s Day is unarguably the worst possible idea that anyone has ever had.And while the sure to be terrible, no good, horribly bad idea hadn’t been yours, you weren’t entirely sure what you were thinking when you’d even agreed to it in the first place.

The guy you were planning to meet tonight was cute enough, even if you were still undecided about the mustache. And while the chats between the two of you had been pretty good as far as it goes getting to know a literal stranger, you were hopeful that it could be even better in person. The fact he was in the Navy was still a bit of a consideration for you, but not a deal breaker.

In retrospect, the name of the bar should have been your first clue and the location paired with the causal beachy exterior covered in planes should have been the second.

You had been expecting to see more than one girl all done up in pinks and reds tonight, but you couldn’t have been more wrong. And you swear to god, somewhere you hear a record scratch as you step into the Hard Deck, because you are surrounded by nothing but a sea of olive green and khaki and denim.

And you have never been so clearly out of place in your entire life.

There was nothing about your ensemble that was even remotely fitting for the literal Navy bar you’d found yourself in.

The ice pink mini slip dress you’d dug out of your closet was admittedly a little much for a first date, but since it was Valentine’s Day you figured why not lean into it a bit. And well, if your date didn’t appreciate it, then that was a him problem.

Or so you’d thought at the time, because now it was a decidedly you problem.

The silhouette was simple enough, with the gentle drape of the cowl neck and the barely-there spaghetti straps, but the shiny sheen of the fabric made a statement of its own. It wasn’t something you got to wear very often for as much as you loved it.

But then you’d gone ahead and paired it with the tallest, most ostentation heels you had. The effort had been worth it though because the pearl encrusted block heels made your legs look like they went on for days. Even if it had been a feat trying to get the dainty buckle done with the way you’d been rushing out of the house with your beaded bag in tow.

The whole look was something you’d sure would come with Cher Horowitz’s seal of approval. However, the patrons of the Hard Deck you were less sure about. And even though there were civilians- like yourself- scattered about the bar, none were anywhere near as dressed up as you.

There are more than a few pairs of eyes on you as you stand there with your feet glued to the uneven wooden floors, as the door with its porthole-shaped window slowly closes behind you with a squeaky creak. The twinkle lights above your head felt more like a spotlight, illuminating how out of place you are in this moment.

Your hand is still clutched on the handle unsure whether you’re going to make a run for it or not. You are more than a little tempted to hightail it back to the parking lot and text your date to claim a bout of food poisoning from the safety of the driver’s seat in your car.

But chances are if your date is here then he has already seen you. A bright beacon of pink amongst varying shades of brown and woodgrain.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, trying not to panic. Officially a victim of your own bad decision making.

You take a quick scan of the room, trying to decide what your next move should be. There’s a woman behind the bar with kind but clearly inquisitive eyes. A blonde with a wolfish smile eyes you from where he stands next to a man with broad shoulders bent over what must be the pool table, hidden behind the paneled half wall. By a dart board, there are a couple men with their heads turned towards you, the game seemingly forgotten as they discuss the spectacle that is you.

There are hundreds of planes dangling over the bar, patches and plaques littering the walls and rafters, rounders suspended from the ceiling laden with too many ceramic mugs to count. It was all done with a heavy-handed, maximalistic approach that you’d take a moment to appreciate under any other given circumstances.

When you spot an open table tucked away in the corner of the room it feels like life raft to the iceberg of a situation you’ve put yourself in. Mindful of the scuffed, uneven floors- because the last thing you need is to eat shit or twist an ankle in front of room full of curious onlookers- you hustle over to the spot in hopes of having a moment to regroup.  

Once you’re situated- shrugging off the ivory cardigan you’d topped your outfit, trying to keep the nervous sweat that wanted to break out over your body at bay- you pull out your phone and check the time only to realize you’re devastatingly on time. Five minutes early, to be specific.

So you wait.

And check your phone again and the notifications in the dating app, just in case you missed something.

And wait.

You try to play it cool, skimming posts on Instagram and replying to some overdue texts. Finding anything you can to keep yourself occupied to ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach the longer you sit there. Alone.

Now you’re not just simply embarrassed, you’re mortified.

You can still feel the eyes, the energy steadily shifting from curiosity to sympathy over the last thirty minutes you’ve been waiting all alone in the corner of a Navy bar you had no business being in for a man who clearly wasn’t going to show.

So much for doing it for the plot, you think to yourself with a shake of your head.

Another minute ticks by with no message and you decide you’re more than ready to hightail it out of there. Fully aware that you’re about to become a topic of conversation that won’t have to be restricted to only covert glances and muffled whispers. But hopefully, they’ll at least wait until the door closes behind you before the chatter starts up for real.

With a sigh, you reach for your beaded bag, just as a large body slips into the chair across from you, with an ease that is in contrast to the bulk of muscles you catch in your peripheral vision.

“You look like you’re in need of a date,” a warm, raspy voice offers.

It’s the smile that you catch first. Not quite a grin, but something familiar and friendly and charming in the way it crookedly pulled to the left. Followed closely by the rich chocolate brown eyes that were squarely trained on you with a look that was just as earnest as it was playful. But what surprised you the most was the way he was sitting in the stool across from you just as comfortably as if he was supposed to be there all along.

There was no way you could have prepared yourself for the sheer level of attractiveness of this man.

He was in a league of his own with those curls and wide shoulders. The white and olive green stripped crochet shirt he was wearing didn’t hurt either, especially the way the top buttons were undone giving you glimpse of a chain around his neck and the chest underneath it. He didn’t need to be in uniform- or even in a Navy bar- for you to tell he was a military man. Not with the confident way he held himself.

Even if the mustache he was sporting made it feel like the universe was playing tricks on you, but he more than wore it well.

You huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “What gave it away?” you ask. “The way I’ve been watching the door? Or just the general look of regret and embarrassment?”

“Embarrassed? What do you have to be embarrassed about?” His eyebrows pull together, perplexed. He shakes his head like he disagrees with even the suggestion of it. “I think the only person who should be embarrassed is the guy who is missing out on sitting across from you right now.”

You give him a soft smile of your own in return for the cinnamon sweet words. There’s a genuineness in his tone that makes some of the tightness that had settled in your shoulders from the moment you’d walked in release.

“That’s kind of you, but I think I’m going to head out,” you say, nodding to the door you never should have stepped through in the first place.

He gives you a teasing tsk. “And let a dress like that go to waste? Now that would be a shame.”

The appreciative look in his gaze that sets off a swarm of butterflies in your stomach. And then his eyebrow ticks up, just a little. Part invitation, part dare. And you can’t say you’re not intrigued.

There’s a decision to make.

You could leave now and cut your losses. There was a reason you had a back-up pizza in the fridge and had left you well-loved copy of You’ve Got Mail sitting out on your coffee table.

Or you could stick around and see what happens next.

You tilt your head at him, just as teasing. “Would it now?”

“It would,” he states, sincerely.

Before you can reply, your phone lights up with a new notification, pulling you out of the whisky haze you’d found yourself in. 

His eyes dip down to your illuminated screen. “Is that him?”

“It is,” you confirm, almost regretfully. You open the app and skim the message. And then read it again.

There’s no sorry, no apology for cancelling a half an hour after the time for the date that had been his idea in the first place. And then he’d even had the audacity to tack on a cavalier maybe another time at the end.

Unbelievable.

He lets out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

“Apparently, I should have been the one to remind him that the fourteenth of February is a calendar holiday and a fan favorite day of the greeting card companies.” It’s so ridiculous you’d laugh if you weren’t so annoyed by the lack of consideration and the not-so-subtle blame he’d tried to shift on you. “Even though I did double check if he was sure about meeting up today, I guess I didn’t realize I actually needed to spell out ‘Valentine’s Day’ for him.”

The man across from you doesn’t bother holding back the less than impressed look on his face. And you decide you like that about him, that he wears his thoughts so openly. It’s refreshing.

“Do you mind if I take a look at his profile?”

You shrug and pass your phone over. You were planning on blocking West the second you had a moment anyways. You see him roll his eyes and guess it has something to do with the amount of shirtless gym selfies.

He snorts as he scrolls, “Please, his mustache has nothing on mine.”

An amused laugh escapes you. “Are we ranking mustaches now? Because if that’s the case, I’m sorry to say that I’d have to give it to Selleck.”

“Fair enough,” he concedes good-naturedly, as he hands you back your phone. “But am I at least a close second?” There’s no mistaking the flirtatious tone in his voice.

You hum and take full advantage of the opportunity to look at him unabashedly, mapping the contours of his face because you can.

To simply call him handsome would be an understatement.

The way the golden light of the sunset is hitting him you catch some sunkissed strands in those soft looking waves of his hair. There’s the beginning of some crinkles around the edges of his eyes. You notice the scars on his face, some that look long healed and others that are still a light pink- like the one on the side of his neck and beneath is ear. And that mustache on him worked for you, one hundred percent.

There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he lets you assess him that leaves no question as to whether or not he’s been flirting with you. You like the way he’s looking at you and the way he’s easily made you forget about being overdressed and how uncomfortable you were even just five minutes ago. You’re having fun. And while you still haven’t answered his question from earlier, you have no doubt that he’d show you a good time if you let him.

“Maybe not a close second, but yours is certainly up there,” you tease.

He grins. “I can work with that.” There’s something about the way he adds on for now that has a spark dancing up along your spine. And then he sticks out his hand, “I’m Bradley.”

It’s a good name. It suits him. It’s one you think you’ll enjoy the way your tongue will curl around the letters of it in your mouth.

When you give him yours in return, he sits up straighter in his seat, like he’s won a small victory.

You don’t doubt that he’s the chivalrous type, the fact that he’s gone out of his way to come over to try and turn this evening around for you says more about him than any dating profile with nonsense questions and overthought answers ever could. But with a man like him, one who’d swoop in to save the night of a stranger because she looks like a damsel in distress, there’s an answer to a question you need to hear first.

“Bradley, this isn’t a pity thing, is it?” You were right, you like the way saying his name feels. You drop your hands into your lap, as you search his eyes. “Because if it is, that’ll make me feel worse than being stood up did.”

The way the words were sitting out and open on the table between the two of you made you feel vulnerable in a way you didn’t like. But you’d rather know now before anything goes further. Doing it for the plot or not, your ego could only take so much bruising in one evening.

He pins you with a look so serious that you feel it down to your toes. “Trust me, this is furthest thing from a ‘pity thing’, as you put it,” Bradley says, his tone slipping down a few gravelly notes. “Because if I’m being honest, if that asshole had actually shown up, I don’t know if I would have played fair.”

Oh.

A thrilling rush of warmth courses through you as your cheeks heat up.

You nod, trying to not look as affected as you feel. “Ok, I believe you.”

“Good,” he smirks, his gaze dropping down and lingering on your lips. You didn’t realize you’d trapped your lower lip between your teeth, you release it immediately. “Because you should know, I would have come over sooner- the second I saw you, actually- if I’d known. That’s some dress, sweetheart,” Bradley continues, “Plus, you’d be doing me a favor.”

You couldn’t help but be curious, so you lean in closer. “Oh, how so?”

Bradley mirrors you, crossing his thick forearms over each other and leans in that much closer. “I haven’t had a Valentine in years,” he says it like he’s letting you in on a secret.

For the first time all night, you don’t regret wearing the dress. You don’t regret the ostentatious shoes or the glimmering beaded bag. You don’t regret walking through that creaky door. You don’t regret showing up tonight.

How could you when you’ve just been served the best plot twist you’ve possibly ever experienced? A meetcute you never could have seen coming.

You realize just how close your faces have gotten and lean back in your seat, from fear of thinking you might do something stupid, like kiss him. “Will you stop with the big cow eyes, if I agree?”

Those crinkles around his eyes deepen, “Good to know they still work, I wasn’t sure if I still had it.”

You press your lips together trying to hide your smile, all too thoroughly charmed, but the corners of your mouth curl up all the same.

“Trust me, you have plenty.”

And Bradley’s own smile gets even wider.

Anyone in the bar can see how pleased with himself he is at your words. It rolls off of him in steady waves and swirls around your shins and ankles.

He makes a show of settling further into his seat, now that it is officially his seat. “What’re we thinking? One milkshake, two straws?”

You play along and pretend to ponder the offer for a moment. “That seems more like a second date type of activity, does it not?”

“You’re right, something to look forward to for next time,” he responds, not missing a beat. “So, can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

There wasn’t a menu or anything on the table when you sat down, so you aren’t sure what all is offered here. You thought you might have caught a glimpse of a laminated stack near register when you’d first walked in, but you hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to yourself at the time by getting up again and wandering around and reminding people just how out of place you’d been.

You look around and see a mix of ceramic steins, pint glasses, beer bottles, and a few stems of wine on tabletops and in the hands of the other patrons.

The noise of the bar had become a faint white noise in your ears as the two of you talked, but it comes back in full force now.

“If they have rosé, I’d take a glass of that.” It isn’t hard to miss the hesitation in your voice, feeling a little silly defaulting to your usual go-to. You don’t imagine they go through a ton of pink wine here. “But, uhm, anything on tap would be fine too, if they don’t.”

Bradley’s lips twitch up. Not in a smirk, but something caught between amused and something else you can’t quite describe.

You try not to fidget under his warm gaze, “What?”

He slides out of his stool and rounds the table, setting a big hand on the armrest near your elbow, “There’s something you should know about me, sweetheart.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, more than a little breathlessly. Feeling a little high off of the smell of his leather and vanilla cologne, and something underneath that that reminds you of kerosene in a way that makes you want to breathe him in even more.

Bradley dips down close, his lips just a whisper from your ear, and murmurs, “Pink is my favorite color.”

Your head tips back on its own as you laugh. Its unabashedly loud and bright and delighted thing that fills the nooks and crannies of the corner you’d tucked yourself away into. And if a few heads turn your way because of it, that’s alright with you.

You don’t believe him, not one little bit. But that’s part of the fun. The back and forth, the flirting, the banter, the teasing. He’s so quickly turned this night around for you, you already know your cheeks are going to hurt by the end of it.

The sound of Bradley’s own laughter chases after yours. It’s warm and raspy and boyish, and you like the sound of it. You like him.

“One rosé, coming up,” he says, giving your shoulder a light squeeze before he steps out of your space. “There’s nothing I like more than a girl who commits to a theme.”

You catch his wrist, his skin warm under your palm. “Wait, what’s it really?”

“Red,” Bradley says, then gives you a slow once over, making your pulse spark in your veins. “But you’ve got me second guessing myself now.” He gives you a wink and then heads towards the bar.

You watch stunned as he saunters away, admiring the way the light wash jeans he’s wearing form to his long legs, before taking a moment to send a string of words punctuated with more than a few exclamation points to the group chat.

When he comes back, only a few minutes later, he has glass of familiar pink wine in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. And oddly enough, a straw tucked into the pocket on his shirt.

“It’s almost a perfect match,” he notes, when he sets it in front of you.

“At least I won’t have to worry about staining if I end up spilling on myself.”

Bradley chuckles and moves his stool in closer to yours, sitting back down with more smooth grace than a man with his build has any right to move. He tips the neck of his beer towards you, and you lightly tap your wine glass against it.

You take a sweet sip. “So.”

“So,” he repeats, with a teasing lift of his eyebrow.

“What’s your move?” you ask, running a glossy tipped finger around the rim of your wineglass.

“My move?” And there’s that grin again, one he doesn’t try to hide as he takes a sip of his own.  “‘m pretty sure I’ve been showing you my moves since I sat down. I’ve never been good at being subtle.”

Bradley pulls the straw from his pocket and taps it a few times against the shellacked woodgrain table top. He takes the flimsy wrapper carefully starts twisting it, a little furrow of concentration forms between his brows, spiraling it until it’s pulled taut against itself.  

You set an elbow on the edge, resting your chin on your hand as you study him. “But what’s the big move? I know you have one,” you press further.

His hands are big, calloused and rough, but capable. You want to know the story behind the scar that’s near the base of his thumb. You note that he wears his watch on the right instead of the left, and you pocket that new discovery for yourself the way a kid enthusiastically collects rocks in a park.

Bradley takes that piece of paper and folds it in half before twisting it again.

You watch in fascination as that pleased grin transforms into a confident smirk, like he’s enjoying even just the thought of showing you his big move. He looks like good trouble.

Bradley’s eyes slowly lift to yours, his hands pausing whatever he’s doing with that wrapper. He shoots a thumb to the left towards the end of the oval shaped bar. “You see that piano over there?”

“Mhm.” It’s an almost purr.

“That’s my big move.”

You feel your eyebrows lift in surprise. Bradley gave off such hometown golden boy vibes, you’d never have expected that he’d be the musical type too. The idea of seeing those hands fly over a set of black and white piano keys made your stomach tighten deliciously in anticipation.

“Am I going to get to see it?”

His gaze is steady on you when he replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I’ll show you my move.”

A grin stretches across your face and you feel downright giddy, as you wiggle your shoulders in triumph.

Bradley shakes his head amused, and then refocuses his efforts on the task he’d started with the straw wrapper. He struggles only for a moment- those large fingers getting in the way- as he tries to open the end just enough to slip the tail though. He gives it one more final twist, securing the loop, before inspecting his handiwork.

“Now, since we’re valentines and all, it seemed only fitting that I get you- well, make you- a little something.” Bradley gives you a soft, boyish smile as he holds out his palm towards you, and in the center of it is a perfectly crafted paper ring. “Sorry, I couldn’t find you a Ring Pop on short notice.”

The words escape you for a moment at the sheer sweetness of the gesture.

Gently, you take it from his outstretched hand, and slip it onto the pointer finger of your right hand, adjusting it with care until you have it situated just right.

“I usually wouldn’t be able to accept something so grand on a first date. But for you, I’ll make an exception,” you say, liltingly. “Thank you, Bradley.”

You look down to appreciate it again, more than a little tempted to take it off and tuck it securely into your purse for safekeeping. For as much as you liked your dress and bag and your shoes, that little paper ring was now your favorite piece of the outfit you were wearing.

When you glance back up at him, his cheeks have the faintest pink hue to them. The little nonchalant shrug he tries to give you does nothing to hide how pleased he looks. “I make a mean daisy chain too. We might have to wait a couple months for Spring, but I’m good for it.”

Your mind flashes with an image of you and him in a park with a picnic basket sat between the two of you, and those large hands of his threading celery green stems together. It’s a pretty picture.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular modern day Renaissance man.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he rasps, silky smooth. It makes goosebumps raise along your arms. “Now, I’ve told you mine. Can’t say I’m not dying to know what your big move is. Am I going to get to see it, sweetheart?”

“Maybe,” you muse, lifting your glass to take another sip, “If you’re good.”

Bradley hooks a foot under you stool and tugs you just a few inches closer. “Just out of curiosity, what’s your position on kissing on a first date?”

You bend forward towards him and think you hear his breath hitch, you smile. “I’ll keep you posted.”

You’re still looking at his lips when a shout from across the bar startles you both.

“Bradshaw!”

Bradley mutters a string of curses and then blows out a breath, giving you a smoldering look that tells you that the conversation is far from over. You’re more than willing to let him try and change your mind about where he lands in the mustache rankings.

You look over your shoulder to see the with the sharp smile from earlier waving your date over to the pool table. “I take it you know, Malibu Ken?”

“Unfortunately.” A mischievous look coasts over his face. “But I’ll get you all the Ring Pops you could ever want if you say that to his face.”

You laugh. “I’m holding out for that daisy chain.”

Another holler rings out from across the room, the same Southern drawl as before.

“Seems like he wants your attention. Is he a Leo?”

He snorts. “You know what, he just might be. But more like he’s been waiting for the right moment to annoy me since I ditched him to come talk to a pretty girl instead.”

You try not to preen at the compliment.

“The relentless type, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it. I think I’m about thirty seconds from him queuing up “You Make Me Feel So Young” on repeat just to fuck with me,” Bradley explains. There’s a story there and you want to know more. “I know I still owe you the big move, but is it alright if I try to show off a little for you now? Just to get off my back for the rest of the night, then I’m all yours.”

You feel like you’ve just pulled an ace from your pocket.

“What are the stakes?” you ask, intrigued.

“Two hundred dollars and a whiskey,” Bradley replies.

You let out a low whistle, trying to school the catlike grin that wants to overtake your face. “That’s a lot of Ring Pops.”

The corners of his mouth curl up. “I was thinking dinner for our third date,” he says. “I’m buying for our second, of course. But it’s only right that we split the spoils of war.”

The sound of a brass band rings out over the staticky speakers and Bradley hangs his head down and lets out a long-suffering groan. You playfully pat his shoulder in faux commiseration.

You pretend to consider it for a moment, but you already know your answer. “Okay,” you agree, “Just as long as you’re okay with a little respectful ogling. You like my dress, and I like those jeans you’re wearing.”

He laughs, it’s a throaty rich sound. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

You gather for you purse and sweater as Bradley stands. His hands come to your waist, helping you off the chair, your bodies closer than close. It’s a forward move- he knows it, you know it- but with him, you don’t mind at all.

Bradley offers you his hand and you take it in yours; his fingers slip between yours easily like the two of you have already done this before.  

The two of you only make it a few steps before you tug on his hand, waiting until he looks at you from over his shoulder before asking, with a lifted brow, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

He huffs out a not-so-exasperated sigh, “I blame it on the 80’s.”

“Whatever you say, Brad-Brad.” It’s the one and only time you’re ever going to say it, you decide. You like saying his name too much to shorten it. And his back may be turned to you now, but that now familiar chuckle still makes its way to your ears.

Bradley leads you to the bar first, where he buys another glass of rosé and a beer for himself. When you try to pass your credit card to the woman behind the counter, he takes it, and rasps into your ear, “Let me.”

He tucks it right back into your purse as the sound of brass instruments starts up yet again.

“Like a dog with a goddamn bone,” you hear him mumble. And you press your lips together to keep from laughing. Sure, you’d rather be seeing his big move, but you can’t claim not to be amused by all of this.

He nods to a group of people in the corner near the popcorn machine when the two of you enter the alcove with pool table. Some of his other friends of his you assume.

You send them a little wave, one that they return in greeting. You can tell they’re curious, but you’re grateful when they resume their conversation instead of making you feel like your date with Bradley had become a spectator sport for their viewing entertainment.

The first thing Bradley does is introduce you to his friend. It’s a little thing, but he does it without prompt or awkwardly leaving you to take the initiative yourself. You appreciate the way he is still prioritizing your comfort the way he’s been doing it since he first sat down across from you.

The second thing he does is pull out a chair for you. Not with a fanfare, not with a flourish. But like it’s something that’s innately ingrained in him. You get the sense that the gentleman thing isn’t an act with him, it’s who he is.

Jake rests a hip against the table. “Sorry to interrupt your date, but Bradshaw and I had some unfinished business.”

You wave him off, it’s not a big deal. Not when you’ll have the rest of the night with Bradley. Plus, you’re eager to watch this play out between them, curious about their gameplay.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with,” Bradley rumbles, as he arranges the balls in the rack. And you wonder if he lost the lag before he’d made his way over to your table for one.

He comes back over to you, and leans on the ledge next to you as he chalks his cue. You’d thought about slipping your sweater back on, with the outside chill pressing against the line of glass windows at your back, but Bradley had more than enough warmth radiating off of him that you didn’t need to.

“You that eager to be out a couple hundred, Bradshaw?” Jake grins, as he leans over the side of the table. He turns his gaze to you and sends you a wink right before he breaks, sending the cue ball barreling into the others with a resounding clack, scattering them across the table.

And then they’re off.

It’s a rapid fire of back-and-forth banter between the men as they take their shots. Mostly good natured, but undeniably competitive. Smirking when they land their shots, and snarking over fouls. Clear that neither of them wants to lose.

Jake is all confident posturing, playing low over the cue with a lightly too tight grip. It’s the only thing that gives him away that he’s not the easygoing player as he wants people to think he is. Choosing higher risk shots that would highlight his ability versus some of the more straightforward options laid out for him, and skilled enough that it pays off most of the time. But after a couple rounds you note he’s too quick to stand up after taking his shot, not enough follow through because he’s too eager to see if his gamble pays off.

Bradley is all loose-limbed ease, clearly comfortable in both his skin and at the table. You can tell he’s probably playing quicker than he normally does, clearly trying to hurry up the game for your sake, even though he doesn’t need to. Although he does take his time as he positions himself around the table, only adjusting his bridge every now and then. Always with a 1-2 shot, a warm-up stroke followed by a steady hit. Watching him you catch his tendency to throw out his elbow of the follow through.

The two are pretty well matched in skill, you observe with keen eyes, as the balls skate across the Top Gun insignia, against the rails, and into pockets.

When Bradley’s not up to play, he’s by your side, right at your elbow. And when he is, it’s your eyes he’s looking into the moment he stands back up, seeking out your reaction. But more than once you feel his eyes on you as you watch them play.

True to your word, you to admire him in those snug fitting jeans. And when he catches your appreciative gaze, he sends you a wink before lining up his next shot.

Jake sinks another solid into the pocket he’d called only moments ago, and turns his dimpled smile at you, “You still sure about your date with the old man, chickadee? I bet I could show him up in that department too.”

The way he says it, you know he’s just teasing, probably just to rile you date up and get a reaction from him.

“Unfortunately for you, I think I have a thing for mustaches now,” you toss back, unbothered. And Bradley smiles into his drink.

You watch as Jake lines up his next shot and hits the white with a compact stroke.

“Double hit,” you declare.

“Dammit,” Jake curses.

You look over to see Bradley looking at you with a focused look on his face. Like there’s a theory clicking into place, one he needs the answer to. Wordlessly, he hands you the cue.

“You sure?” you ask.

“Two hundred dollars sure,” he states.

You take it from him with a sly grin.

Bradley’s thighs brush against the front of your knees, you know if you parted them even a couple inches, that he’d fit just right between them. His hands landing on your waist again as he assists you off the stool you’ve been perched on. And you’re starting to think he just likes an excuse to touch you, not that he needs one because you already more than like the feel of his hands on your body.

You walk the pool table, running a finger around the rails as you do. Evaluating the balls on the table like they’re chess pieces. The slow clip of your heels on the floor like the tick of a clock as you take your time deciding your approach.

“You’re the stripes,” Jake offers helpfully. “Don’t worry, I’ll even let you have a free shot.”

And you can’t help but laugh because this is going to be fun.

“Bradley?” you ask, leisurely chalking your cue.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Do you mind?” You gesture to the spot behind you, and he catches on quick with a not-so-subtle glance at the short hem of your skirt.

He sets his beer down and comes to stand behind you, there’s just enough space between the two of you that you don’t have to worry about hitting him with the cue, his broad from proving you the coverage you needed to bend over the table. While you don’t think you’d mind Bradley seeing the silk thong you had on underneath your dress, you weren’t exactly up for flashing the whole bar.

You haven’t played in a while, but it’s a muscle memory at this point, as you map out your moves. Seeing the lines and angles and arcs in your mind’s eye before anchoring your bridge.

You look at Bradley from over your shoulder, only to see his eyes are trained on the ceiling with his tongue pressed against his cheek. A gentleman, albeit not an unaffected one. A tendril of smokey gratification curls its way along your spine. You turn your head back to the pool table looking between the cue, target, cue ball, target.

It’s a smooth stroke with a satisfying crack. A clean three-rail shot that lands the striped five into the pock you’d intended for it.

“Damn” is all Jake says. His eyes you up, clearly impressed.

“You sure about that free shot, Jake?” You stand up and smooth out your dress, just for the show of it. “Or do you want to make it double or nothing instead, Malibu Ken?” You hear Bradley snort from behind you.

And just like you thought, he wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, “Deal.” Jake turns to Bradley. “I just let your girl hustle me, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Bradley says with a grin, but his eyes are on you.

Neither are surprised when you sink your next shot too. The six sailing into the left corner pocket.

On your next shot, you may or may not deliberately foul. A tactical choice that sets Jake up with a less than ideal position on the table, knowing it’ll be a difficult shot for him to make.

“Now you’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Jake grouses.

You just smile and take a sip of the rosé that Bradley hands you, neither confirming or denying.

Surprisingly, he banks it.  But his good luck only lasting through that one play. Because on his next, the ball glances off the side rail at too acute an angle to reach the intended pocket and he groans.

Not quite ready to be done, you ease off a little. Enough that they both know you’re going easy on him to extend the game longer, just so that he can catch up to you.

But soon enough, soon there’s only your eight ball left on the table.

“Looks like you’re about to be out four hundred dollars, Jake,” you say with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Just put me out of my misery already.”

You turn to Bradley, who has been carefully positioning himself behind you the whole time. You hold out the cue to him and ask, “Do you want the honors?”

He shakes his head. “Go on, finish him off, sweetheart. I’m enjoying the show.”

And when your final ball tips into the side pocket, Jakes resounding groan is drown out by the whistle Bradley lets loose between his thumb and pointer finger, as you turn towards him beaming.

“The atm’s by the restroom.” Bradley sounds only too happy to remind Jake as he closes the gap between the two of you.

You look over his wide shoulder, “As for the whiskey, something expensive please, Malibu Ken.”

Jake huffs a grumble but nods all the same as he goes to round up your winnings.

“Scored four hundred dollars and a valentine, that’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” you preen to Bradley.

“Think that might have been the best thing I’ve seen all year,” Bradley announces. “The hottest too, if I’m being honest.” You feel your cheeks heat under his gaze. His finger slips under the thin strap of your dress that had fallen off your shoulder somewhere along the way. He slides it back up and into place, treating it like some delicate thing the same way he did that paper wrapper. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

Normally, this is when you’d rerack, but you’ve never had a Bradley Bradshaw looking at you before.

“I took a class in college over the summer as an elective credit, and it turns out I had a knack for it,” you explain with a playful little shrug.

“I’ll say.” He takes another step closer. “Did you just show me your move, sweetheart?”

“One of them,” you grin.

You don’t have to press up to his height, not with your pearly heels.

You wrap your arms around his neck and bring his lips to yours for a kiss. A sound of surprise escapes from his throat. You feel the curve of a smile before his hands slide around your waist to pull you closer.

The scrape of his mustache against your upper lip sends electricity racing along every nerve ending in your body. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. It’s unhurried, like he’s been waiting to savor the feel of your mouth against his. Exciting and new as you learn the taste and touch of him. You knew it was going to be good, but even so, it’s better than you could have expected.

“Think you just snagged that number one spot of my list of favorite mustached men,” you say against his lips.

“Suck it, Selleck,” he rasps.

You inhale the amusement of his light chuckle, letting it go to your head like champagne bubbles, before he slips a hand around the base of your neck and pulling you in close once again.

A couple hours later, you find yourself at home on the couch. Your cheeks a little sore from how much smiling you’d done tonight, as Tom and Meg trade words over a plate of caviar on screen.

It was only much later that night you’d gotten to see Bradley’s big move.

He’d surprised you with his voice and the talented way his fingers glided over the white and black keys. An expensive glass of amber colored liquor sitting atop the old piano as he played, and four hundred dollars tucked safely away in your purse.

You’d given him your number when he’d walked you to your car, only distracting you for a few extra minutes with his mouth, before you’d left for the night, hoping that you’d hear from him soon.

A notification lights up your phone, and a ribbon of thrill unspools through you.

You sigh when you see that it’s a notification from your dating app. You’re wary to open it, not wanting anything to color your night, but you figure now is as good of time as any to block the guy who had nothing on the one you’d spent your evening with.

When you see the name of the person who’d sent you a message, you click into his profile with lightning-fast fingers, skimming all the details to things you hadn’t had a chance to learn yet.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰

𝐀𝐠𝐞: 𝟑𝟓

𝐉𝐨𝐛 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐭

𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥: 𝐔𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐚

𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬: 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥

𝐙𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐜 𝐒𝐢𝐠𝐧: 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫

There is a picture of him in uniform, grinning to someone out of the frame. And another one of him shirtless on the beach, surrounded by some of the faces you’d seen tonight at the Hard Deck.

But it’s the answers to the prompts that he’d picked, that set your heart fluttering.

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞𝐫.)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐬: 𝐈 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬.

𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭: 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬.

That one makes you laugh.

You open the message from him, one that had been sent with a rose.

𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰: 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞? 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨, 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧? 𝐈 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐈 𝐨𝐰𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐨𝐩.

You don’t even have to think.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐤𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝?

And you can’t help but grin to yourself as look at that paper ring still on your finger. Because you know, this app won’t be on your phone for much longer.

Not now that you’ve met him.

Happy Hearts Day, friends! Thank you for reading!

And a big thank you to Jordan ( @gretagerwigsmuse) for all the support and encouragement and general woogirling over Bradley Bradshaw!

You can read my other stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken  @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

[luveline]

can I request something where Spencer is already with and married to y/n and the rest of the team has never known about her and one day they find out he’s married when she meets the team for the first time coming to bring him lunch maybe and the team is just taken aback after all the teasing they used to do to him because y/n is just so beautiful and flirty and they weren’t expecting any of it? And Spencer is just like “yeah I did that 👀😌💅🏼”

thank you for requesting !! hope this is okay, fem!reader

“I have something I need to tell you.” 

Derek looks up from his desk with an eyebrow raised. “I don’t like the sounds of that.” 

“I know you’re going to blow it out of proportion,” Spencer says, adjusting the strap of his watch where it lays over his sweater sleeve. “So I think I should tell you about it before she gets here with my lunch.” 

Derek leans back in his chair and tosses the clipboard he’s ticking through into a pile of outgoings. “I’ll bite. ‘She’?”

Spencer holds his hands clasped in front of himself, looking cagey. “Listen, I wanted to tell you, I wanted to tell the whole team, but it happened so quickly, and then I got it in my head that everyone would be mad at me or make fun of me and I didn’t want to deal with it so I didn’t tell you, and now it’s been a year and I kind of want to brag.” He ducks his head, scratches his neck, and refuses to meet Derek’s eye. “I wanted to tell you.” 

“Reid, man, what are you talking about?” Derek feels himself soften. “I’m not mad at you, pretty boy. Just tell me what’s going on.” 

“She’s over there,” Spencer says, pointing.

Derek follows his friend’s hand to you. You’re a lovely thing to look at because you’re smiling like you’ve never been happier, and you’re dressed in a simple, elegant sort of style that gives you a timeless feel, like you could’ve been in a romantic movie in the 50’s or just got back from walking the shiny streets of Paris. You aren’t his type at first glance, but you could be, the way you’re looking at him. 

“Derek Morgan,” you say as you approach, your little black purse slipping down your shoulder, “I can’t believe it’s you.” 

“You’ll have to forgive me, sweetheart, do I know you?” Derek asks. 

You give Spencer a loving, sorry look. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Sorry! I tried, but you know. I was nervous and I kind of chickened out when you got here.” 

You shift the white plastic bag you’re holding in two hands to the crook of one arm and beckon him into your side. “It’s fine,” you say, leaning upward to kiss his pale cheek, “it’s okay, don’t worry about it. I like introducing myself, you know that already.” You give him a last friendly pat before removing yourself, your hand just close enough to brush against his as you offer your name. “I’m Spencer’s wife,” you add. 

Derek laughs, the low first chuckle of disbelief. Spencer’s watching him carefully, and he thinks, oh, maybe she’s not kidding. “His wife.” 

“Yes,” you say, taking Spencer’s shoulder into your hand. You don’t seem to notice that he’s a good few inches taller than you. “And I’m so happy to meet you, you know? I’ve heard so much about you, about everyone! I realise we waited too long. S’gonna make sending you the registry pretty awkward.”

Spencer laughs. You look at him like he’s put the sun in the sky. 

“Sorry, I don’t think I understand.” 

You turn your hand to show Derek the gold wedding band on your marriage finger. “For a year, almost.” 

There’s just no way. 

Derek watches in quiet shock as Emily and Hotch descend the steps into the bullpen. “Hi,” Emily says, plainly confused. 

“Hi,” you say, deferring to Spencer with an encouraging glance.

Spencer puts his arm behind your shoulder, and Derek realises loverboy isn’t lying after all. The way he touches you is too familiar, speaking to a longstanding sort of love. His thumb immediately rubs gentle semi-circles into the fabric of your cardigan, circles you likely can’t even feel. “This is Y/N, she’s… my wife. We got married.” 

“And didn’t invite us,” Derek says. 

“You what?” Emily asks, head snapping to the side. 

Hotch is smiling at you. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” 

“You knew?” Emily asks. 

“It altered his health insurance,” Hotch says nonchalantly, stepping forward to shake your hand. 

“I’m thrilled to meet you, Mr. Hotchner.” Your eyes are sparkling. Derek can understand why Spencer’s married you from that look alone; you look overjoyed to be here, and to be speaking to them. “And you too, Emily. I've heard amazing things about all of you.” 

“Wait a minute, when did this happen? Wha–” Emily shakes her head. “I feel like I’m on reality television.” 

You turn to Spencer again, your eyes following up his cheek, a caress of a gaze as you begin to tell the story, “Well, we met by accident by at Christmas market on Cassidy square trying to buy stamps for cards, so that was sort of our first date a year and two months ago, but we didn’t get married until February, so a year.” 

“You got married after two months?” Emily asks, saving Derek the breath but not the sentiment. 

You don’t so much as wince, nor does Spencer. “It might’ve been unfair to her for me to rush things, but it didn’t feel like rushing at the time,” Spencer says surely. 

Derek knows that Hotch would’ve mentioned you months ago if you were nefarious. You certainly don’t seem nefarious, melting under Spencer’s touching, your almost frantic excitement to be meeting them quelled to a softer happiness. 

“Do you have any photos?” Emily asks.

It’s Spencer who moves for his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He flicks it open and pulls a photo from the clear window, unfolding it to reveal a shiny six by four of the two of you outside of a courthouse. Your dress is white and silk, his tuxedo made to fit. You both look amazing, but better, you look so, so happy. 

“This is the weirdest prank ever,” Emily says. 

You lay your cheek against his shoulder. “I’m the luckiest girl in the world.” 

Spencer shuffles through a hundred shades of pink. Derek struggles to wrap his head around it, but he can’t wait to tell Penelope. 

[seumyo]

DADDY DUTIES 101: Learning how to buy fresh groceries.

Todoroki had never realized how complicated poultry could be.

“Thigh or breast?” the vendor asked with a friendly smile, hands already hovering over the chilled display case of neatly arranged cuts.

He blinked down at the various trays of meat with the kind of mild confusion that suggested he had, in fact, never made this decision before. And he hadn’t—not once in his life. Fuyumi had always handled groceries when they were young, and after moving out, Todoroki either picked up takeout, made simple meals, or followed a list you had written, item by item, down to brand and packaging.

Now, however, you stood beside him, baby Shuu strapped to your front in a soft gray carrier, looking up at him expectantly.

“Thigh,” you prompted gently, your hand brushing his as you leaned a little closer. “You like dark meat more, remember?”

Todoroki nodded slowly, still staring at the options. “Right. Thighs.”

It, in fact, wasn’t as simple as being asked how much he was planning to buy. 

The vendor chuckled kindly and began packaging the chosen cuts.

Beside him, you turned your attention to the baby, who had started kicking his little legs with excitement, his head poking out from the carrier to survey the colorful stalls of the open market. His soft hat was a little crooked, one sock slightly twisted, and yet he looked like the happiest creature alive, making unintelligible sounds and reaching for things that caught his eye—mostly bright bell peppers and leafy greens he couldn’t possibly reach.

“This one’s a busybody,” you murmured fondly, adjusting Shuu’s hat and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Todoroki looked at them both, quiet warmth blooming in his chest. The chaos of the market faded into the background. They were just… a family. His family. Something soft and ordinary, yet so deeply precious it made his breath catch.

“Do you want to pick the vegetables?” You asked, nudging him gently as you tucked the bag of chicken into their reusable shopping tote. “You’ll have to learn eventually. We can’t survive off your curry attempts forever.”

“I’ve been improving,” he said, mildly offended, but followed you toward the produce stand anyway.

“I don’t burn the rice anymore.”

“That was one time,” you teased, looping your fingers through his as they walked. “But the rice did come out… crunchy.”

Todoroki gave you a long, unimpressed look that only made you giggle more.

The vegetable stand was overflowing with color—deep green spinach, vibrant carrots, glistening cucumbers, and tomatoes so red they practically glowed. You picked up a tomato, turned it in your hand, and held it out to him.

“See the skin? No wrinkles, smooth, shiny, and firm but not hard. Try it.”

Todoroki took the next tomato and mimicked your movements, turning it over carefully. It felt strange to be learning this now, at twenty-three, in the middle of a peaceful market with a baby strapped to his wife’s chest. But there was something wonderful about it too. No villains. No patrols. No pressure to save the world. Just… tomatoes.

“This one’s good,” he said, holding it out.

You inspected it with a mock-serious expression and then nodded, placing it in their bag. “You passed. One point for Daddy.”

Shuu let out a delighted squeal at the sound of their voices, wriggling excitedly against your chest. Todoroki leaned down, brushing his nose against Shuu’s cheek until the baby squeaked and grabbed at his face with pudgy fingers.

“His grip is getting stronger,” he mused, letting Shuu yank gently at his hair.

“Probably from pulling your hair every morning,” you said, amused. “I keep telling you to tie it back when you sleep.”

“I like it when he plays with it,” Todoroki said, deadpan, even as his bangs were thoroughly tousled. “It’s his revenge for tummy time.”

He could get a haircut, but then he wouldn’t have those precious moments with his baby again. And you know what they say, that they’re only little once.

You laughed at that, bright and loud, and Todoroki wished he could bottle the sound.

You moved through the market leisurely, picking up items as you went—radishes, some eggs from a local farmer, and tofu from an older woman who complimented Shuu’s dimples. A pair of elderly shopkeepers stopped you two to coo at your baby, pinching his cheeks and offering a small toy, which Shuu instantly tried to eat.

“He’s a little celebrity,” you whispered as you walked on. “Everyone loves him.”

Todoroki adjusted the tote bag on his shoulder, watching his son with a small smile. “He’s easy to love.”

You eventually paused by a small cart selling hand-carved kitchen tools—spoons, spatulas, and even chopsticks. Todoroki was drawn to them, fingers brushing over the polished wood.

“You’ve been interested in this lately,” you said, watching him. “Pottery. Chopstick carving. You know you’re allowed to have hobbies, right? Things that aren’t life-threatening?”

“I’m getting used to that,” he admitted, picking up a pair of sleek rosewood chopsticks. “Not fighting every day.”

He turned the chopsticks over in his hand, feeling their balance.

“I thought it would be harder,” he added after a moment. “Slowing down.”

You watched him quietly, then leaned into his side. “You earned this peace, Todoroki.”

He let out a soft breath. “I think I’m starting to believe that.”

They bought a pair of beginner chopstick kits and made their way home as the sun started to dip lower. Shuu had fallen asleep somewhere between the spice stall and the fishmonger, his little head lolling peacefully against your chest. Todoroki walked slower, letting the soft weight of domesticity settle around him like a familiar coat.

Later that night, after dinner and a shared bath for Shuu (who managed to splash water all over the floor and into Todoroki’s face), Todoroki tucked his son into bed. He stood there for a long moment, just watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his tiny fingers curled slightly even in sleep.

You appeared beside him, pressing against his side, your hand finding his.

“You okay?” You whispered.

Todoroki nodded. “Yeah. Just… grateful.”

Your head rested on his shoulder. “We’ll make sure he grows up knowing he’s loved.”

“I know,” he said. “I already love him enough to last a lifetime.”

And that, more than any legacy or battle he’d ever fought, made him feel like he had truly won.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[nereidprinc3ss]

mojave ghost

in which spencer reid spends the night with fem!reader—a total stranger—because she just feels so familiar. based on the song "my life in art" by Mojave 3.

18+ (implied intimacy) warnings/tags: based on a song about a stripper who runs away from her abusive boyfriend. tws for mentions of physical abuse. r has bruises from pole dancing. a little ooc bc Spencer hooks up with someone he just met but that's the point and if u know him like I do u know its not completely impossible. mentions of typical cm violence/murder. one brief mention of spencer's addiction. spencer's childhood trauma and abandonment. it's kind of just a heavy one, lmk if i'm missing anything a/n: I doooo suggest you listen to the song first just to feel the vibe of the piece and also how it is literally about Spencer Reid. and also bc its gorjus. anyways its been a while and this is not my most standard content but pls lmk what u think and if u liked it <3

He shouldn’t have done it. 

But when he saw you, sitting in a metal folding chair next to some peeling veneered-desk, his breath caught. Something primal deep in his stomach tugged the way it does when he finds little external fragments of himself, calling out to him—usually nonhuman objects. He’s seen himself in books, still warm from the hands that held them but ultimately forgotten on a bench or in the airport, needles in alleys or in between tiles on his bathroom counter, in shards of glass, in a hundred open wounds and dead animals, abstractly gutted on the side of the street. 

When he does see himself in a person, it’s in alarming glimpses. The man in the sleeping bag on the corner who talks to people that aren’t there. The lost child crying on the subway platform, rooted to the spot and still gripping the straps of their little backpack with responsible fists. It’s never anything he wants to know about himself, but this identification, this taxonomy and recognition of sameness—it’s so strong it stops him in his tracks, every time. He never really relates to the people he’s supposed to. Not Hotch. Not Gideon. Not even Maeve, in the way he’d so naively hoped for. Three people, all incredibly intelligent, at times standoffish. Used to being on the outside. All still possessing things and redemptive qualities he doesn’t. And what Spencer has secretly believed about himself for what has recently become a very long time, is that he is defined by his lack. The shape of him is made of negative space. He feels like whatever is in your lungs when you’ve pushed all the air out. 

And then, you. 

Physically, you look nothing alike. And he stops and lurches and does a double take like he’s seen his doppelgänger or been startled by his own reflection in a passing window anyway. Maybe it’s the way you hold yourself—hunched, foot tapping, head hung but still scanning the room, ever vigilant as you pick at your nails. You want to be small. You want to fold in yourself so many times you become a black hole. Spencer knows this. 

Something calls out from deep inside him, from all around him, that is not quite in his voice, but feels like grasping and reaching. 

I know you, I know you. 

He doesn’t catch himself in time before he’s walking toward you like he’s been waiting for you. 

Of course your head snaps up at the same time as he stops, and your eyes are shiny but not teary—frozen over with a layer of thick, dark ice like you’d carried the cold inside with you. You look caught. He searches for some sort of recognition in your eyes, anything to betray the fact that you have met before, because he never forgets a face but he knows what familiarity feels like and he can’t remember meeting you. 

His throat forms around something but the wrong word comes out. Halting, like he’s trying to lasso it and pull it back in. 

“Hi.” 

You pull your scarf down—a deep Roman purple—to reveal a pretty mouth, lips chapped by the unforgiving freeze outside. 

“Hello,” you say, politely, considering his probably strange behavior. He gives you a proprietary scan. Utility coat over a thick grey sweater. Jeans, cuffed at the bottom but still nearly too long, probably belted, although he can’t tell from the posture and the sweater. Brown boots. Your bag is a frayed tapestry of neutrals and patches. Fingerless knit gloves. You’ve given yourself false density, let the clothes swallow you up. Shapeless. Nearly faceless, magnet eyes framed between the scarf and the hat. But you’ve got a name. Everyone has a name. There’s yet to be anything humanity has discovered and not bothered to name. 

He forgets to ask. You clear your throat. 

“Um, I spoke to someone on the phone—Aaron, I think? We’re supposed to talk.”

Spencer tries to pick his jaw up off the floor. 

“Yeah, um, I can—I’ll… go get him.”

He turns away and breathes for the first time since he saw you, but he feels you behind him. He’s aware of exactly where you are in relation to the back of his head, he can feel you, like a hot spot, all the way to Hotch’s door. He lets himself in, slipping between as small a gap as he can manage and shutting the door gently behind him. Hotch looks up, not noticeably displeased at having been interrupted in his endless paperwork. 

What Spencer learns from his boss is this: you live in DC. You heard about a murder in Kansas—a girl, her hair still a fine, pale cornsilk. Barely not a child. You heard the details, and you called the cops, because you swear to god you know who did it, and they told you there was nothing they could do and gave you the number of someone who might be able to help, and so you followed a bureaucratic trail of phone numbers designed to discourage until you got to the BAU. Hotch says he’s going to interview you, but it’s probably nothing. 

“Actually, I’d like to do it if that’s okay.”

Hotch frowns deeper than usual.

“Why?”

Spencer swallows. Hesitates. 

“I finished my incident report early.”

Though he clearly has his reservations about Spencer’s sudden interest, Hotch is knee-deep in paperwork. So that’s how Spencer ends up in the round table room with you. 

You look too young, too raw to have been married, but you’re rubbing at your ring finger with the adjacent thumb like something is bothering you there. An absence that has become a presence. Negative space. You see things that aren’t there. Spencer knows that, too. Maybe you’re the kind of person who could look at him and see something.

That is his most intimate fantasy. He imagines it with you and feels the same kind of illicit shame and bloodied, starving hunger other people feel when they imagine sex or drugs or ravaging power; the way anyone imagines anything they want and can’t have.  

But he can’t put that kind of pressure on you. He can’t hold expectations like that. You’re a stranger. 

“Do you always do that?”

He points to your fiddling and gets that sour feeling in his throat he always does when he says something and wishes he hadn’t said it. That probably doesn’t show on his face. Most things don’t show on his face. Or maybe they do and nobody has bothered to tell him. 

You flex your pretty hand and then make a fist like you’ve been burned, probably to stop the compulsion. When you give a self-deprecating laugh, Spencer feels incredibly guilty for having pointed it out. But he doesn’t know how to talk to you. And at the same time, he almost expects it’ll be like talking to himself. Only nobody will give him odd looks. 

“Uh… old habit. I used to spin my wedding ring around when I was nervous.”

Used to. You’re especially too young to have been divorced. 

“You’re nervous?”

Your eyes flash as you look up to him. With what, he doesn’t know. Lightning, maybe. Electrical impulses that are a little less well insulated in you than in everyone else. 

But maybe he’s projecting. 

“Yeah. I feel crazy. But I was with a guy for a while who—and he was from Kansas—who would always, like, talk about… about hurting people. And I thought it was a joke at first, but… he laughed, at other people’s pain. He liked to hurt people. And animals. His dad had a farm, so I thought it was maybe he was just cavalier about life and death, but it was more than that. And he lived… he lived in that town. Where that girl died. He probably knew her. I… I probably knew her.”

Spencer’s heart sinks and he clears his throat like the force could bring it back up the right level again. 

You’re not his soulmate. You’re just paranoid. Looking for answers and resolution, like everybody else. 

The piece of himself he saw in you was just free radical damage. Instability. 

“Did he ever kill anyone before?”

“Wh—not that I know of. But I don’t really think he would’ve told me.”

But you would’ve known. You’re here because you’re lost. 

“Did he ever seriously injure anyone?”

You swallow and sit up a little straighter. Heat lightning in your eyes, again. It makes him feel something. He sits up too, despite your indignance, because it’s entrancing. 

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“He… he…” you melt as quickly as you inflated and go back to spinning a ring that’s not there. It’s like watching technicolor go to black and white. “He’d beat people up. He cut them with broken beer bottles and… yeah. A lot of other shit. He was just… he was crazy. He wasn’t… okay.”

The way your gaze flickers back and forth like you’re reading pages of a book or perhaps in REM as you recount in vague detail what your ex had done clues Spencer into the fact that you’re extremely traumatized. The way you make sure to emphasize that your clearly abusive ex wasn’t okay clues him into the fact that you care too much. That you’re too quick to excuse people’s bad behavior, or dismiss it, because you know how it feels to be dismissed entirely and you don’t want to make anyone else feel the way you’ve felt. 

Or maybe he’s still projecting. Maybe he’s idealized you in these few short minutes since you met and he’s too far gone. Maybe he should’ve let Hotch do this interview after all. In fact, he absolutely should’ve. 

But the worst thing by far he did was ask to walk you to your car after all was said and done. 

The interview went on for over two hours, and he’d learned things about you he suspects you’ve never told anyone before, and thus has learned about himself, and the building is mostly empty when you finally leave. The work day is over. So he selfishly asks you to wait while he gathers his things—buttons his coat, wraps his scarf, packs his bag—and then he soaks in the silence on the elevator because it’s that terrible, beautiful space between where you first cross the line and when you do something unforgivable. Asking to walk you to your car was crossing the line. 

Sleeping with you was unforgivable. 

And he didn’t care. Maybe he knew he was going to do this from the moment he saw you. Spencer never does this. The knowing that it was going to happen is quite a distinct flavor of intuitive knowledge and it was always on the back of his tongue. 

You’re silver and purple, a streak, a blur, you move too fast to keep up with and even when you’re perfectly still the atoms around you scramble like they’re jonesing. You inspire movement. You are movement. But he gets to see you slow, and despite having known you only a few hours, he knows this is nothing short of a natural phenomenon. A once in a lifetime sort of shooting star. That’s where the silver comes in. 

The purple, though—it’s in strange places. Around your upper arm. Between your thighs. On your knees and shins and hips. The first time he noticed it he couldn’t ignore it, but he couldn’t very well ask what’s hurting you while he was touching you in a way that was decidedly not painful, if he wanted to keep it that way. And he did. He wanted to keep you looking at him through half-lidded eyes like he was something to see. 

Still, he can’t notice it and then fuck you without saying something—or maybe he could, and you desperately want him to and you ask for it and maybe most people would, but he won’t—so he brings it up. 

“I lead a very active life,” is your whispered excuse, shaped by a smile that is something like mischievous. And then you’re kissing his flushed neck and making your descent and so he can’t ask very many questions. 

It’s only in the precarious after that he can fit his questions in, which is dumb and he knows that, because you’re a dizzying contradiction of cagey and flighty and really the slightest thing will send you running. It’s funny how he knows that after a few hours and sex. Sex can tell you so much about a person. Spencer has compiled all the data from his experiences and decided sex is radically more effective a profiling tool than interview. 

You’re on his pillow, lying on your stomach, and his hand is in your hair. Falling in love is quite a distinctive taste as well. Or at least, the recognition that if you spend enough time around a person you will, beyond a shadow of a doubt, fall in love with them. It is almost the same thing. It aches because it’s there and the proper thing to do is pretend it’s not. 

And his hand is in your hair. And your eyes are closed, and you look like you might fall asleep, and he should be beyond grateful for all of these things. He is. 

But that pesky desire to ameliorate, to improve and make better, and fix and heal, is too strong. Probably it’s the only way he thinks anyone will love him, is if he makes himself useful. That’s no revelation to him. The thought is not shocking whatsoever. It’s just true. 

So he asks again. You blink your eyes a quarter of the way open. 

“Hazard of the job.”

“What job?”

You make a noncommittal noise of reluctance—a discontented puppy’s whine, half-asleep. 

“I’m a circus freak.”

He laughs and remembers to keep scratching your scalp. The way you smile, eyes closed, is infectious. 

“Yeah? What’s your act?”

“Guess,” you challenge through the remnants of a smile, oozing satisfaction and glowing like a star. 

When he pauses to regard you, to seriously consider, studying the curve of your cheek and the color of your lips, you open your eyes again. 

“Tightrope walker,” he finally says, earnestly, so soft it could tear down the middle like gauze. 

Your answer is a smile into the dark. “How’d you know?”

The corner of his mouth vies higher. 

“I sensed a kindred spirit.”

Silence floods the room again, slowly, thickly, like molasses. It’s pleasant. You’re still here, in his bed, and he’s still measuring time with the pendulum of his hand in your hair. 

“What do you really do?” 

He expects you to be asleep. 

“Dancer.” Your lips hardly move as you say it, inflectionless, immediate. If his hand falters, it’s only momentarily. That explains the bruising, and so is a relief, as far as he’s concerned. But perhaps his silence is misconstrued. “Do you want me to go?”

It certainly doesn’t seem like you want to go. Your eyes aren’t even open. 

He keeps his voice low and gentle like maybe you really are asleep. 

“Why would I want you to go?”

“Don’t… do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t act like you’re not judging me.”

“I’m not judging you. I’m from Vegas. Your job is not a novelty to me.”

This time when your eyes slide open, there is a new, curious light behind them. 

“Really?”

He nods, distracted by a freckle just beneath your eye. 

“When I was ten I ran into my bus driver wearing two quarters as a shirt. And we weren’t even on the strip. We were in a Texas Roadhouse parking lot.”

You snort with laughter and it’s melodic, like twinkling crystals, like running water. Even as you hide your face behind your hand, he’s transfixed. God, he’s never cared about being funny before. Now he wants to make you laugh over and over again. He wants to keep you softer than you’ve ever been. The laughter fades slowly and he grieves it—but your hand sliding away from your face like the sun coming up from behind a mountain eases the ache. 

You reach out as if in a trance and run your thumb gently beneath his eye. He holds his breath as you make contact, butterfly light. Nobody has ever touched him like this before. 

“You’re gorgeous,” you murmur. A thoughtless observation. A truth cast to the breeze. Knuckles carefully follow the dip of his cheekbone—a cartographer, learning her way by touch. Marking her territory. He’d let you do it. His eye stings, ready to spring forth a river just so you can have the pleasure of discovering it. “Breathe,” you laugh, softly, and he does. 

“Sorry.”

You don’t say a thing. You let your fingers trace borders into his skin and follow them with soft eyes and he wonders what he’s ever done to deserve this kind of magic. He wonders if he’ll ever feel as good as he does right now, when it’s all over. Nobody has ever paid this much attention to him—but you’re intent, focused, like he’s art. 

“Tell me about Vegas.”

It takes him a moment to reply. 

“Hm?”

He feels bewitched. Warm. Foggy. A thumb brushes over his lips, but it’s only a pass, thank god, because he can hardly stand how you’re touching him already, at the high point of his cheek, beneath his brow. Finally getting enough sometimes feels awfully close to too much. He’s already almost cried once. 

“I wanna hear about Vegas. I’ve always wanted to go. Is it hot?”

Spencer will say whatever you want him to say, but he has to focus a little—like he’s speaking through honey. 

“In the summer, during the day. In the winter at night it drops to below freezing.”

“Desert-y,” you hum.

“Very.”

“Tell me more.”

There’s a rousing hunger in your voice and it reminds Spencer to want you again. He finds your waist and tugs you closer. Who is he with you?

Is he better? 

“There are 175 casinos in the city, but only thirty on the strip. There are 15,000 miles of neon tubing on the strip alone. It’s the brightest place on earth. You can see it from space.”

“Not that.”

Petulant. He loves it. 

His lips find the softness of your shoulder. “Then what?”

The only clue that you can feel what he’s doing to you is the twitch of your fingers on his cheek. 

“Tell me something… tell me exactly how it feels to stand in the middle of the desert. With nobody else around. Tell me things and details I couldn’t know about unless I’ve been there.”

At the junction of your neck, he pauses. This beautiful girl, and her beautiful brain—you are so disarming. So perfect. 

You shiver into him as his fingers brush up the back of your neck, gently pushing away hair so he can learn you everywhere. So he can remember your landscape, just like he’s doing as he closes his eyes and falls into memory. 

A gas station, off the side of the road—seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Desert all around. His dad’s ’79 Ford Fiesta—the one he didn’t take with him when he left. The driver’s door is open. Spencer’s dad has been inside for minutes. Spencer is watching from the middle of the road, because he looked out from the backseat of the Fiesta, and saw that dark, unassuming spot, and thought—how would it feel to be the darkness? What would I see if I were nothing at all?

When he gets there, and he stands on the sun bleached pavement, veined with spiderwebs of tar, and he sees this all from a distance—he realizes he feels exactly the same as he always does. So he pivots his head to the left. The road goes on until it disappears into the smudgy horizon. To the right, it does the same. The earth swells, far away, so many miles, so coal black, so impossible. Hardly even real. But there is something out there, he thinks. There is something, even if nobody else has ever been there, and I want to stand in the middle of it and I will learn how it feels to be nothing. I will not observe—I will become apart of the landscape, with the Joshua trees that have been there for a thousand years, and the rocks that haven’t moved in millennia. 

So he begins to walk. 

The rocks crunch under his feet, and that is the only noise. 

He walks for minutes. He walks until he knows the gas station will be small. He walks until he can feel the emptiness on the back of his neck, until it feels like an embrace. 

“It’s silent,” he hears himself say to you, in some other universe, decades in the future. “At night, it’s completely silent. You can hear yourself breathe. If you throw a pebble ten feet away, you’ll hear it hit the ground.”

Little Spencer takes a deep breath of inky air. 

“It smells like… geosmin.”

“What?”

Perfect. Your voice is perfect. 

“Dirt. But it’s not the same as dirt anywhere else. It’s… drier, like it’s smelled the same way for a really long time.”

Spencer’s cheeks burn. He’s doing a terrible job explaining.

But he feels your breath on his cheek—eager. Your hand at his shoulder as you lean closer, enraptured. Reverent, almost. 

“What else?”

What else?

Dry brush snags on the hem of the corduroys his mother had picked out for him. They’re a little too short. She’s going to try to take him shopping again tomorrow. It’ll work this time—they’ll get to the store. Mom’s just been having some trouble leaving the house lately. 

Rustling leaves skim the tips of his fingers as he reaches out for them, and keeps walking. When was the last time someone touched that shrub?

“There’s vegetation. Creosote, mostly, if you’re in the scrubland. Larrea tridentada. It’s dry—kind of twiggy, with green leaves and yellow flowers in the spring. The smell is bad, like asphalt, but you only notice if you get close.”

He hears his dad calling his name. It fades in and out. 

It’s dizzying, hearing his father’s voice. His father saying his name. 

It’s been a long time. 

“It’s so flat that things don’t echo. But because of the extreme variations in temperature the air pressure sometimes forces the sound waves to the ground and makes it impossible for them to propagate. They’re called the Santa Ana winds. Someone could be standing right next to you and if the wind blows at just the right angle, you won’t be able to hear them. But when it’s still, sound carries far.”

His father is angry. Or is he worried? 

Spencer can make out his dad, pacing frantically back and forth across the gas station pad, white button-up a glowing beacon even from this far away beneath the lone yellow street light. He looks so small. So very far away. Ant-like. 

Santa Ana comes slow—warmer than the night air around him, to ruffle his hair and rustle the dry leaves and blow soft clouds of fragrant sienna dirt around at his knees. It blows through him. For a moment, it wakes the desert up. 

Then it’s passed. It moves further down the desert and leaves Spencer behind. Things settle into silence again. He’s alone again. 

Spencer’s stomach flips as he realizes his father can’t see him this far away, this deep into the dark nothing. 

As he finally feels the enormity of the distance on all sides. 

Suddenly the void behind him is massive. Suddenly it is everything, and it is sucking him deeper. Nobody can see him. He could just disappear into 25,000 square miles of desert. He’s already, what—a thousand feet gone? More? The weight of all the infinite space behind him presses, and he thought it’d feel interesting but it feels like dying and there has never been so much regret or dread curdling in his stomach before. His face crumples, eyes stinging in the dry air, and he takes one step forward, and then another, and then he runs like he’s running for his life. But he doesn’t feel chased—no, that’s the worst part. He is running from an infinite, vacuous, nothing. Dad! He screams, but even this young he knows how sound waves work in the desert and he can tell his dad can’t hear him and he’s running and screaming until his lungs burn, and the scrub lashes at his ankles, and it has been the same for a thousand years and it will stay the same for a thousand more with or without him. Dad, I’m right here! He sobs, the words ripping up his throat with desperation as they go. 

Finally, finally, he’s heard, and he’s close enough to see his dad seeing him, he stops pacing and stares dumbfounded at the little boy appearing from the desert, sneakers slapping cracked asphalt. He gets closer and closer until he can see the lines on his father’s face and the color of his eyes and he sobs as he crashes into him. His dad’s hands are vice-tight around his arms, as Spencer cries and can’t breathe and thrashes like a fish out of water. 

What? Is all his father can manage, tight and baffled and afraid and the first word of a question he doesn’t even know how to ask. He says it again and again, like a skipping record; what—what? What?

On the drive home, Spencer sits in the backseat, a bottle of Bug Juice in his lap. His ankles sting, whipped and bloodied and punished for wearing too-short pants. 

The silence is cloistering and at the same time, completely par for the course. He does not expect his father to speak to him, but he sort of thinks maybe another father would. 

Outside, the black spine of distant mountains rolls on forever and stays impossibly far away. He peers out into the nothing, past what the moonlight can illuminate—and now, he doesn’t have to wonder. He knows how it feels. Imagines another little boy made of shadows, as far away from the road as he’d been, and feels sick from all that fruit juice. He won’t ask his dad to pull over—all he wants is to get rid of that feeling on the back of his neck, like he’s dissolving into space. Like he’s the only thing for miles and miles. 

But the problem is—the feeling doesn’t go away. 

Not in the driveway. Not in the bath. Not in bed, later that night. 

Spencer did a bad thing and he wishes he could go back to normal. He wishes he didn’t get that desert feeling when he was surrounded by other people. But it comes back, again and again. At school. When he tentatively asks for new pants and his mom throws a vase at the wall and then sobs on the floor for forty minutes. When a few weeks later, his dad leaves, and doesn’t take the Ford with him—so it sits under the carport, greets him on his way to school every morning, and over the course of years the windshield turns opaque with dust. 

He hasn’t stopped feeling that way since. 

“You okay?”

A long, soft breath draws him back into his body. Into his bed. 

Not creosote. Not geosmin. Not the Santa Ana winds, coming from the deepest parts of the desert and carrying their desolation to him. Shampoo. Warmth. A girl who smells sort of like him, now—a girl whose perfume is all over his neck and chest and pillow. 

You’re there. You, a stranger. You, a girl he’s going to fall in love with. You—the only person he ever brought into the desert with him. The only person who ever brought him back. 

Point Nemo is not in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Asphodel is not in the underworld. It’s a little less than half a mile out across from an old gas station on the I-15 in the middle of the Mojave desert. 

Spencer nods because he can’t bring himself to speak just yet. 

You smile and take the time to find his hand in the dark. 

“Felt like I was out there with you. Thanks.”

And he squeezes your hand—because for the first time, it feels like someone is going to come looking for him. 

lyrics from my life in art <3

[misserabella]

46-58

abby anderson x fem! reader

summary; abby loses her match, and when her frustration takes the best of her, she takes it out on you.

cw; +18 content! minors dni!, swearing, abby getting mad, harsh treatment, rough sex, name calling (whore, slut), spanking, clit slapping, fingering (r receiving), strap-on sex (r receiving), multiple orgasms, degrading and praising, abby being really rough, breeding kink (😵‍💫), abby uses reader like a toy, hair pulling, making out, finger sucking, cum eating, squirting, use of pet names instead of y/n…

abby was losing. and abby hated losing.

24-39. a 15 point difference.

“fuck!” she hissed, sending the ball flying against a wall, making the other team wince in fear. and who wouldn’t. abby, with her 6,3ft and muscles could make anyone shake in their place.

“anderson!” her coach reprimanded her, and she huffed. you were worried about her. you could clearly see she was frustrated. but at the same time you couldn’t help the way her roughness made you feel. your thighs pressed against the other as you bit down on your lip as you felt your clit throb. why did this turn you on so badly?

you had come to her game to cheer for her, her sweater —with her name on the back— engulfing you and almost hiding your pink skirt. you loved the size difference in between the two of you.

you loved watching abby play, there was something about it, about the way she moved, that made it impossible for you to pull your eyes away from her. she was good. she was the captain for a reason and due to that she always took it personal when the match would go sideways even if it wasn’t her fault. she was too hard on herself.

“referee please!” she yelled, huffing when a player from the other team hit her and yet he didn’t count it as a foul. next time he did indeed called it was when abby did a blockage. “oh come on! are you fucking serious?! i didn’t touch her!” one of her teammates went to her, stopping her on her tracks. “fucking dick…” she muttered, shaking her head. you squirmed when she tossed the ball to the referee a little bit too harsh, winning a warning from her coach. but she was too good, he couldn’t risk to sit her on the bench.

“come on abs, don’t get frustrated, it’s alright.” one of her teammates tried to cheer her up, and then her eyes were on you. her beautiful blue eyes. you trembled.

there were 5 minutes left.

the time was flying by.

30-43

the crowd was roaring, cheering for their respective teams.

“come on abby…” you muttered. she was chugging water, her whole body and strong arms covered in shiny sweat.

she did her best to diminish the point difference, running from side to side of the court and scoring as many points as she could.

but sadly enough, despite her best efforts, they ended up losing.

46-58

the glowing red numbers were like a mock to her face.

she cursed, sitting on the bench with her head in between her hands. her coach made his best to not let it consume her, as so did her teammates, but she was blaming herself. and she was frustrated… furious.

you watched as both teams shook their hands congratulating each other for the game and took their things to leave.

you left the stairs and made your way down to meet with your girlfriend, who didn’t even look at you and simply started walking towards her car, having you following her behind like a lost sad puppy.

she didn’t say a word though the whole way back to your shared apartment, the silence and heavy atmosphere inside the car making your skin crawl.

you watch her muscled back as you made your way inside the apartment, abby harshly leaving her bag on the floor. she could feel her blood boiling, her hands shaking in adrenaline and rage.

“abby.” you called out for her, touching her shoulder, gently. but there was nothing gentle in the way she was now pressing you against the wall, both of your hands on the side of your face.

“shut the fuck up.” she growled, taking your lips in a rough kiss that had your lungs begging for air. “i’m so fucking mad.” she groaned, sucking on your neck, and you whined, feeling one of her legs push up in between your own and against your throbbing cunt. “you know what i need right now, isn’t that right, doll?” you nodded. “yeah, you do. so you’re gonna stay quiet and let me fuck you, hm?” you moaned, nodding once again, feeling heat pooling in between your legs, her voice was low, dangerous. and you couldn’t help but want to satisfy her, to make her feel better. “atta girl.” she went back to kissing you, one hand taking a hold on your wrists to push your hands over your head as the other came down to the seam of her hoodie, pushing it up just to discover that you were wearing nothing underneath. “well would you look at that… you were ready for it, huh?” she chuckled, her free hand pinching one of your nipples, making your back arch and a whimper fall from your lips. “wether i lose or win i was gonna fuck you anyways, so why bother… isn’t that right, doll?” she teased you, grinding her thigh against your clothed and aching cunt. “but we both know that you like it best when i lose, right? you get off by me being mean to you.” her lips latched to your neck, slowly making their way up to your ear. “my girl just needs me to be rough with her, huh?” you shivered, nodding, your cheeks flushed in embarrassment. she was right. “fucking answer to me when i speak.” the hand that had been rolling your nipple harshly spanked one of your thighs, making your skin burn and you let out a needy moan.

“yes, abby.” she hummed.

“good girl. now, why don’t you go wait for me in our bed, hm? and take off your clothes, want to see you spread and open for me once i get there.” you nodded, and she let go of your wrists.

you followed her command, getting to your bedroom as you heard the faucet of the bathroom opening. she had probably gone to clean her hands. you quickly got rid of your clothes, letting them aside on the floor before getting in bed, your back against the duvet and your legs spread for her to see your now drooling cunt. you wanted nothing more than to reach out in between them and touch yourself, get some relief. but you knew better. you knew abby wouldn’t like that, so you sat there, waiting for her to come to you.

she didn’t take long.

when she came back she was on her underwear and sports bra. muscles on display and pumped due to the recent exercise. you were drooling.

“look at you.” she shook her head, her eyes on your pretty cunt. her pretty cunt. “open up for me, darling, let me see you.” she said, and you blushed, letting one of your hands trail down in between your thighs, your index and middle finger making contact with your folds to spread them and show your twitching entrance to her. she groaned. “so fucking pretty.” you moaned. “and so wet… you’re soaked, princess. all that ‘cause i’m mean to you? you’re a slut.” your thighs shook at the name, your clit throbbed, awaiting to be touched. “you like it when i take it out on you, baby? when i use you like a little toy?” you nodded, making her need to fuck you bigger. “of course you do. ‘cause that’s all you are, my pretty little toy.” you watched as she made her way to the bed, abs flexing, strong thighs spreading. your back arched when her fingers met your exposed and open pussy, a whimper ripping your throat when she slapped your clit. “you just can’t wait to be fucked, can you?” your eyes rolled to the back of your head when she suddenly and harshly pushed two of her thick fingers inside your tight walls. “sucking my fingers right in like the whore you are.”

“abby…!” you whined as she started to fuck them in and out of you. they slid so easily. you were so wet for her. it was embarrassing, how much control she had over you.

“haven’t even started fucking you yet and look at how drenched you are.“ you moaned, your hips rutting against her touch, making her chuckle. “so desperate…”

“please, abby, please… fuck me, please.” you begged.

“want me to fuck you baby? want me to use you?” she inquired and you nodded.

“yes, please. use me. use me.” you pleaded, eyes tearing up. you needed her so badly it hurt. you were so turned on…

she took her fingers out of you, looking at how they shone with your slick before pushing them inside her mouth to taste you. you whimpered as she hummed.

“get on your knees baby, ass up.” she ordered, and you followed, laying with your tummy down against the sheets and your knees holding your ass up, your back arched as your chest rested against the mattress. you knew this was how she liked to have you, with both your holes showing. she relished on your muffled moans and cries against the pillows, how you’d hold the sheets in between your hands for support as she pounded her cock inside of you.

she put on the strap, buckling it around her hips as she stared at your drooling pussy, slick now pooling on your thighs in droplets. she groaned. she couldn’t wait to have you creaming her dick. it was big. around the 7 inches, and purple, with ridges and a great girth.

you gasped when you felt the tip tease your folds, bumping against your clit. abby was using your arousal to lube herself up. you could feel your cheeks burning at the sound of your slick folds engulfing her tip, the neediness of your twitching hole to be filled and fucked.

one of her hands took your hip as the other guided the strap to your hole, pushing in in a harsh and quick sudden thrust that had you gripping the sheets and screaming. “thaat’s it. fucking take it.” your breath got punched out of your lungs as she started to fuck you open on it, hitting your g spot with every snap of her hips. “be a good doll and sit pretty for me while i fuck you, hm?” you moaned, feeling your walls squeezing the silicone and sucking it in. her pace quickened, harshly fucking into you as she grunted. your moans were getting cut by each thrust, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you tried to stay up on your legs, although you couldn’t. that’s why abby was there for, grabbing your hips with such strength that will leave the marks of her fingertips on your skin. “fucking shit. pussy so good taking my cock. look at it. fucked open and drooling for more.” you whimpered, your tits bouncing and hardened nipples brushing against the sheets, making your mind feel fuzzy.

you were a babbling and moaning mess, begging for more, pleading for her to take her anger out on you, to fuck you harder, faster.

she groaned, pistoning into you until you were nothing but a body for her to let her frustrations out on. shit. she was fucking your brains out. one of her hands gripped your hair, pushing you against the sheets to keep you in place, abusing you g spot over and over and over again.

“abby!” you screamed, your walls squeezing shut around her cock, your orgasm building up on your lower stomach.

“that’s it baby. louder. let me hear you. who’s cock are you taking, hm? whose pussy is this, huh?” she inquired, and when she didn’t hear and answer she spanked you, making your body jolt.

“yours!!”

“fucking right.” she growled.

“gonna cum!” you cried out.

“yeah? you gonna cum, doll? gonna cream my cock? gonna drip for me?” you nodded. “of course you are. now be good for me and let me have it. let me see you fall apart.”

she didn’t have to ask twice, your orgasm hitting and drowning you like a tidal wave, making your world turn white and your ears ring as your moans became louder and louder.

abby fucked you through it, never backing down and keeping the same intensity, what made your orgasm last what seemed like ages. and when you thought it would die down it just kept growing.

“abby, i’m gonna cum again, i’m gonna, oh fuck!” you cried out, feeling it turn into something else. your thighs soaking wet in your squirt as your back arched, her cock sliding in and out of your pussy so easily…

abby groaned, the back of the strap rubbing her clit in just the perfect way.

“there it is…” she muttered, relishing on the sight, on the sound of the splashing of your juices against her hips and strap. “pussy feeling so good is crying for me.” you took it. took her anger, her frustration… but it was…

“too much! too much!” you begged, one of your hands scratching at her abs as she kept fucking you, but it didn’t stop her, the hand that pressed your head down taking both of your wrists behind your back to pull from you and on her dick. you screamed, feeling her on your cervix, and squirting non stop.

“fucking take it. stop being a fucking baby and take it.” she grunted, feeling her orgasm approaching. “gonna cum so hard. gonna fill you up, princess, fuck a baby into this pretty pussy of yours. gonna leave you dripping for a week, doll.” you whimpered.

“yes, please, cum inside, cum inside! want your cum please, abby please…” you pleaded. and that’s what made it for her.

“look at you. completely cock drunk... yeah? you want it? then take it. fuck. fucking take it.” she groaned, harshly and quickly fucking into you as she hit her peak, watching you squirt like crazy as she came and soaked her boxers. she fucked the two of you through it. by the time she was finished the sheets completely soaked.

she let go of you, your cunt trying to still suck her in, making you whine as she pulled out of you and let go of your wrists, making you fall against the sheets. you were breathless, boneless. she had fucked you completely dumb. your whole body was shaking in exhaustion and the high of your orgasms.

your cum was coating the base of her strap in a white ring, and your cunt shone under the lights of your bedroom, puffy folds reddish and swollen due to her abuse.

it was needless to say that abby wasn’t angry anymore.

-

a/n; reader is me while my crush got frustrated playing today 😫🤭

[rowdydevs]

My Valentine - Rafe Cameron Blurb

+18 Minor DNI

Older!Rafe x Girlfriend!Reader

⭐️ republished ⭐️

+18 Minor DNI

warnings: swearing, pet names, fingering, rafe and the reader watch their porno

📖 What do you get the man who has everything on Valentine’s Day?

✨ “You want your gift, daddy?

“This is enough, truly,” he mumbles as he slides your bra straps off your shoulders. “But I’m a greedy man, honey. Let me have it.” ✨

800 words

Reader’s POV:

Valentine’s Day… What do you get your boyfriend? The man who has everything and anything he’s ever wanted, including you.

You pass him the little gift bag, watching his eyes sparkle as he takes it in, knowing he’ll most likely get something shiny purchased on his card. He humors you sweetly nonetheless, giving you that smile that makes your heart race a little faster.

His eyebrows pinch together as he pulls out the flash drive. “What do we have here?” He eyes the little device in his large palm, his curiosity peaks, turning the faux surprise genuine. He looks down at you, waiting for your response, but you simply shrug and giggle. “Alright. Alright. Let’s see what my girl got me. Yeah?”

He whisks you off your kitten-heeled feet, taking you into his arms, walking down the long hallways of Tanneyhill to his master bedroom. You let out a little gasp as you take everything in, the usual gifts and flowers, but Rafe loves how excited you get each time, regardless.

“Rafey…” You coo, making the high-points of his cheeks blush as you fawn over his sweetness and how well he takes care of you.

“Daddy’s always got you. You know that, princess,” he hums, dressing your new Tiffany necklace around your throat as he kisses his way to your ear. “Can’t wait to see what you got me, baby girl.”

“Why don’t you get comfortable? And I’ll go put something on,” you whisper onto his lips, to which he happily obliges.

You stroll over to the nightstand, littered with gifts purchased by Rafe, eyeing the lingerie sets.

“Somethin’ pink, princess,” he aids.

You change quickly, slipping into the matching silk robe before stepping into your heels again. Snagging the flash drive, you pop it into the tv, sauntering toward the bed as Rafe stalks your movements with a preditory stare, waiting for you to drop the delicate fabric.

His eyes are only on you for a moment before they roll back—Rafe grabbing for you fast, drawing you closer. You straddle his legs, feeling his cock, hard between your thighs.

“Tonight is going to be a good night,” he smiles, his hands drifting around to your ass, gripping tightly.

“Mmm… All night long?”

“All night long, angel. Gonna make you so dumb you forget your own name,” he chuckles raspily against your glossy lips.

“You want your gift, daddy?”

“This is enough, truly,” he mumbles as he slides your bra straps off your shoulders. “But I’m a greedy man, honey. Let me have it.”

You reach over to the nightstand, grabbing the remote, pressing play. Rafe’s eyes double with his devilish smile as he takes a rough grip on your curves. “Fuck, was this Moracco?” He rasps. “Did you record-” His voice trails off as he watches your naked body come into frame before adjusting the camera slightly, ensuring the perfect angle for him. “Holy shit. My girl looks fuckin’ good,” he moans before slapping your ass. “God damn. C’omere, princess.”

He snaps at the little band of your thong guiding you to slip it off. You finger the clasp of your bra flicking that away before relaxing your back into his muscular chest. Rafe snuggles into you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist as you kiss on camera.

“Look at how good we look. Shit,” he sighs, kissing you gently on the neck, drifting up toward your ear. “My own personal pornstar,” he groans sinfully. His soft voice in your ears gives you the giggles. “Ugh… Not the giggle too. Just kill me, princess.”

He draws his hands up to your breasts, taking a hold of them, massaging them in his large palms. He circles your nipples slowly, making you whine.

“Fuck, I gotta big dick. You think she’s gonna take it all in that tight little pussy?” He taunts. Rafe’s hand drifts over your naval, lowering to your sex, his other hand resting lightly on your throat.

He massages the inside of your thighs with a heavy hand, dangerously close to where you’re craving him most. “Mmm…” you purr. He grabs your chin roughly, directing you toward his lips.

You let out an airy sigh when he slides his fingers through your folds, the tip of his ringed digits dipping in and out of your entrance. His fingers rub around your clit, small waves of pleasure with every stroke of the hand.

“We’re gonna watch this again and again,” his fingers mirror his words; a smile felt against your lips.

“Please, daddy.”

“So polite, princess. So good f’me. Look at you take my cock. Fuck m’givin’ it to you so good,“ he hums.

”So – So good,“ you pant as Rafe adds more friction. ”Just like that.“ You plead. Rafe kisses your neck roughly—your heart starts beating faster.

He lets out a wicked laugh as you repeat yourself on camera. “Yes, Rafe just like that. Fuck!” Your desperate cries come pouring out of the tv speakers. He repeats your words teasingly through kisses which only makes you wetter, the squelching of your own pussy making the video hard to hear.

”Bet you can’t wait for me to stuff you full of my cock. Hmm? Look at you beg for me. I’m ruining you, honey. Jesus fuck. N’you’re just takin’ me like the whore you are,” he grunts. Rafe adds all four fingers, his strong hands rubbing your bundle of nerves. You hit your crescendo. “That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Cum for me.”

You feel yourself pulsing, shockwaves gripping your body as you ride the waves of your orgasm. Rafe’s fingers slip along your pussy, sinking in and out of your entrance slowly, just playing with you, letting you soak in all your pleasure.

You watch yourself fall apart on camera as Rafe cums with you. The two of you reaching for air, panting and kissing between breathes as he plays with the cum slipping out of your soaked hole, before stuffing it deep inside.

He lift his finger to his lips, sucking them clean before reaching for the remote.

“Round two, princess.”

[jasperthehatchet]

my bag 🌿⛓️🌻⚙️ more details in the image ID and more pics below

I found a small plain black leather backpack at the thrift store for $6 and made it my own :) I used silver sharpie for the swirls and made the buttons all myself with the exception of the metal ones

[Image ID: a small black leather backpack covered in patches, buttons, safety pins, studs and silver and metalic green spirals in the spaces with no patches. There are four patches on the front, an orange patch with a white trans rights symbol sewn on with white thread, and a circular green patch with a simplistic sun and moon drawin on it in black (a mirrormask patch) sewn on with black thread. And on the front pocket on the bottom, theres a dark green band patch with white lettering that says "she past away" sewn on with white thread and a black patch next to it with a red anarchy symbol sewn on the bag with red thread. There are silver spike studs lining the edges of the bag along the zipper and on the front pocket as well as soda tabs sewn onto the front pocket flap with off-white thread. And on both sides of the pocket there are safety pins decorating the empty space next to it. There are four pins on the side of the bag, a light green and white spiral pin, a light green and white "eat the rich" pin, and a metal fairy pin on the top half, and theres a metal frog with an umbrella pin on the front pocket in-between the two patches. Theres also a small orange carabiner on the pocket zipper.

On the left side of the bag, there is a patch on the bottom where a side pocket would normally be. An off-white band patch that says "bauhaus" in black lettering and it's sewn on with black thread, and there are silver spirals around it filling the space. There are some areas I left blank to make the swirls/spirals look like they're hanging down or growing up the bag like vines. There's a horizontal seam above all this that makes the area look like a pocket, and above this seam there's a metal pin with a sun, moon and stars on it.

The right side of the bag, there's no patch where a pocket should be, I instead filled this space with some spirals and more handmade bottle cap buttons. Two buttons, a larger type o negative band button that's black with white thorny vines, and a smaller red band button that says "doom scroll" on it in off-white lettering. Above the seam on this side I drew a bunch of silver spirals that look like they are growing out from behind the seam.

All thread mentioned in this post is embroidery thread, and some groups of spirals drawn on the bag are metallic green. End ID]

Here's the top of the bag as well as the straps that hang down

[Image ID: the bag has a rounded arch shape, and across the top of the leather I drew a cluster of green spirals in between the silver spirals I drew on the sides. There are some blank spots to avoid making the bag look busier than it already is. The loop at the top for hanging the bag is embroidered with a green leafy vine pattern. The same pattern is embroidered on the right strap that hangs down from the bottom of the bag, and on the right one, a gray barbed wire pattern is embroidered. I plan on sewing some more soda tabs onto the top of the bag at some point for the sake of adding more shiny things and also fill up some of that space I mentioned because while I don't want the bag to be too busy, I think the blank space i left on the top is a little too much blank space. End ID]

[azsazz]

Over Ice (Part 2)

Hockey!Rhysand x Reader

Summary: Anon Req: She’s walking around Campus and BOOM right smack dab into Broody McBrooder!! She THEN finds out he’s the tutor for one of her hardest courses (personally Psych would be a good one) and they become super duper close with him and the team!!!

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 3122

(Part 1)

_________________________________________

“When you said you got me a t-shirt,” you sigh, once again adjusting the hem of the jersey Mor provided you. Notshirt; jersey. The bottom of the Velaris Bats uniform has been trimmed—startlingly low. Or is it cut too high; you wonder with a swallowed curse. The damned thing nearly shows off your entire midriff. “I thought you meant, like, a normal fucking shirt and not whatever this is.”

Mor scoffs, shoveling a handful of popcorn into her mouth as she weaves her way through the throng of people towards your seats. Her long strides in her black heels hard to keep up with. “That is a Mor Original, and I only made it cuter,” she huffs indigently, like your discomfort is the sole inspiration behind her “designs.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve allowed Mor to pick out your outfit, but it’s definitely going to be your last, you try to remind yourself. The handful of times you’ve thought this exact thing before is laughable, and you’ve never once remembered. She’ll continue to cut the hems of shirts and alter skirts into even shorter skirts until the end of time, probably.

She’s been the crafty type since you first met her. Anything that she could add personality to was subject for a good old shot of “Mor’s Touch:” clothing, home décor, even the cocktails she mixes—which often go from something as simple as a Dirty Shirley and turning it into a cherry-passionfruit with a hint of lime drink, mixed with tonic instead of Sprite and garnished with a frilly umbrella stuck through three Maraschino cherries because “one is simply not enough.”

You agree, and you’d never admit to your eccentric roommate that it’s the most delicious drink you’ve ever had. Goes down like lemonade and has you going from a corner-stander to someone in the center of the dancefloor in two drinks flat.

You wish you had one right about now to get you through the night.

Your mind wanders to Gwyn back at the dorms, wondering what she’s going to be getting up to tonight. You don’t need to wonder, you know how your red-headed roommate prefers to spend her nights, curled up on the couch beneath a thick blanket, a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels within reach, and her laptop in her lap, creating fantasy worlds for her characters to live in some day.

A surge of pride for your roommate fills your energy tank. Sometimes people truly do find exactly what they were made for in life, and Gwyn was born to write. You’ve only read a few snippets she’s been willing to share, but you can’t fathom forming sentences the way she does, creating worlds and characters from her mind alone, seeing a vision in your mind so clear that it would be a crime not to share it with the world.

You’re not sure you’ve ever loved something that much, but Sports Medicine is pretty damn close. Psychology, is not.

You shiver as the cold of the arena hits the sliver of skin that’s exposed itself once again while you were taking a sip of your drink. Goosebumps pebble in response, coursing over the entirety of your body within seconds, causing you to shiver.

You should’ve fought Mor harder about bringing your jacket, but at least she left you sleeves, her shirt has been cut into a tank that hardly reaches the bottom of her ribs, and there’s a deep cut down the collar, creating a perfect ‘V’ that shows off her incredible tits.

You’d know, you’ve seen them before.

“Oh. My. Gosh. You two look so good,” a girl gushes, steps into you and Mor’s path, halting you from your first steps down the stairs to your seats. She’s chipper, a camera poised in her hands, the thick strap around her neck. He shiny, chestnut hair is braided into two tails, draped across her shoulders.

Behind her thin-framed glasses, her bright blue eyes sparkle with excitement as she peruses you and your roommate up and down, admiring your outfits.

“I told you,” Mor murmurs, elbowing you in the side before raising her voice to answer. “Thank you so much! I spent all day on these, and this one doesn’t appreciate my hard work at all. It’s a refreshing change of pace to hear a compliment instead of ‘Mor, don’t you think this is a little too much?’” You scrunch your nose at Mor’s terrible impression of you. Too nasally, too annoying.

The photographer laughs like it’s her full-time job, and you scowl.

Way to throw me right under that speeding bus, Mor.

“Do you mind if I take your picture for the team’s social media account? You two would make a great first slide in a carousel for school spirit,” she gets this faraway look in her eyes as if she’s picturing it now. “The interaction you’d get us,” she sighs dreamily. “I might even get promoted.”

You groan internally when Mor perks up even further. “I think I love you,” she blurts, pupils heart-shaped. “Do you want to sit with us? We have an extra ticket.” She’s bought one for Gwyn, hoping she would join in on this sporty girl’s night, but your other roommate had been adamant about her dislike of the sport, and had gotten a pass while you were dressed up like a doll and dragged out of the dorm.

The girl’s laugh is like a windchime, soothing and melodic. “I wish I could, but duty calls,” she waves her camera around in answer. “Maybe I’ll catch you at one of the after parties, though. Here, you can give me your Instagram and I’ll DM you after tagging you in the photos.”

She and Mor exchange socials and names. Feyre. It’s unique and suits her well.

After adding your own Instagram on her phone, you hand the phone back, posing with Mor. Of course, knowing your roommate as you do, it’s not just one picture that Feyre takes. They’re both beaming, and one picture turns into ten. Ten poses, nine sips of your drink because you don’t know what the hell else to do. Eight frantic smiles, seven internal sighs, and six side-eyes from passerby, trying to find their seats. Five giggles from friends, four embarrassed blushes, three warnings that you are so done with this, two people ignoring you, and one announcement overhead signaling the start of the game in a few minutes.

“So nice to meet you, Feyre,” Mor calls as you begin guiding her away. You have no clue where you’re going, but any movement closer to any empty seat is better than the photoshoot you just had in the middle of the walkway. With a parting smile at the photographer, Mor continues, like she’s all for standing there all night instead of supporting her cousin on the ice. “Message me!”

“Clingy, much?” You grunt at the poke to the arm that gets you.

“Oh, come on! It’s not like I’m going to replace you,” she scoffs with a brush of her long blonde hair over her shoulder. You swear, the guys sitting in the front row swoon. “Besides, you can never have too many friends. It’s not possible.”

You’re pretty sure it is possible to have too many friends, but you keep that thought to yourself. You suppose you have one more spot in your life for a friend, but if the pictures turn out terrible and are blasted on the Bat’s Instagram, that spot might disappear. You’re already feeling mortified enough from the public display of taking photos.

“Yeah, yeah,” is what you decide to go with. “Now, where are our seats?”

“I don’t like the look of that,” you mutter wearily, squinting to see what’s happening on the ice. You might not know anything about hockey, but you know malicious intent when you see it. It’s in the way that the Penguin’s player leans closer to the Bat’s center, nudging his shoulder as he speaks, his slimy grin growing with each jab.

The game’s been fun so far, much to your surprise. The crowd surrounding you is all for the team, chanting songs that you need to learn immediately because they’re so much fun. The music that blasts around the stadium during every break is on-point, not too old of songs and not too overplayed like at the one football game you’d been dragged to last year (also by Mor, but not because of a family member on the team, because of an entirely different member.)

“Is that my cousin?” She asks, brown eyes sharp as she examines the players. Their fronts are to you, no seeing the names painted across the back of their jerseys. You refrain from mentioning how Mor should at least know her own cousin’s number—since their written on the sleeves—but you keep that thought to yourself when her red painted nails tighten around the box of popcorn, crushing the flimsy cardboard. The strain of the muscle in her jaw matches the boy on the ice’s, you notice with a fleeing glance at your roommate.

Tension coils your gut. You find your fingers wrapping around the edge of the seat you’re perched in, gripping the bleachers so tightly that you swear you feel the cool metal warming and warping.

You’re not the only two who have noticed the shift in the moods of the players on the ice, parts of the crowd are beginning to rise from their seats, cheering growing from a low rumble to a thunder of screams, caws, and jeering.

The puck is barely a millimeter from the referee’s hand before sticks are thrown to the ice, gloves following as the two players slowly begin to circle each other. It looks like something out of an animal documentary: two predators about to snap at each other’s throats in a fight for the territory.

The anticipation of them going blow for blow lights a fire deep within your belly, your core perking up for attention.

You shouldn’t be thinking like this, shouldn’t get getting turned on by the idea of two boys about to knock each other’s teeth out. Should be thinking about your best friend’s cousin like this at all.

Shooting a guilty glance at your roommate, you breathe a soft sigh of relief that’s swallowed by the shouts of the crowd when you see that Mor hasn’t picked up on your sudden shift in mood—both mentally and physically.

All the players on the ice slide back to make room for the brawl that’s about to break out and a sick feeling bubbles in your stomach, almost overpowering the arousal as you wonder why no one is attempting to stop them.

There isn’t time to voice your concern, isn’t time to do anything except bolt to your feet with a gasp so harsh it sears your lungs when the Penguin’s player is the first to swing. Your heart is lodged in your throat, your breathing holding in your throat as you watch in anticipation. He lashes out with a curled fist so fast that by the time you blink, it’s over.

His hit doesn’t land.

There’s no time to feel the relief trying to rush through your veins because the Bat’s center is retaliating, throwing himself forward after swiftly dodging the attack. He grabs the other boy by the collar of his ice blue uniform and hauls him into his closed fist.

His opponents helmet goes flying off with the snap of his head backwards. He stumbles, but manages to stay upright, snagging a handful of the Bat’s jersey to try and steady himself.

You look to the benches flanking the ice, wondering why no one is joining the fray. It’s now that you realize it’s not that they don’t want to help their teammate who is quickly ducking away from another fist, it’s because they can’t.

There’s a boy standing nonchalantly, hazel eyes pinned on the scene before him. He looks eager almost, leaning so casually against his stick, chin propped on the edge of it like he’s watching the newest action movie from the best spot in the house.

Even the goalie seems to be unconcerned, taking the few moments he has to take a swig of water and adjust his helmet, squatting low and shooting side to side in his box, as if trying to keep limber for when the game resumes.

One of the refs is attempting to hold back a burly boy who seems much too large to be skating at all. His helmet has also been shucked off, revealing long, shoulder length wet hair that clings to his face and neck like a bee on honey. His gloves are abandoned on the ice too, and his stick has skidded to a stop upon hitting the sideboards nearby. You can’t make out the words he’s shouting, but with the feral grin you make out, you know they’re fighting words. With each bark he seems to be inching closer, like the full-grown man in the stripes trying to hold him back is nothing more than a soft breeze, and his is a twister barreling right through.

When he shakes his head, you catch sight of a bloodthirsty grin that has a shiver sliding up your spine. He’s enjoying this?

“Mor,” your worry tries to escape, only for the words to stick in your throat as more noises join the fight, loud as gunshots. Both the Bat’s and the Penguin’s players are rapping their hockey sticks against the boards separating their benches from the ice, war cries falling from their lips.

They’re all enjoying this.

“That is my cousin,” Mor screeches, her perfectly plucked brows pulled tight as she tries finally makes out the number on the back of the jersey that’s gripped so tightly in the offending players grip that you’re pretty sure the stitches are popping with the force. “Kick his fucking ass, Rhys!”

Casting a frantic look to your roommate, you realize that not even she seems to be fazed by the fact that her cousin is in the middle of a fight that could very seriously end badly, especially with the knives on the bottoms of their feet.

But, if everyone’s rooting for their player to win this battle, you can too.

As gruesome as the scene before you is, you wish you had a better seat, somewhere with a better viewpoint than all the way on the other side of the ice. You can’t to be able to hear the threats they’re growling at each other, your attention completely enraptured now that you’ve shoved your worry to the wayside.

With his newfound hold, the Penguin’s player strikes again, and this time, his hit slams across Rhys’ jaw. His head snaps to the side with the nasty hook and his helmet slips to the ice, the sound eaten up by the goading of the crowd.

They swing around, unsteady on their skates as each of the boys tries to topple the other over. You catch a glance at his face. It’s hard to see, and his shaggy black hair is splayed across his face like a spiderweb, keeping you from making out his features. You catch the blood dribbling down his chin, the anger etched in the clench of his jaw as he grits his teeth, managing to twist himself into a position where he has the upper hand on the Penguin’s player: a headlock.

Your heart thunders in your chest as you watch Rhys pound his fist into the other boy’s face once, twice, three times before his opponent’s feet fall out from under him. Rhys releases his hold, allowing the boy to slip lamely to the ice.

“Atta boy, Rhysie,” Mor shouts, once again shoveling popcorn into her mouth with a grin so bright it could melt the ice in the rink before you. She turns to you, golden brown of her eyes glowing with excitement. “Our parents would be so proud.”

She turns back to the scene before you can voice your confusion on that statement, tucking away the information that if you win a fight in hockey, it’s a great accomplishment.

You watch Rhys as he’s escorted by referees who guide him towards the penalty box. He’s examining his knuckles, not caring that he’s abandoning his equipment as he goes, grimacing as the adrenaline begins to fade. He pokes at them, frowning at whatever he feels.

You pray they’re not broken.

The rest of the players seem to be getting back to the game, like one of their teammates isn’t being casted away on an island across the ice. Okay, so it’s just another bench and he’s not that far from them, but you’re shocked that this is the end of the fight, both players carted into separate timeout boxes away from their teams.

Rhys plops down on the bench, pulling a water bottle from a hidden holder, washing the blood from his knuckles before examining them for a second time. You watch him flex his fingers, twist his wrist this way and that. You can’t seem to keep your eyes off him, even with the game picking back up and Mor shouting cheers when the Bat’s manage to steal the puck right from the drop, carting it down the ice with a speed that rivals a racecar.

He must be satisfied with his examination because Rhys is throwing his head back, and it’s almost as if he’s squirting the water from the bottle directly onto you with the way that the apex of your thigh’s wet at the sight of him. He sips the water, holding the bottle a few inches from his face, and you watch the water cascade down his chin and over his throat, bobbing with each swallow. It mixes with the blood from his split lip and slides into the collar of his gear.

You swallow harshly, suddenly parched.

When he’s had his fill of the drink, he moves the bottle further back, using the spray to wash his hair away from his face, and your breathing shallows. It’s as if the hand he’s using to squeeze the life out of the bottle is constricting around your throat, because suddenly, you recognize the sharp of that jaw, the curve of those eyebrows and the straight of his nose. All his angular features come together in the perfect picture of hotness, knocking the breath fully from your chest when he straightens his chin, looking out onto the ice to watch his teammates score the last goal of the second period.

He's the boy from this morning: the overachiever, the one who called you darling.

Mor’s cousin.

Rhysand Cunningham.

_________________________________________

Over Ice Taglist:

@saltedcoffeescotch @acourtofbatboydreams @mrsjna @velarisdusk @bionic-donut @tenshis-cake @eleganttravelercloud @lilah-asteria @serena05 @bwormie @soph1644 @house-husband-of-castlemurdock @tothestarsandwhateverend @topaz125

[velaris-fic-repository]

The Perfect Ceremony

@starfallweek 2025 March 23rd Prompt: It’s a Starfall mating ceremony, the dreamiest night of the year!

A/N: I originally wasn’t going to do this one, but I decided to try and it ended up grabbing my hand and running away with it! I hope you enjoy! Also, I need more platonic! Rhys fics in my life.

It was only the beginning of the week leading up to Starfall, and you were already exhausted. The entire world wanted a piece of you. You were stuck in meeting after meeting around Velaris for your duties, everyone wanting things handled immediately so they wouldn’t have to work the rest of the week. Never mind that you were having more and more things piled onto your plate by them, but such is the burden of the Inner Circle this time of year.

You were already stretched thin, wanting nothing more than to return home to Azriel, your mate, for some much needed cuddly comfort. You two hadn’t accepted the bond yet, but had every intention to. Starfall being so close to when things snapped for you both, you’d wanted it to be special. After everything the two of you had been through, both together and apart, romantically and not, you both thought you deserved the happily ever after treatment.

Your mistake had been telling Rhys that.

No sooner had you walked through the door of the townhouse, intent on dropping your stuff on the nearest surface and collapsing into the nearest soft thing, Rhysand poked his head out into the foyer.

His face lit up, star filled in its own right, and immediately pulled you into his arms, saying your name with childlike excitement. “Just the female I wanted to see.”

“Hi Rhys,” you said, unable to keep the exhaustion from your voice. Likely your mind as well, you hadn’t thought about your shields in a long time.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your and Azriel’s ceremony.”

A wave of tiredness rolled through you at the thought of yet another discussion. “Rhys,” you pleaded, “when I told you-“

Rhys was not paying attention, it did not even appear he had heard you. “I have so many ideas to run by you. You were right, you both deserve something special, and I want to help you make it perfect.”

He looked down at you with shiny eyes and you faltered for a minute. Curse your loving heart.

With a failing social battery, you tried the one card you had. Feyre would understand you, she always did. If you could get Feyre to rein him in… “Wouldn’t Feyre want to help as well?”

“The studio’s awfully busy this week I’m afraid. I know you know the feeling, and I do apologize for that, love. Think of this as my apology to my soon-to-be sister-in-law?” The last part came out like a question and your flimsy resolve broke.

You sighed, “okay, Rhys.”

He beamed, simultaneously lifting your spirits and raising your apprehension, before grabbing your shoulders and winnowing you two away.

Unbeknownst to you, Azriel had arrived upstairs moments before.

He’d sensed your sheer exhaustion and strangled acquiescence and had tried to get to you as soon as he could. You had been here, not too long ago if your scent was still this strong in the house. He’d almost believed you were still here, calling out your name until he picked up on Rhys’s as well.

A groan worked its way unbidden from his throat.

Of course. Rhysand had intercepted you before he could get here. The High Lord had told him how excited he was for the two of you. Azriel should have assumed something like this would happen. He’d likely been waiting for you to get home, eager to make preparations.

Azriel trudged downstairs, lightly agitated. His shadows flickered along his back, flared in response to his emotions. He picked up your discarded work bag and returned it to the place you always kept it in your room. As he held the strap, felt the weight of it, his heart sank. Tiredness radiated out from your side of the bond. He had half a mind to wrench you from his brother’s clutches and return you safely home.

To him.

But he knew you. Knew you wanted to make everyone else happy, even to your own detriment. It was something he simultaneously loved and hated about you. He knew the earful he’d receive if he pulled you out.

But oh, that little protective impulse.

Little. Who was he kidding?

When he saw you tonight he’d talk to you about that little habit of yours. Then hopefully, you’d finally let yourself get some sleep.

He sent a pulse of adoration over to you, pleased at the weak - but very much there - echo of it you sent back.

Just a little longer, he told himself, then no one will be seeing either of us for months. He didn’t just mean the frenzy, either. Both of you could more than use the time off relishing in the arms of the one you love.

A soothing pulse reached his chest and he realized he’d been gripping the strap of your bag with white knuckles. He must have projected his protectiveness through the bond to you. You were reminding him to relax.

He would. He just had to find a way for both of you to.

Having errands of his own to run, he did not return home again until much later. He made his way softly to the room you two had taken to sharing. He was the Spymaster, so he made no sound at all as he entered the room, expecting to find you asleep in bed.

Instead, you were at the desk with a candle burned down nearly to the bottom of the jar that contained it. Paperwork was strewn about as your head lay on some of them. Ink stained your fingers in little wisps, either smudged where your hands brushed it when it had been wet or simply there due to your frenzied writing style. Shadows of a sort.

You were knocked out though. He sighed, tilting his head. His shadows reached for you, more indicative of his longing for you than creatures of their own.

He wiped the ink off your fingers, careful not to disturb your much needed rest, before moving you to the bed. You didn’t wake as he pulled you to him, hugging you close like a teddy bear. He draped a wing over you and pressed a kiss to your forehead before joining you in the realms of sleep.

You were awoken by Rhys’s voice in your head. “Rise and shine! You and Feyre have a seamstress appointment!”

Had you really been that out of it that he could just barge into your brain and wake you up?

“Apparently, yes. She’s waiting for you downstairs. She didn’t want to bother you.”

Huh. Maybe someone could learn a thing or two from his mate.

His laughter reverberated in your mind. “Hurtful. She’s got the day off and so do you. Only ceremony planning today, and I mean it. Have fun!”

Thanks. Then you built your mental walls back up. Days off are great when you aren’t behind on work and aren’t forced into planning an elaborate mating ceremony, you thought privately. Anxiety itched around your mind.

You slowly realized your surroundings now that you were more awake. You were exactly where you wanted to be, in Azriel’s arms. But Feyre was waiting downstairs, waiting to help you find your dress. You couldn’t just leave her. Tired as you were, they truly did mean well. This was something you needed to do. Along with everything else you had on your to-do list.

So, you tried to pull yourself from Azriel’s hold. Predictably, he groaned and pulled you closer, wrapping his arms tighter around you. It was adorable, but you’d made up your mind to leave. He was not helping.

“Az, love, I’ve gotta go.”

He buried his head further into your neck. “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do,” you chuckled.

“Work?”

“No.”

“Rhys?”

“Sort of. Feyre’s waiting for me downstairs.”

“Ceremony stuff?” his muffled voice said.

“Something like that.”

“You would really deny me the presence of my mate?”

You chuckled, “we aren’t mated yet, Az.”

“We are to me.”

Your heart squeezed. You kissed the crown of his head and said, “two more days.”

He reluctantly let you go, shadows chasing half-heartedly after you.

“Have fun being the artist’s dress up doll,” he teased as he leaned in the doorway, you in the hall.

You smirked back at him, “be careful how you speak of my High Lady.”

“Sense of humor, yet another reason to love you.”

You shook your head. “I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work.”

“That flush suggests otherwise.”

“Az.”

He held his hands up in surrender, “can you blame a male in love for trying?”

Feyre could hear you both from the stairs by now and snickered at your, “good-bye, Azriel.”

He watched you go from the door of the house, feeling the weight of the world bearing down on you. He knew you wanted things to be perfect, both for Starfall and the ceremony, but he couldn’t care less for that perfection, least of which when it affected you like this. To him, it would be perfect just because of you. He’d have everything he’d want for the ceremony anyway. Just you. He didn’t need you wearing the perfect dress, didn’t need the perfect decorations, the perfect food. He’d eat the crumbs off your plate if you’d offered them to him.

Maybe that had been his mistake. He’d assumed you’d known that. Maybe he should’ve told you. He still could. Put an end to the massive undertaking his family had turned your wishes into. He loved that they wanted to help, but this was getting out of hand.

That was a conversation he needed to have. The next time he saw you, that’s what he’d do.

He, unfortunately, did not have the opportunity. After spending three hours trying on dresses before you found one you liked, Feyre pulled you around for another two hours with additional ceremony prep. Then after that, you were running around catching up on the work you hadn’t completed the previous day. You barely stopped to eat as Velaris became your personal obstacle course.

You crashed on the couch, but woke up in bed again, Azriel next to you. You pulled yourself out of bed, not waking him this time, and left him a note. There was still a lot for you to do the day of Starfall. You’d see him that night, when the work was all over.

Cassian had been your chosen mode of transportation up to the House of Wind for the events of the day, once all your work was done. You’d managed to get everything done just before sunset and found Cassian with renewed energy and enthusiasm.

He’d grinned at you, ribbing you over the events of the evening and ferried you up to the house with the two of you laughing the whole way.

Once deposited, you walked inside the house, finding your family setting up your decorations. Gwyn had kindly offered to officiate the ceremony tonight and the rest of the family were helping with the decorations.

“Alright,” you said, rubbing your hands together, “what still needs doing?”

“You need to get ready, and that’s all we’re allowing you to do,” Feyre said, firmly.

“But-“

“No-“

Amren dropped the decoration she had been fighting against and spun you around. “Out, girl.”

“But-“

With her pushing you out of the room by your back, you could not see her, but you could feel the glare she was sending you and promptly shut up.

You teetered slightly on your feet, attempting to find some kind of excuse so you could still help, but found none. Your family sent you soft and amused smiles and you were silently on your way.

The laces on the back of your dress had been giving you trouble, and just as you were getting frustrated, emotions of the day still pulling at you, the door opened.

“Feyre, can you-“

You turned. Feyre was not the one who’d entered the room.

He was dressed up, at least as far as he was likely willing to. The deep blue outfit was not anywhere near Rhys level, but it was beautiful. He was beautiful.

His eyes were wide, staring at you in such awe that you had to look away.

“You look-“

“It’s too much isn’t it? I thought so. I had a feeling about the other one. It’s all too much isn’t it? Everything’s-“

Azriel stopped you by reaching forward, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, gently stroking the bottom of your lip.

“You look stunning. It’s not too much. It’s not too little.” He punctuated this sentence with a soft, passionate kiss.

“It’s perfect.” Another kiss, this one longer than the first.

“Any type of ceremony, any timing, any and all details in any configuration, would be perfect. You want to know something?”

Words could not find you, so you nodded.

“There is no way this night could be anything other than perfect for me, because it’s you. You are everything I want, everything I could ever need. I couldn’t care what you’re wearing or what the room looks like, so long as I get to look at you.”

Tears lined your eyes as you said, “Me too.”

“That being said, let’s go enjoy the work you did. Just promise me you won’t run yourself into the ground over details again, okay? I don’t take kindly to my mate buried under mountains of work.”

“I promise,” you said, kissing him, “so long as you promise me the same.”

“I swear it, sweets.”

“And help me lace up the back of this?”

You both exited the room and slowly walked to the now fully decorated room. Your family noticed your quiet smiles and followed your lead, sobering the whole affair a bit. It was quiet and soft, but in a good way. The feeling you get as you open a brand new book. The feeling of lying down in your bed and staring at the ceiling.

There was a dreamy quality about the whole thing as you all moved to the balcony. Rhys and Feyre’s smiles were twinged with apologies but you waved them off, Azriel’s steady hand on your shoulder.

In the anticipation of Starfall before you, you both softly said your vows to each other, your family watching on with wistful smiles. You had planned something elaborate, in terms of the food you wanted to offer. A recreation of the meal you shared on your first date. It would have taken awhile, and was meant to be symbolic, but at the last minute, you decided to swap it out in favor of a spare cookie the two of you had made together the weekend before. It wasn’t perfect, but it was food the two of you had laughed over when you shared the experience of making it. Indicative of your love and a promise of what your future would be. Maybe it was perfect after all.

You each offered each other a bite as Gwyn guided you through the ceremony.

“Why were they so dry?” Azriel said, humorously, despite himself.

“I swore we put the right amount of milk in,” you laughed.

Gwyn smiled at the two of you as she slowly bound your hands together with a ribbon. As she concluded, lights began to flash across the sky. You watched it for a moment before you leaned in and shared a kiss, this time as mates. It was everything you could have wanted. It was perfect.

[gf2bellamy]

omg I ADORED what you did with observation!!

anyways, I have another request and it’s based off of a great movie (that just so happens to have mgg in it)

It’s reader’s first day at the BAU and while she’s taking the elevator she’s listening to music. Another person joins her in the elevator (Spencer) and he comments on her music taste saying he loves the artist she’s listening to. (eventually that interaction leads to more)

thank you so so much 🫶🏻!!

-B

music — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nervous reader bc it's her first day a/n: HII B!!! i'm so so glad you liked observation <333 i sort of tried to copy the scene in the movie - also i used beethoven as the music, reader was listening to bc spencer mentioned once ( s5 i think ) that he liked his music ( i do too tbh ) - i hope you like this !!

The fluorescent lights of the FBI headquarters buzzed softly overhead as you stood in the lobby, waiting for the elevator. Your foot tapped nervously against the polished floor.

Today was your first day at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, and despite all your preparation, the nerves were getting the best of you.  

You glanced at your reflection in the shiny elevator doors—your outfit was professional, your hair was neatly styled, and your badge was clipped securely to your belt. But your nerves were still getting the best of you.

You reached into your bag and pulled out your headphones, slipping them over your ears.

As soon as you hit play, the opening notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata filled your ears. The soft, melancholic melody was like a balm to your nerves.

Your foot slowed its tapping, gradually falling into sync with the rhythm of the music. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the music wash over you. 

The soft ding of the elevator arriving pulled you from your thoughts. You opened your eyes just as the doors slid open.

You stepped inside, pressing the button for the floor of the BAU. As the doors began to close, a hand shot out, stopping them.

You looked up to see a tall man stepping into the elevator with you. His dark hair was a little messy , his tie slightly askew, and he carried a worn leather satchel slung over one shoulder.

Your eyes met for a brief moment, and he offered you a small, polite smile. You returned it, though you were sure yours looked more nervous than friendly. He stood beside you, his hands clasped in front of him, and the elevator doors closed with a soft whoosh. 

He glanced at you from the side, his hazel eyes curious. You caught his gaze and smiled awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

He opened his mouth to speak, and you saw his lips move, but the sound was muffled by the music still playing in your headphones. Quickly, you pulled them off, letting them rest around your neck. 

“Sorry?” you asked, your voice soft as you smiled at him apologetically. 

“I said I enjoy Beethoven too,” Spencer repeated, his voice slightly higher than before, as if he wasn’t entirely comfortable initiating conversation. He adjusted the strap of his satchel bag, his fingers fidgeting nervously. 

“Really?” you asked, your interest piqued as you turned to face him more fully. “Not a lot of people I know listen to classical music.” 

“Yeah,” he nodded, meeting your eyes briefly before looking away again. “It’s… complex. I like that. It gives my brain something to focus on.” 

You smiled. “Same here. It calms me down,” you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Especially on days like today. It’s actually my first day.” 

Before Spencer could respond, a loud ding echoed through the elevator, signaling that you’d reached your floor.  

The doors slid open, and the two of you stepped out into the hallway. You paused in front of the elevator, the doors closing behind you as you turned to face him. 

“Oh, really? What department?” Spencer asked, his tone curious as he shifted his satchel strap on his shoulder. 

“The BAU,” you replied, meeting his hazel eyes again. You couldn’t help but notice how they seemed to light up at your answer. 

“The BAU?” he repeated, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s… that’s my department too.” 

“Really?” you said, your eyes widening in surprise. “What are the odds?” 

Spencer chuckled softly, his nervousness seeming to ease a little. “Yeah, I guess it’s a small world. Or, uh, a small building, at least.” He paused, then added, “I can show you around, if you’d like. The BAU can be a little overwhelming on your first day.” 

You felt a wave of relief wash over you. “That would be amazing,” you said, your smile widening. “I was kind of dreading trying to figure everything out on my own.” 

“It’s no problem,” Spencer said, his voice warm. “I remember my first day. I was… well, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly perfect.” 

You laughed softly, feeling less nervous than you did 5 minutes ago. “I find that hard to believe. You seem like you’ve got it all together.” 

He shook his head, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Trust me, I didn’t. But you’ll be fine. The team’s great. They’ll make you feel at home.” 

As the two of you walked down the hallway together, Spencer began pointing out different rooms and explaining their purposes. His voice was calm and gentle, and you found yourself hanging onto his every word.

“This is the bullpen,” he said, gesturing to the open area filled with desks and computers. “It’s where we do most of our work. Hotch—our unit chief—has his office over there, and the conference room is just down the hall.” 

You nodded, taking it all in. “It’s… bigger than I expected,” you admitted, feeling a little overwhelmed by the sheer size of the space. 

“It can feel that way at first,” Spencer said, his tone reassuring. “But you’ll get used to it. And like I said, the team’s great. They’ll help you settle in.” 

You smiled, feeling a little more at ease. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.” 

He returned your smile, his eyes softening. “Anytime. Welcome to the BAU.” 

[dykeforhire]

The Gift of Opportunity

Emily Prentiss x fem!reader

Description: Rossi recommends Emily to a ‘special service’ after finding out she’s having a bit of a sexual dry spell.

Warnings: (18+) porn with plot, escort!reader, strap!on use, bottom!emily prentiss cuz imma freak like that.

Words: 11.3k (plot addict)

Available on AO3

Masterlist

Taglist: @agenderrat @leolionsblog @keepinggcomposure @prentisslvrsworld @sarahjohannson @prentgarcialuvr @seasonsmaywinter @lez-talk1 @mrsines @lcprentissmills @bjkbk

…

“Oh, come on…” 

“What?” JJ raises a brow, looking between Emily and Rossi curiously.

“Is everybody around here getting laid except me?” Emily groans, admiring the faint glow that seems to be emanating from JJ.

“Well, I’m not.”  Rossi butts in, and both women turn to him with a confused expression.

“Wow…” Emily raises her brows.

“I’m sorry, gallows humor, but it’s all I’ve got right now.” Rossi deadpans.

“You know what? I will take gallows humor over no humor.” Emily chuckles, reaching a hand out and patting Rossi’s bicep before spinning around and walking down the hall, continuing the conversation they’d been having prior.

…

A knock on Emily’s office door pulls her out of the pile of work she’d been shoving herself into for the past couple of hours.

“Hey, do you need something?” Emily asks, eyeing Rossi and the peculiarly devious expression he wore.

“No, just stopping in before I head out, I did want to ask you something though…” Rossi steps through the door, moving forward to stand behind the chairs in front of Emily’s desk.

“What is it?” Emily sighs, going through all the possible questions he could possibly ask in her head.

“Y'know, how we were talking earlier about not getting laid?” He leans against the chair.

“Yes.” Emily sighs, smiling to herself as she rubs at her temple.

“Well, I wanted to share one of my little secrets with you…” Emily’s eyes shoot up, brows creased.

“There’s this… special service, I haven’t used it in ages but, it’s an excellent establishment. Very clean, very well done, and very discreet.” Rossi’s hands make vague motions as he describes.

“Dave.. I am not paying for sex. That’s so very unethical, I can easily go out and find someone…” Emily shifts her gaze to her hands resting on the desk, trying to remember the last time she even had a date, let alone one that ended with sex. 

“I’m sure that’s very true. But, if you ever want something easier…” Rossi pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Don’t hesitate to call, and make sure to tell them I sent you.” He places the paper on the edge of the desk.

With a quick smile, Rossi shows himself out. Emily scoffs, watching his form fade down the hall. She turns back to the pile she’d been working on, scribbling down a few notes before the glint of the paper on her desk catches her eye. She looks up at the open door and back to the paper. 

Straightening herself out, she reaches for it. Holding it between her fingers for a moment before unfolding it. Divine Feminine Valet, the card read in a shiny cursive font. Below the label, is a single phone number with a local area code.

“Jesus Rossi…” Emily shakes her head, her silver hair slightly disheveled from the stress of the day. She sighs, running a hand through the locks, brushing it back.

She takes the card and drops it into her purse beneath the desk, chewing her bottom lip.

Am I really going to do this? Emily ponders. Though the idea of calling an escort service to finally get a little action feels absolutely foul, she can’t help but wonder if it might be worth it… 

It has been quite a while… and she could definitely use the stress relief. 

No. Why would that even be a consideration? The weight of her conscience is knee-buckling. 

But, what if? Emily pushes herself up from the desk abruptly. Grabbing her bags and coat and heading out the door. 

As usual, she is the last to exit the bullpen. The sound of her heeled boots clacking on the tile, disrupting the peaceful serenity of the empty federal building. 

As Emily enters the parking garage, she remote starts her car, the engine’s rumble echoing through the concrete corridors. She slips into the driver’s seat and lights up a much-needed cigarette before peeling out.

…

Arriving back at her apartment, Emily kicks off her boots and places her things on the kitchen table. 

Reaching around, she unclasps her bra, letting the heavy flesh fall from the uncomfortable confines of the underwire. Emily unbuttons her blouse as she pads down the hall, slipping it off her shoulders once she steps into her bedroom, the bra soon following.

Grabbing her ratty old academy T-shirt from the bed, she pulls it over her head, breathing in the warm scent of her laundry. She unbuckles her belt, letting the loose slacks fall to the floor and not bothering to pick them up.

In just a pair of panties and a t-shirt, Emily pads into the en-suite. She looks up at her dimly lit reflection, grazing her fingers over the lines in her skin. She sighs, pulling her hair back messily before bending over the sink to wash the day from her face.

Emily pats herself dry with the closest towel she could find before rubbing some creams into the soft skin of her face, making sure to drag it down to her neck and chest.

Exiting the bathroom, she drifts down the hall, landing in the kitchen. Grabbing a Tupperware of leftovers from the fridge, she tosses it in the microwave and pours herself a decent helping of wine.

The cushions of the couch welcome her with the utmost kindness, hugging her aching joints as if it were the touch of an angel. She flicks on the TV, settling on some ludicrous reality show. Basically, it’s just some background noise for her thoughts as she shovels the lukewarm pasta into her mouth. When you work for the BAU, you often forget about hunger until food presents itself to you.

After some time had passed, the dish emptied and her single glass of wine turned into the entire bottle, Emily sits in an uncomfortable silence. Picking at her cuticles subconsciously as thoughts float through her mind. 

The card that sits in her purse keeps calling to her, morbid curiosity itching at her like the hives of a poison ivy-induced rash she’d had as a child, all those years ago.

And after that bottle… things begin looking a bit more optimistic on the subject.

Would it really be that bad? It’s basically just a one-night stand with guaranteed results. And I’m sure the girls know what they’re doing… but what will they do? Oh god… what if they try something super kinky? My body doesn’t work like it used to, I’m not sure I could handle all that…

A sharp pain pulls Emily out of her thoughts.

Looking down at her hands, she notices a crimson stain smudging over her fingertips. Figuring she must’ve picked a little too hard at her nail bed, she gets up and walks over to the sink, washing the blood from the cracks in her skin.

Turning back to the living room, she pauses momentarily, staring at her purse on the table.

Chewing her lip, Emily moves towards the bag, digging inside to pull out the card. She holds it for a moment, just staring at it.

Trudging over to the couch, she plops against it. Picking up her phone, she unlocks it and opens the keypad, inputting the number. Swallowing down the anxious bile that threatens to spill out, Emily takes a deep breath and presses the call button with a shaky finger. Immediately dropping the phone into her lap and covering her face with clammy hands.

The line rings a few times before it finally crackles with an answer. 

“Divine Feminine Valet, how can we be at your service?” A raspy accented voice asks, seemingly that of an older woman. French.

“I- um… hello, David Rossi sent me… I’m not sure what that would mean to you but-”

“Ahh yes, a friend of Monsieur Rossi…” the voice cuts Emily off mid-sentence. “We’ve been expecting your call…Miss Prentiss, is it?” 

“Oh- um.. yes.” Emily chuckles to herself. 

God damnit Rossi, you ass.

“Well miss, it seems we already have a bit of information on file for you from Monsieur. When might you be looking to book your date?” Emily could hear the crackle of a cigarette and quick typing on a keyboard through the line.

“Oh… I’m not sure.” Emily bites her nails, thinking of all the ways she’s going to murder that man.

“I see… Well, how does tomorrow night sound? It’s a Friday after all!” The woman’s voice is light, her tone somewhat amused.

“I suppose that’ll do…” Emily sighs, resting her chin over her palm.

“Brilliant. Now, is this your cell I’m speaking with you on?” The clacking of the keyboard continues.

“Yes, it is..”

“Alright, you will receive a text message from your date tomorrow around midday, at least that is what I presume, she can be a bit unpredictable with timing... but alas.”

She? Has someone been picked already? Emily makes a tilted face, a bit confused. But then again, she isn’t familiar with how this type of thing works. Maybe this is always how it is.

“The message will tell you when and where to meet her. As well as all other details you’ll need to know.” The woman on the phone continues.

“Alright… and, what is the payment situation like? How much do I owe and how do I pay you?” Emily starts off to her purse, ready to grab her checkbook.

“No need, miss. It is taken care of.” Emily chuckles dryly again. That man is going to die.

“Okay then… is that all?” 

“Yes, all the other information will arrive tomorrow as I said. Have a good night, Miss Prentiss, and enjoy!” The line clicks and Emily is left with the dial tone ringing in her ear.

David Rossi, you are a dead man.

…

When Emily arrives at work the following day, she makes a B-line for Rossi’s office. Her boots clacking angrily against the floor as she trudges past the desks scattered around the bullpen, catching a few concerned glances from the agents. 

Without knocking, Emily shoves Rossi’s door ajar, causing him to jolt back in his seat.

“Nice of you to knock… what can I do for you?” Rossi’s hands fold together over the paperwork he’d been filling out, smirking slightly.

Emily scoffs, shooting daggers at him with her eyes as she turns to close the office door before stepping towards his desk and crossing her arms.

“I cannot believe you.” Emily tsks.

“What?” Rossi stares dumbly, mouth parted.

“Who in their right mind would give out private information regarding a government official to an escort service? Without their knowledge might I add!” Emily raises a concerned and questioning brow.

“I’m just trying to help out a close friend. We all have needs, Emily… I was just giving you the opportunity for a head start, and it appears that you took it.” Rossi leans back in the chair, bringing his folded hands to rest below his chin, aiming a pointed look at her.

“I- yes, but still-” Emily stutters and Rossi chuckles, turning back to his pile of work.

Emily is red in the face as she turns to leave the office, scoffing, but abruptly spinning back around. 

“And- thank you… by the way. You didn’t have to pay for that. I’m not sure why you’d want to…” Emily grimaces before looking back at the old man.

“Like I said, just trying to help out a friend.” He gives her a tight-lipped smile, nodding before looking down once again. Emily smiles faintly back at him, sighing before turning to leave once again.

…

The day is passing by at an agonizing pace for Emily as she sits at her desk, looking over files and a never-ending stack of forms and paperwork. The curiosity is itching at her again. Her mind racing with thoughts of who this girl might be and what she might do. 

Emily knows nothing will happen if she doesn’t want it to go further. But, what if the meeting does go well and they do end up sleeping together? Will they actually sleep together? Or will the girl just do her job and leave? It’s all too overwhelming, and Emily has begun developing a migraine.

A faint buzzing in the purse at her feet whips Emily out of her thoughts. She leans down to grasp the device, bringing it to her desk before looking at the notification.

‘Unknown number iMessage’ it reads.

Is it? Emily’s heart jumps at the realization, quickly unlocking the phone and opening her messages.

“Hey! Is this Miss Prentiss?” 

“Who is asking?” Emily responds.

“I’m from DF. We’re supposed to have a date tonight… if this is Miss Prentiss of course:)” Cute, Emily thought, smirking slightly.

“Well then, yes. This is she.”

“Great! I’m sure you were made aware I’d be texting you when you spoke with the Madam over the phone.” 

“Yes, she mentioned it.” Emily inhales deeply, feeling the stretch in her diaphragm.

“Ok, All you need to know for tonight is that we’ll be meeting at a restaurant called Divinità on Fielder St at 815. I suggest you wear something comfortable but a bit dressy, it’s a nice place.” 

“Okay, is that all?” Emily types with shaky fingers, the anticipation sinking into her nerves.

“From me, yes. Do you have any questions, Emily?”

“Not really. But, are there any… idk physical requests you have for me? Like should I have gotten a wax? Haha.” Emily groans at the embarrassing and likely very unnecessary statement. 

“Lol you’re funny, but no. How you like to present yourself is 100% your decision.” Emily lets out a sigh of relief. However, she will most likely do something about her situation downstairs when she returns home later. It’s been a while.

“And just so we’re clear…. Tonight’s happenings are fully on your terms. If you wish to continue with more intimate things after our initial date, your request will be fulfilled. But if you would like to simply call it off, that is completely alright. It’s all about your comfort:)” Emily flushes mildly at the statement. She didn’t expect an escort to be so… considerate? But then again, she hasn’t done this before.

“Okay, thank you. I will see you tonight then.” Emily shuts the phone off, placing it back in her purse, trying her hardest to return to her work and ignore all the inappropriate thoughts in the back of her mind.

…

Emily’s long day has finally come to a close. All files are neatly arranged for their next trip around the office and all necessary paperwork is filed and put away. She picks up the mildly cold coffee she made earlier in the day and tosses it back, swallowing down the remainder of it in hopes that it’ll perk her up for tonight.

Her text had been left on opened, and it’s been bothering her more than it should.

Making her way out of the office, she passes Rossi’s. Looking through the open blinds in the window to check on him. He looks up, catching her as she does so, and waves at her to come in.

“Hey stranger, you’re leaving relatively on time?” He raises a thick brow.

“Yeaaah… I’ve got plans later.” Emily smirks, resting against the doorframe. Rossi smiles proudly. 

“You’re actually going through with it?” His voice is chipper.

“Yes, David. I’m going through with it.” Emily flicks her hair back, putting her hand in the pocket of her slacks. 

“Good for you. It’ll be nice having you in a decent mood around here for once. Maybe some of us will finally catch a break.” He chuckles, and Emily scoffs.

“Goodnight.” She says monotonously, rolling her eyes and closing the door behind her with a laugh.

Emily struts down the corridor with a slight confidence, a faint smile gracing her lips. 

She checks her watch upon entering the elevator. Ten past six, plenty of time for her to get home and clean up before leaving. The restaurant’s name is familiar in Emily’s mind, though she’s never been inside. And if she’s remembering correctly, it’s only a short drive from her apartment. 

Upon arriving home and completing her usual routine of placing her things on the table and stripping herself down, Emily opts for a second shower. Just to freshen up. 

She scrubs her scalp with her favourite floral-scented shampoo, making sure to deep condition the lengths of her hair before lathering herself in soap and exfoliating. She then shaves all the necessary bits and dries off before applying her post-shave body oil and lotion.

Throwing on a robe, Emily blow-dries her hair, curling the layers so they form into a sort of feathered style. She rubs a creme over her palms before running her fingers through the silver locks, molding them into place.

Sauntering out of the bathroom, Emily opens the closet. Inspecting the items for something that would fit the description her date had given her. 

After plucking out a few dresses, and deciding none of them would be well-suited for tonight, Emily searched her drawers for her nicest pair of slacks. A black cotton pair with crisp pleats and an inseam that easily covers the majority of her feet in a taller heel. She pairs the slacks with a deep blue silk blouse and a crisp black leather belt, the silver buckle glinting in the low light of the bedroom.

Tossing her outfit choice on the mattress, she digs deep into her underwear drawer, searching for a decent set. She opts for an almost matching pair, black panties with a lace trim and a bra that is fully lace, the cups mildly see-through.

Pulling the garments on, she runs her hand through her hair again, pushing it to the side as she gives herself a once-over in the tall mirror across from her wardrobe. 

“Good enough…” she sighs.

Returning to the bathroom, Emily pulls out her makeup bag. Applying a thin layer of foundation and concealer over her skin before dusting a faint smoky-eye look on her lids, following that with a bit of liner and mascara, accentuating the already naturally long lashes.

Adding the final touches of jewelry and her favourite perfume, Emily then slips on a pair of black block heels and a long black coat that touches just below her knees. 

She looks herself over in the mirror one last time, zhuzhing up her hair and straightening out her clothes. Emily checks her watch.

Seven fifty-seven. Perfect timing.

Grabbing her bag and keys from the kitchen table, Emily makes her way out to the car, lighting a cigarette to ease her tense nerves as she drives.

She isn’t scared. Just so fucking anxious.  She is nervous about what the night will bring. Nervous but also curious as to who the woman she will be meeting is. Nervous about how she will react to inviting someone, a stranger, into her body, nonetheless her home, in the shadowed hours of the night. Will she tense up and blunder? Will she cut the night short and send the woman home? Or will she let herself go? Releasing all arms and just letting herself be ravished by the desire she hasn’t felt in so long.

A loud honk draws her out from the depths of her thoughts, the light long turned green. Emily lets the car roll forward, speeding off towards the restaurant.

The quaint establishment sits on a dim corner in the city, warmly lit by street lights and a few neon signs from neighboring buildings. The only parking available is on the street, but luckily, the meters turn off at six. 

Emily takes a deep breath, rubbing her clammy palms over her thighs and cracking her knuckles before climbing out of the car and locking it.

She prances across the street, slipping past a small crowd of people outside before pushing through the revolving entrance door. The air is smoky as she steps inside, and it smells like whisky and expensive perfume. 

It dawns on Emily that she isn’t sure what to do now. She is a few minutes early, unsure whether the woman wants Emily to grab a table for them or meet her at the bar.

Her prayers are soon answered when her phone buzzes in her hand.

“Ask for table 14:)” Emily’s heart pounds.

She turns to the host, giving him a shy smile before asking. He only nods in return, stepping away from his booth and walking down the dark corridor next to the bar and toward the back of the room. The walls are lined with small, two or three-person booths, all filled.

Except one at the far end of the row. 

A woman sat alone, a captivating young woman. No younger than 25, but mature. She sits poised, her mid-length dress sleek against her body, hugging the curves of her hips and waist. Her skin is smooth and her hair loose over her bare shoulders. 

If Emily wasn’t intimidated beforehand, she certainly is now.

As she steps closer, the young woman looks up. Glancing at Emily for the first time tonight. She smiles, teeth sharp and pearl-like. Emily can’t help but grin back, her chest flushing beneath the fabric of her shirt.

The young woman shifts, rising to her feet. She looks to be around the same height as Emily in her heels. Her leg, peaking through the slit on the side of her dress adds a teasing ambiance to the attire. And Emily definitely appreciates it.

“Miss Prentiss, I presume?” Her voice is gentle as she extends her hand for Emily to shake, to which she accepts, sliding her palm into the younger woman's.

“Yes! Hello…” Emily pauses, giving the woman a questioning look, realizing she hadn’t gotten her name.

“My name is Y/n, it’s lovely to meet you, Miss Prentiss.” She grins, squeezing Emily’s hand before sliding back into her seat.

Y/n… Emily repeats to herself internally. What a lovely name for such a beautiful girl. She thinks, slipping off her coat and bag, tossing them inside the booth before slipping in after it. 

“It’s lovely to meet you as well, Y/n.” Emily flushes under the younger woman's intense gaze, her warm eyes seemingly taking Emily in, studying her. Y/n giggles, resting her chin over her palm.

“Can I get you something to drink? Eat? Anything!” the young woman chirps, picking up the small folded menu from the edge of the table and passing it to Emily enthusiastically. 

She hums, looking over the menu before deciding on a drink and a simple appetizer, not wanting to bloat herself.

“Sure, I think I’ll just get a whisky neat and an order of fries.” Emily looks up from the menu, meeting Y/n’s awaiting gaze.

“Sounds good! I’ll be right back, hold tight!” Y/n shifts out of the seat again, slipping past the thick curtain that went to a backroom she is presumably familiar with.

Emily takes the moment alone to collect herself. Taking deep breaths and rubbing at her temples, attempting to shake the nerves from her system. She can’t battle the heat that's beginning to creep throughout her body at the thought of having a woman so attractive all to herself for a night.

…

When you return, Emily’s gaze immediately rises. Her piercing brown eyes glance noticeably over your figure as you set the glass and plate in front of her.

“Whisky and some fries for the beautiful lady…” You flirt, Emily smiles up at you softly in response. Her cheeks flush, and her lips curl into a bashful smile. You can’t help but smile back, finding the older woman’s shy nature somewhat endearing.

“Thank you.” She clears her throat, fingertips brushing against yours as she maneuvers the plate towards her. 

“You’re welcome…” you climb back into the booth, your knees knock Emily’s beneath the small table. “So…” you breathe out, resting your chin in your palm. “How was your day?” 

Emily chuckles, taking a brief sip from her glass. “My day was alright, rather boring with lots of paperwork but, that’s nothing too out of the ordinary these days.” she meets your gaze, tossing a fry into her mouth.

“Mmm, paperwork. How sexy.” you tease, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth with a smile. The older woman flushes once again, her eyes falling shyly to the heap of fries. 

“And how was your day?” Emily counters, swallowing down a few more fries before leaning back in her seat, watching you attentively. She wears a tiny smile, moving her hand up to fiddle with the delicate gold chain around her neck.

“Mine was alright too. Slept in, spoke with a few… friends, did a little online shopping, and then I got ready and came here, to see you.” Your eyes span across her face as you speak, taking in her faint mannerisms.

“Am I your only… date, for today?” Emily’s face is curious, her brows curving with the question. “Sorry, I don’t mean to snoop about your work… I’m just curious.” Her hands motion in defense, coming to rest over the table.

You raise your free hand from its place in your lap, trailing over the wood before running your fingers over Emily’s svelte digits. Her skin is soft and warm and the tendons twitch at your touch. 

“It’s okay to be curious, and yes… you are my first and only client today.” Your fingers travel up the dorsal side of her hand, gliding over the veins and circling the bone of her wrist before coming back down and lacing your fingers between hers. 

Emily faintly smiles at your apparent comfortability, glancing down at the scene developing before her. She flips her hand over, allowing you to trace over her palm. You can feel the warmth of her skin, the crevices slightly damp with sweat. Figuring she must be feeling a speck of nerves about tonight.

In the beat of silence, you take a moment to absorb Emily’s appearance. She isn’t your typical customer, that’s for sure. She is breathtakingly gorgeous, not like the wrinkly old fellows you typically see. Her eyes are warm, inviting pools of deep chestnut that you could stare into for ages. A certain comfort lurks with them, but there’s something else too, something within the depths that attracts you dangerously. And that outfit she’s sporting doesn’t help, either.

When you got the call regarding your appointment with a certain Miss Prentiss, you’d been excited. Finally a new client. Her file was rather empty, not much to read into except that she is fifty-five, into women, and has a rather high-profile and demanding line of work. The file also mentioned she is a friend of Mr. Rossi, an old familiar face amongst the girls in the company. 

“May I ask about your work, Miss Prentiss?” The tone in your voice is subtly diplomatic, drawling as you circle her open palm with your fingernail. 

“Go for it.” 

“What is it that you do? You can be vague if you’d like. Just curious.” You laugh, mocking her phrasing from earlier. Emily chuckles in response, fingertip tracing the lip of her whisky glass. 

“I work for the government. FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, actually. It isn’t necessarily a secret… a quick Google search and you could probably find my picture, if I had my badge on me I’d show you, but it’s at home.” Emily scoffs, taking a sip of her drink. That will be an indulgence for later, you think.

“Oh, that’s awesome! I bet you're a busy woman, taking down terrorists and shit.” You beam at her, taking a sip of your cocktail as well.

“That and analyzing and investigating crime scenes, creating profiles that’ll assist in finding and collecting an unsub, amongst a few other things” There is a hint of pride in her smile that makes your stomach churn, her sharp white teeth on full display.

“That sounds insane, I don’t know how you guys do that sort of thing.” 

“I think I could say the same for you, honey… but I’ve put myself into some off-the-wall situations for work so… I digress.” Emily gestures, head tilting to the side.

You can’t help but laugh, touché.

The conversation flows easily after that, mostly easy questions with easy answers. You find that Emily is quite a pleasant date, she is so effortlessly funny and sweet, not to mention incredibly charming. It feels like you’ve known her for much longer than half an hour. If it weren’t for your compromising line of work, you might consider taking her on a real date.

Emily looks down at the plate, a singular fry left resting on the porcelain. She looks up at you with a quirked brow. You smile, leaning forward and letting your mouth fall open. Emily takes her time placing the fry in your mouth, lingering for a moment. Her finger nearly brushes against your lip as you pull away slowly.

“You know…” you speak gently, chewing the fry and swallowing before speaking again. Emily’s gaze watches you attentively. “You’re very attractive.” 

“Oh… stop.” Emily grimaces, burying her face in her hand.

“What? I’m serious… you’re fucking gorgeous, and you’ve got yourself all dolled up just for me.” your hand pulls from hers, reaching up to brush a misplaced hair from her cheek. Emily shifts narrowly from the cover of her hand, mousy eyes peering at you from between her fingers. A flimsy smile graces your lips, as well as a faint chuckle.

“Thank you… you’re a doll.” She mumbles, her hand falling away from her face, letting it land on her glass. She picks it up, locking eyes with you as she tosses the remainder of it back, downing it without a single grimace.

You watch her throat bob as she swallows, your hand moving to play with her fingers again, aimlessly.

“Tell me, Miss Prentiss-”

“Emily… call me Emily, please.” She cuts you off, her voice somewhat calloused in desperation. “I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with that title.” She chuckles.

“Okay… tell me, Emily, how do you feel about me asking some more… personal questions?”  There is a challenging glint in your eyes as you await her answer.

“I would like to think of myself as an open book tonight, so fire away.” She smiles, leaning onto her elbows, holding your hand between the both of hers.

“When was the last time you slept with someone?” Emily sputters at the abrupt question.

“Oh- um…” She clears her throat. “If I'm being honest, I don’t really remember. Maybe around seven months ago?” Emily looks up at you with a pitiful expression, your mouth falls open slightly, somewhat in disbelief that a woman like her isn’t getting all the action in the world.

“Was it good?” You raise a brow at her, and Emily flushes.

“I- eh-I guess? If I don't remember it off the top of my head, it couldn't have been that good. Most likely just a quick hookup at a bar or something.”

“Good… okay, hypothetically speaking, if we were to go home together tonight, would you rather it be your own home or a hotel?” Emily’s face twitches, her expression stirring.

“Oh boy, uhm… I think I’d personally feel more comfortable in my home, just because y’know… I've never done this before. I’m usually not keen on inviting anyone into my home to be quite honest, but in this situation, I think I’d rather be in my place.” Her brows worry for a moment.

“Of course, and like I mentioned before, how tonight goes is one hundred percent up to you, Emily.” Your hand squeezes hers, attempting to settle any nerves she might be feeling. She simply nods, seemingly awaiting your next question.

“Do you have any preference on how things go in the bedroom?” 

Emily stills, her breath catching subtly. You notice the flush starting to creep up her neck, the palms of her hands beginning to sweat again.

“I’m not entirely sure… I think it kind of depends...” her eyes wander, looking down at your intertwined hands. “Do you have a preference in the bedroom?” Emily asks, her voice shy as her eyes raise, holding yours in a deep stare.

“Hm, well… I’ll be whoeeever you want me to be. But, personally speaking…” you whisper, leaning over the table, fingers scratching over her forearm as her gaze shifts to your newly exposed cleavage. “ I like to be in charge.” Emily shudders out a breath, her eyes glinting with curiosity.

“And what about you… Miss Prentiss? Do you like to take charge or do you like to be dominated?” Your head tilts as your eyes trail over her flushed face, lips curling into a devilish smile.

Emily doesn’t say a word, she just sits, her eyes on your mouth as her chest rises and falls rapidly.

“Well, if I’m profiling you correctly,” you chuckle amusedly at your joke. “I’d say you want me to take away all the pressure.” You drawl. “Want me to boss you around so you don’t have to think. You walk around all day telling everyone else what to do, but when does Emily get to be told, hm?” Your voice is nearly a sympathetic whine, you give her a pout.

 Emily’s fingers twitch on the table, her eyes rake over your body once more before meeting yours. The color of her irises, noticeably darker under the guise of her dilated pupils.

“I- you..” Her mouth flaps open and closed, trying to find the right words. You just stare at her, patiently waiting, fingernails slipping beneath the sleeves of her top, raking against her hot skin. 

“Would you like me to take you home, Emily?” you husk, nails digging into her forearm. Her eyes dart across your face for a moment, jaw slackened. 

“Yes.” Emily whispers so quietly you almost don’t hear it, but you do. Her gaze is timid, and it brings out a certain moxie within you. A determination to do everything in your power to give this woman what she wants. What she needs.

With that, you rise from the seat, grabbing your bag and taking her hand in your own, pulling her up from the booth. She hurriedly grabs her coat and bag, not wanting to hold you any longer.

Your grip on her hand is strong as you tug her down the corridor and out the front door. When you turn around to ask if she drove, she's already pulling her keys from her purse, face flushed and chest panting. You smile, nodding for her to lead the way.

Emily fumbles with the key as she tries to start the vehicle, her hands trembling with excitement. She nearly rolls the car at the speed she rips out of her parking spot, you hear a few honks as she speeds off. You look over at her brightly, chuckling.

“Someone excited?” 

“God, yes.” Emily sighs, her knuckles whitening as she grips the steering wheel forcibly.

You reach over, leaning against the center console as your hand runs over her trouser-clad thigh. The muscle of it clenching beneath your touch as you give it a rather harsh squeeze. Emily hums, her lip catching between her teeth.

“How long until we’re at your place?” you ask, playfully running your hand up and down her thigh, trailing your fingers teasing along the crease at her hip when you reach the apex.

“Five minutes.” Emily husks, her foot pressing hard against the gas pedal, you can feel the rumble of her engine vibrating through your body as she races down the familiar streets. You can’t help the adrenaline that rushes through your veins at the recklessness. The recklessness that you’ve caused. She wants you badly enough that she is willing to risk a life. Lives even.

Emily whips into her driveway with a screech of tires against the pavement, the hard stop practically jerking you from the seat.

“Jesus…” you look over at her with wide eyes, hand still gripping at her thigh. She turns off the ignition and looks back at you with a mixed expression, lips parted and eyes hurriedly searching your face. 

“We’re here.” Emily smiles tightly, her hand patting the top of yours as she slips out of the car. You quickly follow, the beep of her car's locking system startling you as you step closer to her. 

Her hot breath clouds around her in the cool night air, you take her hand as she trudges up the pathway towards her front door.

You press against her back as she unlocks it, your face burying itself in her soft hair and breathing it in. She smells absolutely heavenly, and you cannot get enough. Emily stiffens as your nose touches the back of her neck, her keys clattering to the floor. She quickly bends to pick them up, your eyes catch the curve of her ass in the slacks, tightening perfectly as she crouches.

When she finally manages to open the door, you're practically shoveling her inside, hands gripping against her waist as you step into the foyer. Before the door even clicks shut your mouth is on her, pressing sloppily against the hot skin of her neck. 

“Oh-” Emily gasps, her hands climbing to grip at the back of your head. Her body crashes against the door, coat and bag falling to the ground.

Your hands run over her sides, landing on her hips and pulling them against your own. Emily groans, her hands moving to grasp at the sides of your face, pulling your mouth up to connect with hers.

You can taste the whisky on her as you run your tongue over her bottom lip, enclosing your mouth around it and sucking gently. Emily’s hands tighten in your tresses as the kiss deepens, the passion growing into a blazing pit of burning desire. 

Emily lets out a faint whimper as your body presses further into her, your thigh coming to rest between hers, applying slight pressure to her pelvis. Her kisses falter as she tries to grind herself against your thigh, the thickness of her pants doing little to assist. 

“Mm, you sound so pretty…” you break the kiss for a moment before delving right back in, fervently. Paying close attention to how Emily’s body reacts to every little movement, every little touch. She moans into your mouth when you grip her ass aggressively, pulling her crotch against your thigh.

“Fuck, Y/n… wanna.. mm.. bedroom.” She murmurs against your lips, trailing her palms down your chest and coming to rest over your half-exposed breasts as she leans back, giving you a once-over before tugging you in the direction of her bedroom. 

“Yes, ma’am!” Emily chuckles at your enthusiasm, bumping the bedroom door open with her hip before immediately pulling you in for a passionate, slow kiss. Her lips slide deliciously over yours, hands resting at the junction of your jaw and neck.

Your hands move over her abdomen, sliding up the sides before landing at the front of her blouse, fingers tweaking at its buttons.

“May I?” You whisper, nipping at the older woman’s bottom lip.

“Please…” Emily gasps, connecting your mouths again, eagerly.

You begin unbuttoning the blouse with expert precision. The soft fabric falling loosely around Emily’s torso. Your hands slip beneath the garment, running over the smooth, warm skin of her stomach. Fingers running over the ridges of her ribcage as she breathes heavily, you swear you can almost feel her heartbeat from down there.

Emily’s hands slip into your hair once again as you move up towards her bra, thumbs brushing against the lacey underwire. Her nails claw at your scalp, the pleasurable sharpness of it pulls a moan from your throat.

Emily’s hip bumps into the corner of her dresser as she begins moving both of you towards the mattress, she giggles, correcting herself and dropping down onto the soft cushion. She looks up at you with dark eyes, her lashes fluttering, chest heaving. 

You take note of her see-through bra as you hike your dress up, crawling over her and settling on her thighs. Emily’s hands reach out, resting her palms against the smooth skin of your legs.

“So beautiful…” you bend down and press a chaste, wet kiss just below her sternum. “Mm, I could devour you.” You press a few more kisses over her chest, Emily groans, pulling you back up to her mouth. 

Her body practically writhes beneath you, heat radiating from her mostly clothed skin. Your hands travel up towards her breasts, palms sliding over the hefty cups before giving them a generous squeeze. Emily hums, her blunt fingernails raking over your back, bare from the low cut of the dress. 

“Sit up for me.” you whisper, leaning back in her lap to make space. You pull the blouse from her shoulders, aggressively and toss it across the room. You tilt forward and kiss her again as your hands trek down towards her waistband, tugging her belt loose and unbuttoning the trousers. You can feel Emily smile into the kiss, her tongue flicking out against your top lip.

Emily’s hands slide over your bare thighs, slipping under your dress and pushing it up. You slip away from her mouth for a moment to let her pull the thin garment over your head, leaving you practically nude in front of her.

Her eyes are glossy as the trail over your body, her chest rising and falling unsteadily. Her fingertips trace over the lines of your stomach and chest, the sensitive skin twitching beneath the gentle touch.

“You’re perfect.” She mumbles feebly, her eyes darting across your skin as she cups the underside of your breasts.

“Now let’s see you, baby.” You bend towards her, lips mere inches away from her neck as you wrap around her and unclasp the lacey bra with practiced ease. The fabric falls from Emily’s chest with a shudder, her skin pebbling with the new exposure, dusky pink nipples standing proudly. 

With a groan you grab a rough handful of both breasts, squeezing the mouthwatering tissue. Emily mewls, head rolling back as you trail sloppy kisses over her neck and down to her freckled chest. 

“Fuck Emily, you’re so fucking sexy.” Your voice is muffled against her skin, your lips closing around a nipple soon after. She tastes sweet again the drag of your tongue, circling her stiffened bud before nipping gently and moving to repeat the ministration on the ladder breast.

“Hmph- Y/n, kiss me.” Emily huffs, the skin over her clavicle burning with a muted red flush. Your neck arches up at her request, connecting your lips with blazing force. Your heads lull together in the motions of passion, mixed saliva spilling onto cheeks and chins. 

Your hands move to grasp her shoulders, pushing softly so that she falls back onto the mattress. The feeling of your bare breasts pressing against her own is positively nectarean. 

You grind down into Emily’s lap, she lets a soft moan slip past her lips and into your mouth. 

Abruptly, you pull back, sitting up and staring down at her pitiful condition. Panting and flushed, hands grasping at whatever part of you she can reach.

“Where are you going?” Her face worries as she sits up on her elbows. 

“I have an idea, I’ll be right back” You cup her face, giving her a gentle kiss before swiftly climbing out of bed, tiptoeing quickly out of the room and to the foyer where you’d left your bag earlier.

Quickly re-entering the room, Emily looks up from her perch at the edge of the bed. A bright smile lingers over her face as she loosens her grip on the silken robe she’s tied around herself in your absence.

“You’re back.” She chirps excitedly, leaning back against her palms, the hem of her robe slipping open and revealing only a pair of panties. My god. 

“Well look at you…” you husk, eyes wandering daringly over her figure.

“Why did you have to get your bag?” Emily chuckles, raising a brow.

“Hm, well for one…” your hand dips inside, digging around for a moment before pulling out your speaker. “I like background music when I’m having sex… adds a nice touch.” You send Emily a wink, pressing the button and letting the speaker come to life. She only groans in response, her legs shifting together as you busy yourself with selecting a playlist.

The slow sensual tune of ‘Still Loving You’ by Scorpions begins vibrating through the small speaker, Emily turns to you with a gasp.

“I love this song…” She sheds the robe, her hands wrapping around your waist as you crawl over her on the bed, she stretches up to kiss your jaw.

“Mmm, me too.” You sigh, letting her kiss down the sides of your neck. A sharp breath rips through you as her teeth pinch the skin of your collarbone. Emily giggles, her arms sliding down to squeeze your ass, kneading the supple flesh.

Your hand comes up to rest just above her cleavage, gently teasing down the valley before shoving her into the mattress. She lands with a gasp, her head lulling to the side as you attack her throat. Sucking, kissing, biting the sensitive skin. 

“Oh-” Emily whimpers, her hands planting themselves in your hair, fingernails digging into your scalp. You shift quickly, letting your knee slide between Emily’s, spreading her open so you can easily slot yourself between them. Her calves wrap around your waist, pulling your hips against her clothed center.

“Needy, needy, needy…” You mumble against her chest, wrapping your lips around her nipple once again and sucking.

“Yes.” She pants breathlessly, watching as you descend her torso. 

The sound of her moans mixed with the growing heat and faint music is Shangri-la in your mind. Every little sound and reaction you elicit scratches deliciously at the ever-growing avowel to take this woman into a state of blissful euphoria. To give her anything and everything she wants.

Emily sits up on her elbows as you begin kissing along her panty line, tongue twirling over the curve of her stomach. Your hands slide lower, brushing over her smooth thighs, down and around her knees, then back up. 

The tips of your fingers barely breach the hem of her panties just above her hip and she is already rolling her hips towards you. 

Scooting further down the bed, you sit back on your heels as Emily’s leg moves to rest over your shoulder. You press a delicate kiss to her inner calf.

She smiles dazedly up at you through her lashes, you give her a smirk back, hands sliding over the outside of her thighs, and trailing over her hips before finally looping around her waistband and tugging gently. 

Emily lifts her hips urgently, slackjawed as she lifts her legs over your head so you can slip her panties the rest of the way off.

“So pretty,” you whisper, crawling between Emily’s open legs and settling into your stomach, taking in the sight of her heated sex. Red and swollen with want, her scent forming a heady, lust-filled fog over you.

You dip lower, neck craning as you slide your nose down the inside of her quivering thighs, trailing a path of gentle kisses and nips against the sensitive skin in your descent.

“Such a tease-” Emily gasps, her hips gyrating, desperately seeking that delicious friction.

You keep on until your nose brushes against Emily’s sex, placing a kiss over the trimmed pubic hair, and around her outer labia. You raise your thumb to your lips, dipping inside to collect a decent amount of saliva before running it over her slit. Emily’s breathy moans cloud your mind with an insatiable hunger. A desire to taste and tease and fuck till she’s begging for mercy.

You feel the sting of your salivatory glands as they swell, flooding your mouth with hot liquid. Your tongue slips past your lips, wetting them before leaning in and dragging the hot muscle over her awaiting cunt. 

Emily gasps as you flatten your tongue over her clit, circling it with an iniquitous slowness that drives her half mad. Her fingernails claw at your scalp, tugging you impossibly closer.

“Fuck, that feels so good…” Emily whines, letting herself fall back onto the pillows as your tongue dips inside. You hum against her pussy, she twitches at the vibrations, the hand in your hair clutching tighter as she grinds herself eagerly against your face.

You let your legs fall off the side of her mattress, planting your feet on the floor. You tug Emily to the edge of the bed, your mouth never leaving its sloppy perch over her sex. 

Emily shrieks as she slides over the covers, your hands wrapping around her hips and lifting, holding her still against your incessant tongue. 

You draw circles over her clit with the perfect amount of pressure, taking turns swirling it in each direction. Emily’s hips stutter as you swipe the hypersensitive spot at the apex of her slit, the majority of your musings decidedly concentrate there. One hand leaves her hip, sliding up towards her breast and wrapping around it, pinching her nipple between your knuckles.

“Shit, you’re gonna make me cum…” Emily moans, twitching against you as you roll her nipple between your thumb and index. Your tongue licking pointed stripes over her slit, dipping inside and repeating the process over again.

“That would be the plan…” you snide, Emily jerks at the vibration.

Easing up on her nipple, your hand slides further up her chest, over her neck, finally landing at her mouth. Your fingers slide over her parted lips, awaiting acceptance.  

Emily opens further, allowing you to curl your fingers inside. Her tongue swirls languidly over your digits, soaking them thoroughly with her hot saliva. She hmphs when you pull your hand away, but quickly quiets down once she realizes where they’re heading. 

Emily pants, her climax already rapidly approaching, and you haven’t even gotten your fingers inside yet.

Pulling your mouth away, you glide your slick fingers over her slit, spreading her apart and dipping a single finger inside.

“Oh, fuck.” Emily sucks in a breath through gritted teeth, hissing as her hips buck against your hand. 

You begin pumping into her slowly, letting her adjust as you reattach your mouth to her sensitive bud. She practically chants your name as her hips roll determinedly, using your face to push herself further toward her climax. You pull out and slip a second finger in when you think she’s ready, pumping in and out steadily, curling your fingers deep inside, repeatedly hitting that sweet spot that sends her spine arching into the air.

“Shit, shit, shit…” Emily’s breathing is erratic, her body shaking at the intensity of her impending orgasm. Her thighs quiver as they clench around your skull, trapping you there, your movements unrelenting.

Emily’s body seizes up, and you can feel her pulsating around your fingers as she cums. Her quiet moans puffing out with each strangled breath.

“I love the way you sound cumming for me, baby.” You mutter against her, voice low and raspy as you press a few soft kisses to her mound and up her abdomen, climbing over her body once again.

Your arms bracket her head as you lean down to kiss her passionately, tongue slipping into her mouth and curling against hers. You groan as Emily sucks the muscle into her mouth, lavishing the taste of your mouth mixed with the taste of her pussy.

The familiar synth-type intro of ‘Martian Cowboy’ by Toyah begins playing as she releases the muscle and pulls you back in for a chaste kiss.

“Mm, this is a good one too…you’ve got quite the taste for such a young thing.” Emily murmurs, breaking away and brushing the messy hair away from your face.

“I’m an old soul.” You roll your eyes sarcastically, Emily chuckles.

“Thank you, by the way… that was- incredible.” Her gaze wanders across your features, a blissful expression resting across hers.

“You think I’m finished?” 

“Oh?” Emily’s eyes go wide.

“I…” you press a kiss to her bottom lip, “am definitely not…” a kiss to her top lip, “a one-and-done type of girl.” You nip at her bottom lip before running your tongue over the swollen skin.

“What else are you gonna do to me?” She whispers breathlessly, her words fanning across your mouth.

“I have a few ideas…” you lean into Emily’s hand as it rests against your cheek. “But you have to give me the okay before I do anything.” Your brow raises to an arch.

“Okay. Tell me what you want to do.” Her curiosity is adorable, the faint sparkle in her dark eyes even more so.

“How do you feel about strap-ons?” A smirk curls into your lips at the statement, and Emily’s eyes flash with a surge of want. She certainly wasn’t expecting that.

“Like… you want to fuck me with one?” Her brow raises, chest fluttering with an excited inhale.

“If you’ll let me…” you trail off, leaning down to press a wet kiss to her chin, she hums in response, seemingly in thought as she runs her hands over your back.

“I think I’d like that…” She finally says after a moment.

“Yeah?” You meet her gaze with an excited smile, your voice dropping a slight octave.

“Yeah… fuck me.” Emily sighs, her brows knitting together as she leans up, pulling your mouth to hers. Lips locking with one another in a fierce open-mouthed kiss, tongues and teeth clashing. You groan into Emily’s mouth as her nails claw at the back of your neck, pulling your body tightly against her, the disparity in her touches quickly making a return. 

Your knees scoot underneath the older woman’s thighs, pushing them up so that they’d wrap around your hips. Emily lets out a sharp moan at the feeling of your pelvis brushing against her bare sex.

The recovery make-out session does not last very long. The way Emily grasps at you, writhes against you, kisses you with such hunger… it’s all so very tolling, and your body can’t help but succumb to its desires.

“Be good and hold on a second for me…” You slip away from Emily’s grasp with a quick kiss, your body immediately missing the warmth. 

Slipping back off the mattress, Emily gives you an inquisitive look. Her eyes follow your movements as you pad over to your back on the floor. Reaching into the bag, you pull out a black leather harness, a silicone cock of the same color, and a tube of lubricant. 

Emily rolls onto her side, sizing up the toy from afar as her fingers toy with her breast, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. You slip into her ensuite with a faint smile, making quick work of making sure the toy is thoroughly cleaned and prepped for her.

When you reemerge, Emily stares at you silently, watching with prompt attention as you step into the harness, fastening it snugly over your hips before securing the cock in the o-ring. You have to admit it is rather flattering on you, and the way Emily is looking at you furthers your confidence on that note.

“You look… sooo sexy.” Emily groans, flicking her silver hair to the side as she moves to crawl to the edge of the bed, meeting you halfway.

“gonna look even better with my cock inside you.” You counter, your hands grasping at the sides of her neck, tugging her in, and kissing her hard. She loses her balance slightly at the pure force of it, her hands reaching out to steady herself against your shoulders as she whimpers into your mouth.

Your hands slide down towards her breasts, palms smoothing over her hardened nipples before squeezing at the meaty flesh. Moving down her sides, your nails leave faint red streaks across the pale skin as they go. Emily shivers as they scratch over her hip bones, causing them to jolt forward.

Her ability to kiss you back with a similar consistency has begun to lessen, the feeling of your hands roaming her skin is too much to bear, and the fact that she can feel your strap-on probing at her thigh does not help.

“Lay down on your belly for me, love.” Your request is nearly a whisper against her lips, she nods eagerly, turning away from you and doing as told. 

Pulling a pillow from its place near the headboard, Emily tucks it under her arms, resting her chin over her forearm. Your eyes rail over her form, pale skin stark in contrast to the dark color of the duvet. The muscles in her back flex idly as she shifts into a comfortable position.

Your hands trail over her spine as you hum, leaning down to place delicate kisses on her shoulder blades. You move to straddle Emily’s ass, the delicious pressure of your weight draws a deep mewl from her chest. You run your palms over her back, pressing into the muscles, massaging gently.

“Mm, that feels nice.” Emily mumbles, her voice stifled against her arm.

“I bet it does, baby.” You bend down, leaving sloppy kisses over the erogenous zones of her back. Emily hums, her fist clenching the pillow to steady herself from the tickle of your lips.

You let yourself fall onto your elbow, chest pressing against Emily’s back. Your nose brushes against her messy hair, breathing it in. She smells sweet and delectably like a woman, you press a kiss to the junction of her shoulder and neck.

Your hand travels down her sides, caressing her with a teasing softness. The same hand strides further down, coming to rest atop her ass. You squeeze it gently before slipping between her parted legs.

“Please…” Emily whimpers into the pillow, you press a few more wet kisses to the back of her neck.

“Please what, Emily?” Your breath is hot against the shell of her ear. You let your tongue flick out, swiping over the burning cartilage as you rub slow circles over her clit. Emily inhales sharply, the sensitivity between her legs reaching its zenith after her previous orgasm. 

“I want it… want you. Please, Y/n.” Her voice trembles, hips rolling slightly in an attempt to gain more friction. 

“You want my cock, baby?” Your vulgar words send a tangible chill down Emily’s spine, her back arching against the mattress, pushing her ass into the air to coarse your fingers back inside.

“Yes. God, yes.” You smile at Emily’s eagerness, pressing a few gingerly kisses to her sweat-dampened neck as you shift to mount her. You nudge your knees between Emily’s quivering thighs, urging them to spread further apart and accommodate you.

You reach across the mattress for the container of lube, flicking it open and squirting a sizable amount into your palm. You wrap your hand around the shaft, spreading the gel accordingly.

“How do you want it, Emily… hm?” Your hand presses into the base of her back, forcing her stomach into the mattress whilst your other hand steadies the base of the dildo, stoking it along her slick entrance. “Gentle… or merciless?” You just barely press the head of the cock inside before swiftly pulling out. Emily lets out a breathy moan, gripping desperately at the bedsheets while her contorted, open-mouthed face presses into the material. 

“Answer me.” your torso bends over her, hand sliding from her lower back and up to the base of her neck. The hair at her nape sticks to the sweaty skin, it glistens as you brush her thick locks to the side and run your tongue over her protruding vertebrae.

“Slow first… I’ll let you know when I want more. I just need you inside me right now.” Emily gnarls through clenching teeth as her head turns to the side, eyes screwed shut and brows furrowed. 

“Good girl.” You hum against the curve of her jaw, kissing it before sliding back into your previous position. A hand holding onto the curve of her ass as you bring the head of your cock back to her pussy, swiping it over her entrance before pressing forward, sinking in halfway before pausing and allowing her muscles to relax around the girth.

“Oh-” Emily gasps, the exquisite burn of the stretch settling deep inside of her belly.

Leaning over her once again, you begin slowly rolling your hips, bottoming out. Emily groans as your weight compresses her, the feeling of your hot skin sliding against her from behind fueling the blazing fire that's growing more and more with each thrust you give. 

“Does that feel good, baby?” Your fingers tangle in the hair at the base of her neck, tugging on it just enough so her head would lift from the pillow but not enough for her to be uncomfortable.

“Feels so good… oh, fuck.” Emily’s face scrunches up as you hit that particular spot deep inside.

Wrapping your arm underneath her belly, you reach down to rub her clit as you pick up the pace. With every thrust, Emily whimpers. The soft, breathy noises are music to your ears, urging you on. Your knees press her thighs even further apart, eventually impelling her to lift onto her knees slightly, the new position allowing you to go even deeper. 

“More-” Emily pants, her moans growing louder. You immediately oblige, gripping her shoulder and pulling her body into you, your pelvis slapping against her ass. Your other hand continues working her clit, pushing through the faint atrophy burning in your muscles.

Emily smiles as you fuck into her, jaw slack and face flushed. You can see the sweat beading at her temples, and the vein in her forehead protruding as she struggles to keep her breath.

“So pretty and taking my cock so well… you like it when I fuck you like this, Emily?” You growl into her ear, hips snapping at a nearly devastating pace. 

“Yes- fuck… I love it.” Emily’s arm slips from under her pillow, darting out and landing on the back of your thigh, nails digging into the flesh.

You groan at the sharpness, your head falling against her shoulder. You can already feel your own orgasm building at the way the harness rubs ever so slightly against your clit. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on while doing your job, and she hasn’t even touched you. To be honest, she probably won’t need to. Just the sounds of her moans and the feeling of her body as you pound into her alone might be enough to finish you off.

When thrusting from this angle begins getting a little too uncomfortable on your aching abdominal muscles, you slip from between her legs, pulling out of Emily completely.

She whines at the loss, her head whipping around to look at you.

“On your back...” Your hands grip her waist, flipping her over and quickly throwing her legs over your hips. “Wanna see your pretty face while I fuck you.” You smirk, sliding a bit more lube onto the strap.

Emily hums, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she watches you. Her hands swipe through her messy hair before moving down to your knees, scraping her nails over them affectionately.

Lining yourself up with her pussy and pressing inside, slipping all the way to the base with ease. Emily arches off the bed with the intrusion, you lean down and press a kiss to her sweaty, flushed chest. Trailing them up to her clavicle and neck, but hovering over her lips as you start rolling into her again.

Emily’s mouth falls open in a silent moan, her breaths fanning across your lips. You hold her eyes with a deep stare, a hand coming to rest over her throat. A whimper falls from her as you press your fingers gently into her pulse points, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Look at me.” Her eyes shoot back open at the tone of your voice, deep and raspy. Moving your free hand to her lower belly, you press down slightly, feeling for the toy’s movements inside of her.

Emily lets put a guttural moan at the pressure, her ankles locking around your back, allowing less room for you to move back, only forward.

“Hmph- fuck, Y/n. I’m gonna cum, don’t stop- please, don’t stop.” Emily’s arms reach up for you, wrapping around your shoulders and holding you tight against her as you fuck into her ruthlessly. Her hand tangles into your hair as you suck at her neck, while the other claws at your shoulder blade.

Bringing your hand back up from her belly, you lick your fingertips, sliding them back down to her clit and rubbing sloppy circles over the bud as you lift your head, watching her face as she’s taken over with pleasure from your ministrations. 

“Come on, baby… so good, so pretty like this.. gonna come for me?” You whisper against her chapped lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her chin as she nods frantically. Unable to form the proper words. All that leaves Emily’s mouth are tiny little whimpers and moans as you fuck into her. 

You keep up the pace until Emily’s body starts to tremble, and her pussy begins clenching around the toy, stifling your movement. Your hand holds its movements over her swollen clit as she falls over the edge for the second time tonight, her body twitching aggressively underneath you.

“Ohfuckohfuckohfuck-” Emily chants, her hand moving to grasp at your hand on her clit. Holding it still and pressing it down hard against the bud.

“Holy shit…” You breathe against her lips, eyes wide and body thrumming with adrenaline as you feel her body reacting to the pressure. You feel almost lightheaded as you lean in to kiss her, licking over her mouth before locking your lips together in a passionate embrace.

“You’re telling me…Jesus Christ-” Emily’s body falls limp, her belly twitching intermittently with aftershocks. You chuckle, kissing her bottom lip gently.

Emily sighs into the kiss, wrapping her arms around you once again. You don’t even care that the skin between you is drenched with sweat, your mind is simply clouded with visions of her. Of Emily.

‘You’re the Only Woman’ by Ambrosia plays softly in the background as you let your weight fall against her chest, catching your breath.

“Thank you… again.” Emily giggles, her hand petting the top of your head, her fingers running through the locks.

“It was my pleasure. Thank you.” You rest your head on your hand that’s propped up beside Emily’s head. Your eyes trail over her dazed face, admiring your handiwork. Her eye makeup- smudged, lipstick- gone, spread across her chin and cheeks and guaranteed that it’s also all over your face as well.

“What?” Her brows furrow in question.

“Nothing… you’re just beautiful.” You smile cheesily and Emily blushes, snorting at the compliment in disbelief.

“It’s true.” You swat at her shoulder, she gives you a sarcastic eye roll.

“How does a shower sound?” Emily asks, brushing a fallen lash from your cheek.

“As long as you’re in there with you… brilliant.” You smile, teasingly. Now it was Emily’s turn to swat at you.

“If you’re gonna fuck me in the shower, too, you’ve gotta give me a minute.” Her eyes sparkle as she smiles at you, and it has to be the most endearing thing you’ve ever witnessed.

“Okay…” You roll off of her, slipping the strap out of her gently. “You can recover while you give me one.” You shoot her a wink, climbing off the bed and walking towards the bathroom.

“Done.” Emily flies off the mattress at lightning speed, dragging you into the ensuite in a fit of giggles and kisses.

...

a/n: HII!! i hope you guys enjoyed reading... this shit took me forever to finish, but i am very happy with the finished product so... yeah

feel free to leave a comment or some constrcutive criticism!

Also lmk if you see any typos… i was so tired proofreading this.

[bluebutterflytattooed]

Loser Lesbian Ellie Williams x Mean Girl Reader

CHAPTER ONE

The scent of cheap highschool soap and burnt cafeteria breakfast clings to the air as you stroll down the hallway, your fingers brushing idly against the straps of your tote bag. The hum of voices, the occasional locker slamming, the scuff of sneakers against tile—it all blends together into the usual morning chaos. You don’t mind it. If anything, you thrive in it. The whole school worships you, admires you, most people are even afraid of you. Yeah, you have some friends, but they’re not close. They’re just there. No one really knows about your life. 

And you want to keep it that way. 

Some people say that you’re mean, and they may be right. You don’t tease or make fun of a lot of people, but when you do, it’s constant and cruel. Most people are just kinda weird, weird enough for you to dislike them. But there’s one person in particular that you just are relentless towards, teasing her whenever you come across her. 

And this is one of those moments. 

Ellie Williams, all flannel and denim, leaning against her locker like she’s in some indie movie about teenage angst. Her brown hair is tied into a bun at the back of her head, and it looks messier than usual today, like she rolled out of bed ten minutes before getting here, but somehow, it still works for her. She's clutching a book—one of those manga things she's always reading—and the sight of it makes you smirk. 

What a fucking loser.

You walk past Ellie slowly, deliberately, trailing your scent of cherry-vanilla in her wake. “Careful, Williams,” you drawl, just loud enough to be heard over the morning commotion. “Wouldn’t want people thinking you’re some kind of hopeless lesbian stereotype.” You toss your ever-shiny, wavy hair over your shoulder, giggling to yourself since she already is a hopeless lesbian stereotype. 

Ellie barely reacts. Just a glance, a quick roll of those pale green eyes, before she shoves the book into her backpack and slams the locker shut. She mumbles something under her breath, but you don’t quite catch it. Probably some sarcastic remark she’d pretend not to care about.

It’s fine. You have all day to get under her skin.

First period is AP Government class, and unfortunately for Ellie, fate (or the school’s frankly terrible scheduling system) has placed her directly in your orbit. You two sit two desks apart—close enough for you to take notice of the way Ellie taps her pencil against her notebook, deep in whatever brooding thoughts a girl like her has.

You lean back in your chair, letting your gaze drift lazily in Ellie’s direction. “So, what’s today’s outfit, Williams? ‘Dressed like a grunge band member’ or ‘trying to impress your imaginary girlfriend’?”

Ellie doesn’t look up. “Neither,” she mutters. “Just trying to get through the day without listening to you talk.”

You grin. God, you love it when Ellie pretends to be unfazed.

The teacher drones on about civic responsibilities, but you aren't paying attention. You’re too busy sneaking glances at Ellie—at the way she chews on the end of her pen, at the way her fingers drum against the desk like she’s counting down the seconds until she can escape. It’s almost funny. How much effort Ellie puts into ignoring her.

Deep in your heart, you know that she can never truly ignore you. Not as long as you persist with the teasing. Some call it bullying. You call it character building. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - – - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

By lunch, you find yourself by Ellie’s usual table, arms crossed, looking down at her with a smirk. Ellie is hunched over, corded earphones in, half-heartedly picking at her fries. Probably listening to some sad indie band no one’s ever heard of. You pluck one of the fries off her tray and pop it into your mouth.

Ellie sighs, finally looking up. “You know, there are better ways to get my attention.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head, still chewing. “Like what?” You pop a piece of bubble gum between your pink glossy lips, chewing it to escape the taste of the greasy fry. You smack the gum loudly in your mouth, just knowing it will frustrate Ellie. 

Ellie doesn’t answer. Just shakes her head, a small, exasperated smile tugging at her lips as she turns back to her tray. And for some reason, the sight of that almost-smile makes frustration twist inside your own chest. How dare she ignore you? When you’re right in front of her, trying your hardest to drive her mad. I’m not someone to be ignored, you think to yourself, pouting as you walk towards your friends table, crossing your arms over your pink-tank-top-clad chest. 

Weird. 

The feeling in your chest goes away as you sit down with your friends, immediately giggling over something that your closest friend Abby is doing. Once upon a time, you and Abby had a thing together.

You no longer do, which is for the best.

You glance over at Ellie’s table, just out of the habit you have to always look for her. 

To your surprise, she’s staring right back at you. 

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hiiii! this is my first work posted here, please be nice!

a few things:

both characters are eighteen here

ellie is lesbian, you are up for interpretation

this is a highschool!au so have fun with that

let me know your thoughts and ask questions!

[xxsillysealxx]

Bill meeting long haired male reader at a con and flirts with him thinking he’s a woman at first? Maybe 👉👈

this is so funny and cute i immediately started writing

decided to use epilogue bill for this bc um. i need that ugly man

Bill x Male!Reader Oneshot

This had been a particularly shitty con. Bill had been to some disappointing conventions, but for the love of Zod, whoever was above must be punishing him for some crime he wasn't aware he'd committed.

First he'd been caught sneaking a couple of comics into his bag. Whatever, it wasn't his first time getting yelled at by a comic book vendor. There were plenty of other booths he could visit.

But then he'd lost a bidding war on a Yakface figure, complete with the collector's coin and everything. It was only one of the most sought after figures in Star Wars collector history, and it'd slipped right out of his fingertips. What a load of shit.

His hand flexed around the fabric strap of his bag. Every booth was either not worth his time or one he'd already visited. A full five hours here and what'd he have to show for it: a vintage The Flash comic, a couple 1990s Marvel Happy Meal toys, and a good deal of money down the drain that he'd spent on overpriced convention food. What a waste.

He was ready to leave and go stew in his anger in his mother's dimly-lit basement when something caught his eye. Actually, it was someone. His gaze landed on a girl, one he couldn't see the face of. Her hair was what had attracted him. Long, silky, shiny. He had a bit of a thing for pretty hair.

Her outfit was lacking, but still, Bill could only imagine the gorgeous figure hidden under the baggy t-shirt. He bit the inside of his cheek, debating whether approaching her was a good idea. He'd never had luck with women, for reasons that should've been obvious but that he couldn't identify through his own inflated ego. After getting rejected quite a few times in the past, he'd decided he would let the women come to him. He didn't want some bitch if she couldn't tell that he was a "high value man", in his words.

But what the hell, it'd been a bad day already, it wasn't like he'd be spoiling a good mood if he got turned down. Plus, it'd been a while since he'd made a move on a woman, maybe this would be different.

He approached her from behind, tapping her on the shoulder with a clearing of his throat. He tried to force a confident smile as he spoke, "Greetings.. I noticed you from across the room and I just couldn't ignore your-"

He paused as the figure turned to face him, looking utterly confused and nothing like Bill had pictured. She wasn't ugly, no, she just.. wasn't a she. There was no doubt that Bill was staring at - and flirting with - a man.

"Uh.. sorry, man. Not a chick," the stranger said, grinning awkwardly. He grabbed a strand of that long hair, fidgeting with it between his fingers. "Probably the hair that threw you off, huh? Don't worry, you aren't the first." He chuckled, trying to break some of the tension.

Bill didn't reply, jaw agape as he stared at the guy. He stared back, glancing between Bill's horrified expression and the other congoers, most likely wishing he was anywhere but in this situation. Most guys in the past would have apologized and walked away embarrassed by this point. Why was this one lingering?

It suddenly occurred to him that the brunette had never actually outwardly assumed he was female. A light blush formed on his cheeks at the idea that this.. admittedly scraggly looking man was fully aware he was a man, and had wanted his number anyways, and he'd gone and made it weird by assuming he was a confused straight man.

This, of course, wasn't the case; Bill had totally thought he was a woman. But it didn't stop the stranger from reaching into his pocket and fumbling around for a piece of paper and a pen. "Shit, there I go, assuming again.. I'm so sorry, I'm so used to dudes thinking I'm a girl-" he rambled apologetically, scribbling something down on a piece of paper and placing it in Bill's hands.

Bill glanced down at the writing, finally breaking his gaze away from the stranger. It was a phone number. Holy shit, this guy thought he was gay.

"That's my bad again," the long-haired man said with a nervous grin. "Um.. if you wanna give me a call, that'd be cool. I don't think I ever caught your name."

Bill had a lot of responses. He could explain that it was a mix-up and go about his day slightly more embarrassed than before, he could scream at the guy for even assuming he'd be some kind of faggot, he could run away and try to forget any of this happened. But instead, he mumbled out a response, "Uh.. Bill."

The long-haired stranger smiled at him. "Well, Bill, give me a call sometime, yeah?" And with that, he was off to rejoin his group of friends, leaving Bill speechless in the middle of the convention center.

He looked down at the slip of paper again. He should probably throw this away, he had no use for it...

He slipped it in his pocket shamefully, fists clenched at his sides as he walked out of the convention, away from the chattering voices, away from the rows of vendors, and away from the stranger and his mane of hair that was making Bill question if it was just long-haired women that he liked.

[tisayemate]

In her shadow

Fred Weasley x reader

Angsty, but comfort from our lovely Fred

Summary: In the shadow of Cho Chang’s perfection, you find the fire to rise—and Fred Weasley lights the spark.

Story under the cut

The parchment was crumpled in your fist, the creases cutting deep as you glared at the words on the page.

Defense Against the Dark Arts: Outstanding.

Charms: Exceeds Expectations.

Transfiguration: Exceeds Expectations.

Potions: Acceptable.

Herbology: Acceptable.

Astronomy: Acceptable.

History of Magic: Poor.

It wasn’t a bad set of results—not really. But when you looked over at the Ravenclaw table, where Cho Chang was holding court like a queen on her throne, it felt like nothing.

“Perfect marks again!” someone gushed, loud enough to carry over the hall.

“Professor Flitwick said she’s the best he’s ever seen,” Marietta chirped, practically hanging off Cho’s arm.

And there she was, smiling so delicately, tilting her head just so, pretending to be modest while soaking up every ounce of attention. Perfect bloody Cho Chang.

Your teeth ground together as you shoved the parchment into your bag, shoulders tense with fury. It wasn’t just that she always came out on top. It wasn’t just her stupid perfect grades or the way she walked like the whole world owed her something. It was the rumors. The lies she’d spread about you last year—saying you were desperate, a pathetic little mess chasing after anyone who so much as looked your way. And people had believed her. They still did.

The laughter around her table grew louder, and it felt like every single word was aimed at you. You shoved back from your seat, ignoring the curious stares of your friends, and stormed out of the hall.

The briefing room for the Advanced Magical Research Programme should have been a chance to prove yourself, to rise above all of it. But the moment you stepped inside, you saw her—front and center, poised like she already had the spot locked down.

Your stomach sank. You froze for a moment, your hand tightening on the strap of your bag as rage bubbled up again. She didn’t even look your way, too busy laughing with a group of Ravenclaws. And Merlin help you, if she smirked even once, you might lose it.

You slumped into a chair at the very back of the room, as far from her as possible. Your jaw was tight, your fingers trembling with the sheer effort of holding yourself together.

“Alright,” came a familiar voice to your left, light and casual. “What’s all this, then?”

You didn’t need to look to know it was Fred Weasley.

“Fred,” you muttered, keeping your gaze locked on the table in front of you. “Not now.”

“Not now?” he repeated, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “What’s wrong? Didn’t they have your favorite pudding at dinner?”

You shot him a glare. “I’m serious.”

Fred leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “Yeah, I can see that. You’ve got that whole I’m going to set something on fire look about you. What’s going on?”

You hesitated, but he followed your gaze to the front of the room. His face darkened when he spotted her.

“Chang,” he said, his voice low. “Say no more.”

You exhaled sharply, folding your arms tightly across your chest. “She’s perfect, Fred. Always. Top marks, favorite of the professors, and now she’s here, too. Why do I even bother?”

“Alright, stop right there,” he said, sitting up straighter and turning toward you fully. His voice lost its usual teasing edge, replaced with something firm, unyielding. “Do you honestly think you don’t deserve to be here?”

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to answer.

“Look at me,” Fred said, his tone sharp enough to cut through your haze of anger. When you met his eyes, they were steady, unwavering. “You’re here because you earned it. You don’t need to compare yourself to her—or anyone else.”

“But she’s—”

“Annoying,” Fred interrupted. “And maybe a bit shiny in the way magpies like. But you? You’re a firecracker, and I’ve yet to meet anyone who could keep up with you when you’re not busy doubting yourself.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by his intensity.

“She doesn’t win because she’s better,” Fred continued, his voice softening slightly. “She wins because she’s louder. She makes sure everyone sees her. You don’t need that. You’ll blow her out of the water the moment you stop giving a damn about what she’s doing.”

You didn’t know what to say, but something in your chest eased. The knot of anger and jealousy loosened, just enough for you to breathe again.

“And if she so much as thinks about messing with you again,” Fred added with a wicked grin, “well, let’s just say George and I have a whole line of products that haven’t been properly tested yet.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, and Fred’s grin widened.

“There she is,” he said, nudging your arm. “Now, keep your head up, yeah? Don’t let her get in your way. You’ve got this.”

The briefing ended not long after, and as you walked out of the room, Fred fell into step beside you.

“Let’s grab a Butterbeer,” he said, casually slinging an arm around your shoulders. “You’ve earned it.”

For the first time all day, you felt lighter. And as you glanced back at Cho, her head high and her smile as fake as ever, you felt something shift.

Let her have her moment. Let her think she’s untouchable.

Because the next time she tried to get in your way, you’d be ready. You’d tear that bitch off the pedestal so fast, she wouldn’t even see it coming.