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sometimesanalice · 1 year ago

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Bedside Manner

Summary: You were expecting the perfect summer afternoon with the Daggers, but when a game of dogfight football takes a turn for the worse, you’re left with a bleeding head and an aching heart. And it’s up to Bradley to show you his bedside manner.

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 8K

Warnings: A little angst, a little pining, and two idiots in love.

It’s a perfect summer afternoon. Well, almost.

The sun is high in the sky and the steady salt kissed ocean breeze keeps it from being too uncomfortably hot. The coolers are filled with beers and sodas and a few pink cans of rosé that Coyote had brought. And the beach blankets were littered with open half-eaten family sized bags of chips and cubes of bright pink watermelon and containers of various dips and ziplocs with sun warmed and mostly melted chocolate chip cookies.

“You guys, really, I’m fine,” you state as adamantly as you can given the circumstances.

Sure, you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your throbbing, bleeding head. Sure, you are a little afraid to put your full weight on your left ankle and already dreading the long walk back to your car.

But it’s fine, you’re fine. Everything is…peachy. Or it will be as soon as they all stop looking at you like you’re about to crumple to the ground like some 1920’s silent film starlet from on the silver screen.

Nat has that deep pinch between her sharp brown eyes. Jake’s lips are pressed together in a firm white line. The rest of the team stands hovering around you in a misshapen semicircle, all sandy and sweaty, and wearing the concern painted across their faces.

All except for Rooster, who can’t seem to look at you at all.

“Clearly, you’re not,” Phoenix says flatly, clearly unamused by your attempts to minimize the situation. And you wish that just this once she could have let this go and follow your lead. But then she wouldn’t be Natasha Trace.

Your best friend since middle school had always been the most capable and sharpest person in the room and you loved that about her.

Normally.

But not so much when her keen assessment of you keeps you from being able to slink away quietly without fuss.

“No, seriously. It’s just a little scratch. It’s not a big deal.” It sounds feeble even to your own ears. Trying to hold back a wince when the way you shake your head makes starbursts bloom behind your eyes.

You could have dealt with the pounding in your head if it weren’t for the relentless burning of your ankle that was only making things worse. One or the other would have been easier to manage, but both vying for your attention as the pain pulses with every heartbeat was miserable.

The sun was too hot, the kids frolicking the ocean were too loud, the sunscreen on your skin felt too greasy. All you wanted was a shower and your bed and to forget this whole day even happened.

You look around the group trying to gauge how successful your efforts are, but it’s clear that no one seems to be buying your brand of poorly performed bullshit. You wanted to crawl into yourself like a hermit crab, protected by your own shell, as six pairs of eyes all looked on at you sympathetically, while the pretty brown ones you wanted to see the most were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses and trained down at the ground.

It was supposed to be a fun day.

You’d woken up that morning absolutely giddy about trading spreadsheets for sand and sunburns and sea salt tangled hair. Your cheery, new swimsuit already laid out and waiting for you from the night before.

There was something thrilling about hooky on a Friday with all of your favorite people that made you feel all kinds of young and free. Well, hooky for you. They’d been given the day off after a month of intensive training and testing of some new defensive software. They all deserved the break and you were more than happy to tag along.

You were always the good kid in school, never skipping, never missing a class. You’d felt like a rebellious teen as you crafted your ‘out of office’ email, a smug grin on your face like you were getting away with something. Even though you’d earned the right to use that PTO whichever way you wanted.

The anticipation of a snow day from your childhood school days had nothing on the intoxicating promise of a beach day on a golden summer Friday.

The team must have felt the same way too because the group chat the night before had been chaotically amusing. The excitement was palpable enough that you’d almost think you all lived in some landlocked state rather than San Diego, where it felt like all roads led to the beach whether you wanted them to or not.

Somewhere between the string of all capitalized sentences and exclamation points with a few well-chosen emojis scattered throughout, Natasha had managed to wrangle everyone in enough into sorting out who was responsible for bringing what. There wouldn’t be another veggie platter incident, not on her watch.

You’d felt bright and effervescent as you’d pulled into the parking lot, your eyes reflexively seeking out a blue Bronco that hadn’t arrived yet. With a beach chair over one shoulder and a beach bag over the other and a packed cooler bag in your hand, you’d made towards the multicolored sprawl of blankets and the striped peaks of the umbrellas, where you were met with the smiling faces of shiny happy people.

Some of the boys had rushed over to help you carry your things and added your offerings to the communal pile of snacks and sunscreen and bottles of water. It had been easy to fall into conversation with everyone as you set up your own little patch of paradise and shimmied out of your frayed cut-offs. Natasha had given you a wolf whistle and you’d laughed as you give her the finger.

And hour and a half later with an easy grin on his face, carrying a case of beer and two big Ziploc bags stuffed with what you learned later were homemade cookies balanced on top, was Rooster.

You’ve had plenty of beach days with them but every time you saw him in those damn denim shorts he always seemed determined to wear, regardless of how impractical they were, your mind still went a little fizzy as you took in just how well they clung to his thighs.

He’d taken the ribbing from his squad in stride as he unboxed the beers and added them to the collection already chilling in Bob’s bright yellow cooler. You were trying- and failing- to read your worn paperback book when he’d surprised you by plopping his things next to yours on your oversized towel and stole a chunk of juicy watermelon off of the plate balanced on your lap.

“Hey, book worm,” he grinned as he popped it into his mouth, “How’s my favorite girl doing?” That smile of his getting bigger when you rolled your eyes at him.

“Hi, Rooster,” you’d said looking at him from over the top of your sunglasses with an amused smirk.

And if your cheeks felt warm, it was from the sun and not the teasing tone of his raspy voice.

When he’d shrugged off his shirt to apply the sunscreen you’d brought with him in mind, the wink he’d shot you went straight to your head like champagne. The sun highlighting his impressive abs and sculpted shoulders didn’t help either as he took great efforts to cover his chest and stomach with the lotion. He had to be doing it on purpose, because he’d kept rubbing it in well past when the white hue faded. But who were you to complain? Melanoma was no joke.

“You wanna help me out?” he’d asked turning his back to you, looking over his shoulder. You’re pretty sure that he’d been flexing because he’d looked impossibly broad, every defined muscle standing out for eyes to map out and explore.

You’d been at war with yourself, because while your eager hands were desperate to touch him, you also knew that once you ran your hands along his solid frame that you’d never want to stop. That you wouldn’t be content until your fingertips had traced every inch of him.

You had been blessedly and devastatingly spared the choice.

“I got you, Rooster. My hands are already all sunscreen-y,” chimed in Bob, who had just finished rubbing his own freshly applied layer. “Wouldn’t want it to get on her book.”

You were only half relieved to be off the hook, while Bradley on the other hand was still looking at you expectantly, almost hopefully, still with the white and yellow bottle of sunscreen partly extended towards you.

“That’s so sweet of you, Bob-” you’d started.

“Yeah, so sweet-” Bradley grumbled under his breath.

“I appreciate you sparing my pages the sunscreen grease,” you’d said shooting Bob a smile, choosing to ignore Bradley’s comment completely. “Plus, your hands are bigger than mine. You’ll have him covered in no time.”

Bradley looked between you and Bob before he passed the bottle to the other man, shaking his head a little in defeat. You’d giggled to yourself as you wiggled your book at an openly brooding Bradley, and then leaned back on your elbows to observe the way the attentive WSO made sure to carefully and thoroughly cover Bradley’s entire back.

Respectfully, of course.

Behind your sunglasses you’d admired all of Bradley’s bulk compared to Bob’s lithe grace. But in your defense, they were standing right in front of you and you’d already reread your book at least five times in the past, so it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the scene in front of you had been.

“You look awfully comfortable over there,” Rooster called out with a raised eyebrow.

“Just taking in the view,” you’d teased back.

“Yeah, I bet you are,” he huffed as Bob finished up, giving him a thanks, man before tossing you back the bottle of sunscreen. He’d nudged his sunglasses down his nose and pinned you with his gaze, “Let me know if you want me to get your back. My hands are just as capable as his.” Even in the high heat of summer, the way he’d looked at you sent chills running along your arms.

You felt the way his keen eyes traveled from your face, down the deep-v of your swimsuit and along the swells of your breasts, and down your legs to your freshly painted toes. His mouth had ticked up in the corner then left you reeling and your heart pounding away in your chest as he’d strut off to go join Fanboy and Coyote by the mountain of snacks.

And that was the thing about Bradley Bradshaw. You never knew if he was just flirt-y or flirt-ing.

You hadn’t had a crush in ages, but when Nat had introduced you to her team five months ago, the man with the sunkissed curls and surprisingly attractive mustache had immediately caught your eye.

And as you’d gotten to know him, it had only gotten worse.

Not only was he very nice to look at and could make you laugh until your sides ached, but he also he had depth about him in a way that most men your age didn’t. You liked talking to him and listening to his stories. You liked learning his perspective on things. You liked being around him.

He made you feel interesting and special and funny and seen. You’ve never felt as comfortable in your own skin as you did when you were around him.

Rooster would send you flirty winks, give you less than subtle once overs, and could flash you such devastating slow grins that they’d have you trying to catch the butterflies they released in your stomach for hours after you went home.

But he’s never made a move.

If only he wouldn’t play hide and seek with his true intentions.

You felt like you were still waiting on some small clue whether he was serious or not. You didn’t know if he was just having fun with you or if he was into you and it was more than just friendly banter. It would be so much easier if he’d straight up tell you one way or another.

Needless to say, you’d let Nat be the one to help you with your sunscreen a little bit later. The idea of Bradley’s big hands on you, gliding along your sun-warmed skin and under the crisscross straps of your swimsuit, was too much for your hummingbird heart.

The sun climbed higher into the sky as the butter yellow midmorning transformed into a Midas-touched golden afternoon.

The squad had been able to reserve a fire pit and the plan had been to stay until the sunset. An endless summer day stretching out before them like a cat. They had nothing but time.

Clusters of people came together and split apart like a kaleidoscope as some went to take a dip in the ocean or raid the cooler and snack spread or go for a walk along the shore. Changing and shifting with the direction of the wind, going where the mood took them.

And for a peaceful moment, it had been you with your book and a napping Bradley sprawled out next to you on your towel with his arm flung over his eyes. Close enough that you could feel his warmth, almost but not quite touching. The sound of his soft breaths and the waves their own kind of lullaby as you contentedly read your book, turning your pages quietly to not disturb the man next to you, as the droplets of the Pacific dried on your skin.

You still don’t know how you got roped into playing a round of dogfight football with the Navy’s best and brightest. You were more of a corn hole or ladder toss kind of girl, but Coyote had all but thrown you over his shoulder and dragged you out before you’d agreed to participate, conceding your defeat.

You were on a team with Hangman, Coyote, Fanboy against Nat, Rooster, Payback, and Bob. A few plays in and you had been getting the hang of it. They’d all been making sure to take care to go easy on you even in the chaos of two teams playing offensively and defensively at the same time. You were more than a little out of breath, but you were having fun.

Before the next snap, Mickey gave the most impassioned pep talk you’d ever heard, “Fuck luck, we don’t need luck. We gotta fucking win.” You had been about to laugh, but then you’d seen the looks on Jake and Javy’s faces and decided against it. Curious about the other team, you’d glanced over only to see Rooster looking back at you.

The calls had been made, the blur of plays in motion as people whirled and dodged and sprinted.

You’d just lobbed the ball to Javy before darting around Nat when a big, solid body collided with you. Hard. You’d felt the twinge of your ankle twisting in the sand right before the force sent you flying in the opposite direction you’d been headed.

The impact had been jarring. The air knocked from your lungs.

Where you should have been met with a mouthful of gritty sand, instead your head had connected with the rough surface of a partially buried rock. The low, thick thud reverberating throughout your whole body.

You’d been so stunned that you didn’t even register you were even on the ground until you heard the chorus of oh fucks and holy shits and goddamns and jesus christs over the ringing in your ears.

The game coming to an immediate and conclusive end.

For how many empty bottles and cans were sitting collected in a trash bag off to the side of your beach set up, they had been surprisingly quick to act as you blinked blankly, trying to clear the spots from your vision.

It was a silent ballet of efficiency as they instinctively fell into their roles, much like you imagined they did the sky. Everyone stepping up and then stepping back as they did their part, like the ebb and flow of waves.

Nat had carefully poured some fresh water from a bottle on your face to remove the sand that clung to the sweat and sunscreen on your skin. Then Jake had wordlessly passed her his clean spare shirt he’d jogged of to get to help stop the bleeding after Javy checked on your pupils to make sure they were the same size. While Bob stood off to the side holding your warped sunglasses in his hands, as if he was hopeful they could still be salvaged. Mickey and Reuben had been waiting in the wings giving you space, ready to help if they were needed, but not wanting to not crowd in.

And from the corner of your eye, you’d caught Rooster standing a couple feet away with his hands in his hair looking absolutely wrecked.

“Bradley?” you’d tried, even though his name stuck to your teeth. But he’d just shook his head at you before turning away slightly, like he couldn’t look at you, which made your heart sting as well.

They only allowed you to move to sit up after they were content with the answer to their questions- What day is it? Friday. Where are you? San Diego. What else hurts? My ankle and my pride.

It wasn’t until someone hauled you up from underneath your armpits that the throbbing and stinging and aching settled over you. The pain seeping and spreading through muscle and bone like an inky oil spill.

It’s still an almost perfect summer afternoon except for the fact you hate everything about this.

You hate the way they’re gathered around you with too many pairs of assessing eyes pinned on you. You hate that you’re the reason the game of dogfight football came to a definitive and abrupt end. You hate that you’re the reason their carefree and fun afternoon off has turned into this.

There’s a pressure building behind your eyes, the hot tears of hurt and frustration and embarrassment are clamoring to be released. You have to bite your lower lip to keep it from trembling.

And it doesn’t help that you’re the type who’d rather lick your wounds in peace.

You just need to get back to your car and you can figure things out on your own from there. You just need a moment to yourself.

As you open your mouth to argue your case again, Jake puts his hand up and stops you before you’ve even had a chance to start, “I hate to break it to you, sugar, but you’re not fooling any of us.” He says it gently, but gives you a pointed look at the way you’re leaning heavily on your right leg to keep the pressure off of your left ankle.

“That head wound is not a little scratch. Just like your ankle isn’t just a little puffy, when it’s twice the size it should be. You need to go to the Emergency Room,” Nat says, final and resolute. A lifetime of friendship has taught you not to argue when she has that look in her eyes, the one that says try me, I dare you.

They all talk over you as they figure out who is the most sober of the group after your suggestion to call yourself an Uber is immediately shot down. Drinks are being counted on fingers, and memories are searched to make sure every sip and bottle and can is accounted for.

Your eyes drift over to the man who is still actively avoiding looking at you, even as he talks to everyone else on the team. You aren’t paying too close attention to what he is saying, but you can hear the short, clipped staccato of his words.

Bradley’s shoulders are tinged a little pink even though you know for a fact that you had purposely passed him the 65 SPF. His eyes are hidden behind his dark green tinted sunglasses, but you don’t need to see them when you can read his body language better than any book.

His arms are crossed firmly over his chest, the tendons in his forearms flexing and shifting, like he is squeezing and releasing his fists from where they’re tucked under his biceps. Everything in his body looks coiled tight and strained, so at odds with the easy going and loose-limbed man you know him to be.

You don’t realize just how much you’ve zoned out until Natasha has to say your name a couple time before you pull your gaze away from Bradley and back to her.

“Ok, it’s settled,” Nat informs you, “Rooster’s going to take you.” You barely nod your head in acknowledgement when she tells you, because it feels like you’ve been punched in the stomach now too.

“It’s the least he can do,” Jake drawls.

“That’s not fair-” you start, defensively.

“Fuck off, Bagman-” Rooster snaps.

The rage in his voice shocks you, you’ve never heard that much heat from him before. There’s none of the teasing tone that usually underscores their banter. Jake puts both of his hands up placatingly like my bad, folks and Javy just shakes his head and sighs.

And this time when you look at Bradley, he is finally looking back at you with a deep furrow in his brow. His jaw is clenched tight, that muscle ticking and jumping, as he takes in the way you have Jake’s t-shirt pressed against your forehead.

Not exactly the way you’d hoped he’d be looking at you when you put on your new blue and white striped swimsuit this morning.

The one you’d bought because you wanted to make him look.

Just not like this.

With everything sorted the rest of the team trickles away a smattering of take cares and get better soons and let us know if you need anythings. But not before Mickey hands Rooster his stuff and passes Nat your bag and sandals. He gives you the gentlest of squeezes on your shoulder before he leaves to join everyone else back on little part of the beach you all had claimed before things went to shit.

Your group of eight now downsized to a trio.

Bradley is quick to roughly pull on his tank and shirt, and Nat fishes out your car keys from your bag as she waits for him to slip his shoes on. When he’s ready she passes it to him and he silently slides it over his arm.

Nat bends down to help gingerly glide your feet into your sandals, “I’ll grab the rest your things and drop them off at your place and then one of the boys will drop off your car later. We’ve got it all covered, ok?”

“Thanks, Nat,” you say quietly, trying to hold back a wince as she slips the left one on, your ankle pulsing in tempo with your heartbeat.

“Best friends don’t say thank you, they just do,” she says matter-of-factly as she stands. It’s the same thing you’d told her after you’d dumped a carton of strawberry milk on Carly Radke for outing Natasha your freshman year in high school. It was only time you’d ever gotten detention, but it had been worth it.

“They just do,” you repeat with a small smile.

You’re so grateful that your friendship with her is one that has spanned years. That you’ve been able seen one another grow and change and come into their own, but that you haven’t outgrown each other. She’s the person you want by your side and having your back. There is no one quite like Natasha Trace.

She turns to Bradley and you watch him stand a little taller under her sharp eyes, your straw tote still dangling from his forearm.

“You good?” Nat asks him with a look in her eye that you can’t place. And you’re reminded that even though she’s your best friend, that he has also earned a spot as one of her closest friends. Their relationship built over years and experiences that you could never fully understand. Different, but just as deep.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got her. I’ll take care of her,” Rooster promises with a stiff nod, as he gives her his word. It might have made your heart beat a little faster if you didn’t feel like such a burden. That it’s simply a twist of fate and three less drinks than everyone else for the reason that he’s the one to look after you. That he’s the one stuck with you.

“I know you will,” she says softer now, patting his shoulder, “Keep me posted.” Nat presses a kiss to your cheek and gives you an encouraging smile then heads off to go rejoin everyone else.

You watch her go with longing. The cheerful beach set up with its colorful blankets and umbrellas looks more like a desert mirage now. The sweet coconut scented potential of what the day could have been now forever out of reach.

And then it’s just you and Bradley and the sound of the waves and cries of seagulls.

The two of you silent and motionless.

You feel one wrong move and the fragile attempt of the stiff upper lip you’ve cocooned yourself in will crack open and all the soft parts of you will seep out into the sand beneath your feet.

His expression is shuttered closed as he bends a bit like he is going to pick you up.

“Woah, buddy, what are you doing?” You’re squinting into the sun as you look at him. You’d step into his shadow to block it, since you’re now in need of a new pair of sunglasses, but that would mean moving to the left which isn’t an option with your ankle.

“Buddy,” he grunts under his breath, slipping off his sunglasses and carefully putting them on your face, being mindful of stinging scrapes and wad of soft cotton you’re holding to your head. “They’re definitely going to have to run concussion protocol on you,” he mutters more to himself than to you, “I’m taking you to the Bronco and then we’re going the ER, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, Rooster,” you grit out, even rolling your eyes hurts, “But I don’t need you to carry me.”

Everything about this was excruciating and embarrassing enough without him being the Clark Gable to your Vivian Leigh. Maybe you could lean on him and hop over to his car? Like a six-foot-one pair of crutches with good hair.

“Take a step without wincing and I’ll think about it,” he says firmly, pointedly calling your bluff. There’s an expectant look of go on then, whenever you’re ready on his face. Because he knows he’s right, and you do too.

You don’t even bother to make a move, but the way your lower lips wobbles speaks volumes.

“That’s what I thought,” he says quietly, almost like pains him to be right.

He bends a little to hook his arms around your knees and back to lift you up, and this time you let him. Your free arm automatically wrapping around the back of his neck. And he starts off towards the winking windshields of the parking lot.

You’ve thought about what it would be like to be wrapped up in Bradley’s arms, how good it would feel to be pressed closed against him. And now you are and it’s nothing like you’ve imagined, because there isn’t anything sweet or swoon-worthy about how you ended up in them. You’re his duty, you’re not his desire.

All your sandcastle hopes have been washed away by the tide.

You’re so frustrated. You’re frustrated by the day, by yourself, by him.

This time you can’t blink back the tears that well up in your eyes. They flood through your tear ducts carving hot trails down your sun-tinged cheeks.

You want the Bradley from earlier.

The one who stole your watermelon with warmth in his eyes.

The one who dozed next to you in the sun like a cat, his features soft free of the tension he now holds in his shoulders.

You want your Bradley.

The one who’d whispered cheeky comments in your ear whenever the team got into lighthearted tequila fueled arguments about things like whether a hot dog was a sandwich.

The one who’d always go up to the bar with you on busy nights at the Hard Deck and make sure you didn’t get bumped into on the way back to your friends with your freshly refilled drinks.

You’re aching, aching. Everywhere.

For a brief moment, as you swipe at your tears, you’re happy for the throbbing in your head and ankle, so that way you don’t have to think about the stinging in your heart.

“I know, I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re hurting,” Rooster says gentle and low as you sniffle, but you can hear the thickness of the words in his throat. The term of endearment is the sweetest of nothings, making your tears come faster. Where it should ease the heartache, all it does is make you angry at yourself for giving your emotions away. “We’re almost to the Bronco. It’s ok, we’re gonna get you taken care of, I promise.”

We.

You wanted that with him.

You want to press both of your hands to his cheeks to make him look you in the eyes to ask him is it going to be you and me together? You’ve been a fool for love before, but you didn’t know if could take another hit-and-run with your heart.

The salt of your tears makes your cheeks feel tight and itchy as the summer breeze dries them on your skin.

Bradley carries you like you weigh nothing, but cradles you like you’re the most precious things he’s ever held. He’s mindful of any dips in the sand and gives wide berth around the college kids playing volleyball close to the entry back to the parking lot.

When he reaches the Bronco, he sets you down gently, making sure both of your feet are planted on the asphalt before letting go of you to unlock his car. He tells you to wait a moment when you move to open the passenger side door.

“I never know when I might get called up for an emergency deployment, so I like to have some extra clothes just in case,” he explains as he digs around in the backseat, pulling out a pair of gray athletic shorts.

“Oh.” And you realize you’re still just clad in your striped swimsuit. “Thank you for sparing me from the hospital germs,” you say lightly, an attempt at a joke to break the ice. One that doesn’t land, since instead of cracking a grin he just presses his lips together in a firm line and nods.

Bradley crouches low in front of you and you put a hand on his shoulder for balance as you lean against the Bronco, still trying to keep as much pressure off your left ankle as possible as you step into them. He’s looking up at you and even through his sunglasses perched on your nose, you swear his brown eyes get a shade darker as he eases the shorts up your legs. You’re touched by the effort as he ties the strings in a lopsided bow, even if things are feeling tense between the two of you.

“Think this’ll be easier,” he mumbles shrugging off his light blue button up. You’ve always liked this one, with its soft pastel pink and minty green watercolor prints of net fishermen and hula girls and palm trees.

He holds it open for you, helping you thread your arm through it, and then takes over holding Jake’s now ruined shirt to your head so that you can get your other arm past the sleeve. It smells like him, citrus and amber. Your fingers brush against each other when you reclaim the makeshift bandage, and he adjusts his shirt so that it hangs over your shoulders just right.

It’s an awkward kind silent as Rooster helps lift you into the Bronco with his strong hands around your hips. He is all smooth efficiency as he buckles you in with a click. You pass him back his sunglasses the same moment he hands you your tote bag, and it almost feels like a hostage exchange.

He says nothing as he hauls himself into the driver’s side. The car rumbles to life when he turns the key in the ignition and a cheery song from the 80’s station on the radio comes on. Bradley quick to turn the volume down low. His thumb brushing your shoulder as he sets his hand on the back of your seat to look behind him as he carefully backs out of the spot.

It’s never felt this strained with him before.

It’s so painfully obvious that the two of you are walking on eggshells around each other. You can almost feel the wall that’s gone up around him. The white noise of the radio drowned out by the hum of the road as he drives in near silence.

Your day has been most effectively ruined by a chunk of sedimentary rock, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still recoup what’s left of it.

He could still have the perfect summer afternoon.

He could still go back to your friends and their perfect beach set up and laugh with them as Coyote keeps accidentally setting marshmallows on fire. He could still catch the bold oranges and soft pinks of the sunset with all the satisfied contentment he deserved to experience.

“You can leave me and go back, you know. I’ll be ok if you just want drop me off and then head back to the beach,” you say looking down at your fingers as you trace the stitching of his leather seats.

When he doesn’t answer right away, you glance over at him. The vein in his neck is standing out boldly against the column of his throat.

“Do I seem like the kind of guy who would leave someone at the ER alone?” he asks, his voice rougher than sandpaper.

“No. No, of course not,” you say emphatically, “That’s why I’m giving you permission.”

“Permission?” he scoffs with a shake of his head.

“Yes, permission,” you say, clipped.

You’re giving him an out, why doesn’t he get that?

He heaves a big sigh and grunts. “Is it… Would you rather have Bob- with his big hands- here instead?” Bradley asks, frustration leaking out around the edges of his words.

“Bob with his big hands?” you repeat baffled, “What does Bob have to do with anything about this?”

“That’s what you said earlier, sweetheart. I’m just citing the source. Or I can call Phoenix? Or…” he pauses glancing at the t-shirt pressed to your head, “Or even Seresin. Once we get you checked in I can call any of them an Uber or something, and they can be there with you, if you don’t want me.”

“No, Rooster, I don’t want anyone else.” You wince at the implication and hope it doesn’t read into it further than the current situation to two of you are wading through like quick sand.

“Ok, good,” he grumbles.

“Great,” you lob back.

His hand tightens on the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white, “Then where is this even coming from?” The action makes his thick forearm flex in this most delicious of ways that you’d appreciate more if you didn’t feel the anger simmering low in your stomach.

“It’s pretty damn clear that you’d rather be back there, Rooster. Or literally anywhere else right now.” You flip down the sun visor with more force than it deserves, regretting that you gave him his sunglasses back when the bright California sun in your eyes turns your headache into a full-blown migraine.

“Of course, I’d rather be anywhere else!” he says hotly, tossing his sunglasses back in your lap, “Do you think I like that you’re hurt and that we’re on our way to the hospital?” You shove them on your face with an angry huff.

A car speeds by blaring their horn as they pass by.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck off,” he grunts but speed of the Bronco doesn’t change, “Asshole.”

Bradley’s driving five miles under the posted limit, and you know for a fact he religiously drives at least ten miles over. And his turns have been smoother than butter, as if he is trying not to jostle you anymore than you’d already been today.

You are so tired of this hot and cold thing that he’s doing. His words and his deeds weren’t going hand in hand. He keeps giving you the cold shoulder, but is also so in tune with your every movement and need.

Gingerly, you angle yourself in your seat to look at him better, resting your tired left arm on the back of your seat and taking in his strong profile.

“Why are you being like this?” you demand, waving your free hand in a vaguely in his general direction.

“Like what? I’m not being like anything,” he retorts, making the same vague hand gesture as you did a moment earlier.

And oh, if that doesn’t fill your chest with hot indignation. That low simmering anger has turned into a full roiling boil as you shift in your seat trying to get your ankle in a position where it doesn’t hurt.

“Seriously, Rooster? I can feel tension rolling off of you in waves. You’ve been like this since everything turned to complete shit on the beach. I didn’t mean to ruin your day, I’m just trying to figure out how to make things better,” you bite out unable to keep things bottled up anymore.

He sucks in a sharp breath, “Are you kidding me right now? You think you ruined my day?” He glances from the road to you and back again, his brown eyes wide and searching.

“Yes?” Or so you’d thought until you’d seen the shock written all over his face, but now you weren’t so sure. It’s like you’ve dumped ice water on him instead of simply calling him out. “I feel like you’re taking it out on me and I don’t know why.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rooster swears under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m so damn sorry, sweetheart. I’m mad at myself, because I ruined your day. I should have been more careful, I should have been looking out for you. It’s not like you’re hard to miss in that swimsuit.” Your cheeks heat up at the comment, but you choose to ignore it.

Misery drips from his words like spilled ink off a page. You knew he was upset, but you didn’t realize he was upset about that. That he’s shouldering this fluke of fate as if it is his burden to bear. Some of the anger you’ve been feeling leaves your body like the tide washing out back out to sea. You’re still upset at him for how he has been acting up until this point, but you’re not mad at him about that.

“Bradley, no. It was an accident.”

“Yeah, an accident I’m responsible for,” he says hoarsely, rubbing roughly at his forehead. “God, I can still hear the sound it made when you hit that rock and it makes me feel sick. I would give anything to undo that moment. I need you to know that.”

He is being so hard on himself and your heart squeezes, this time in sympathy rather than hurt. He didn’t place that rock in the sand, the both of you were victims of circumstance.

“It could have happened to anyone. It could have been anyone,” you press delicately, trying to get him to hear you, shifting in your seat again still uncomfortable.

The sunshine bounces off of his slumped shoulders as he sighs raggedly.

“But it happened to you and it’s my fault. You’re bleeding, you’re in pain, and you’ve been crying. And it’s because of me.” He reaches down with his right hand and lifts up your leg so that you can rest it on his thigh, some of the ache alleviating immediately. He asks quietly, “That better?”

“Yes, thank you,” you murmur. He looks so upset, and all you want to do is curl into his lap. You want to hold him and you want to be held by him. “You know I don’t blame you, right?”

You expect him to move his hand back to the steering wheel, but he keeps it on your leg. His thumb stroking your still slightly sandy shin. Your cheery toenail polish at odds with the color blooming around your ankle.

Bradley’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, “Yeah, I do. I know that. But I still blame myself.”

The Bronco rolls to a soft stop at the light. There’s enough traffic that you know you’ll be here for a bit, and so does he since he turns in his seat to look fully at you. You take his sunglasses off, tucking them into the pocket of his shirt that rests above your heart, so nothing stands between his brown eyes and yours.

“So, you’re going to keep beating yourself up over it and icing me out? Making me feel worse? For what, Bradley? Because you’re a glutton for punishment? That’s not fair to me or to you.”

“Shit,” he mutters, his left hand running through his curls. “You’re right and I’m so sorry. I’ve been in my head feeling so damn guilty that I’ve been such an asshole. Can you forgive me?”

You’re about to answer him that when a horn startles you, making you jump in the leather seat. You see the light is green, the car that had been in front of you is gliding through the intersection passing under a blue sign pointing the way to the hospital.

“Bradley, the light.”

The car behind the two of you honks their horn again.

“They can wait. This is important, you are important. Do you forgive me?” There’s an underscore of need that punctuates his question.

“Yes, of course,” you say easily and sincerely. There’s so much remorse in his eyes, you would have forgiven him with that look alone.

“Thank you,” he breathes out in relief. And then he smiles at you for the first time since the beach and that ache in your heart is completely soothed, bandaged by that soft way he is looking at you.

Atlas no longer, he can simply be Bradley.

He takes his foot off the brake and by some miracle he’s able to make it through the light before it turns red again. You can see the tall structure of the parking lot near the hospital poking out above the line of the treetops.

The destination is closer than ever, but there are still things on your mind.

“And you aren’t an asshole, Bradley. But your bedside manner could definitely use some work,” you tease with a smile of your own.

“Baby, I’ve been trying to show you my bedside manner, but you keep holding me at arm’s length,” he groans dramatically.

The idea of experiencing Bradley Bradshaw’s bedside manner makes you feel all kinds of weak in the knees, even as you’re seated in his Bronco with your leg propped up in his lap, his big hand skating up and down along your shin comfortingly.

“How can you even say that with a straight face? You’ve never made a move!” you exclaim incredulously, “I was even the one to ask for your phone number, if you remember.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I hit on you all the time,” he argues with your favorite brand of Bradshaw banter, “I’ve been waiting for you to give me the green light, sweetheart.”

“I thought you were supposed to be pretty and smart,” you smirk.

He barks a laugh and the last tendrils of all the tension and all the pressure that had been swirling around you like a marine layer evaporates.

“You saying I’ve had the green light this whole time?” He looks over at you with a boyish smile, you like the way you feel when he looks at you like this.

“What I’m saying, Bradley, is if you’d have actually asked me out I would have said yes.” You press your toes into the muscle of his thick thigh and immediately regret it, wincing as pain ripples around your ankle.

He makes a sympathetic sound deep in his chest, “Sounds like I’ve been an idiot.”

“A very pretty one,” you allow, leaning your aching head back against the back seat.

“At least there’s that,” he concedes good-naturedly as he pulls into the parking lot, turning on his blinker for a spot opening up near the entrance to the Emergency Room by some twist of fate, one that’s in your favor this time.

Bradley pulls into the empty spot and kills the engine turning to you. He gently eases your foot back down onto the sandy floormat of the Bronco and leans into unbuckle your seatbelt.

He’s so close now looking up at you from under his eyelashes, and your breath catches in your throat. He moves closer, you can see the bits of hazel that surround his pupils. Your eyes flutter close and you tilt your head up, lips parting at the anticipation of his kiss.

There’s no holding back the noise of dissatisfaction you make when his lips press a tender kiss to your cheek. You lean into him wanting to feel, wanting him to give you more. His warm breath coasts over your skin as he chuckles. You can feel the way his lips are pulled up into a smile.

“I’m a gentleman, sweetheart,” he says as he pulls away, his eyes lingering on your lips. “My mom raised me not to go for the kiss on the first date. Or ones with head wounds and potential concussions.”

“Some first date,” you lament jokingly, looking in at the fluorescent lights awaiting you inside the hospital. You’d rather skip over this part entirely, but you’re ready to be done with holding Jake’s shirt to your head. “Nothing like insurance cards and scrubs to really set the mood.”

“Mmm. How about this, after we’re done here, I’ll take you through whatever drive-thru you want-”

“In-N-Out,” you cut in without a second thought. The novelty of it still hasn’t worn off on you, even if the fries are terrible.

“Ok,” he grins, “I’ll take you through in In-N-Out and get you your number two combo with mustard and grilled onions with a vanilla shake.” He pauses waiting for your nod of approval, looking more than pleased with himself when you acknowledge he got your order right.

“I like the sound of this so far,” you hum.

“Well that’s good. Since it’ll be our first date, I want to set that bar high,” he says giving you a wink. And there are those butterflies again, this time you don’t try to catch them with a net. They’re free to flutter around as they wish.

“If you really want to impress me, you’ll also take me through the McDonald’s drive-thru for their fries,” you muse.

“Done.”

“I was kidding,” you laugh, shaking your head at him disbelievingly and thoroughly charmed.

“Well, I wasn’t. So after we get you fed, give or take some fries, I will bring you home. I’ll get you whatever you need, I want to make sure you’re comfortable. Think you might be on crutches for a bit, sweetheart,” he says softly, playing with the ends of your hair. “And then in the morning, if you’re up for it, I’ll take you out for breakfast. Or bring you breakfast. Whatever you want. We can call that date number two.”

“And then you’ll kiss me?”

“And then I’ll kiss you,” he promises, offering you a crooked pinky finger. You beam and you wrap your own around his.

He slips out of the driver’s seat leaving you to contemplate the terms of his offer as he rounds the front of the Bronco. The nurses are going to get an eyeful of him in only those snug jean shorts and thin white tank. You make a mental note to avoid looking at him if they have to connect you to a heart rate monitor, he doesn’t need to know the effect he has on you. Not yet anyways.

“I have counteroffer,” you announce turning your body towards him as he opens your door for you.

“Let’s hear it, baby,” he says with a grin that almost makes you forget how bad your head and ankle hurt, “Shoot.”

“We still go to In-N-Out, but then in the morning you make me breakfast in bed with some of those famous Bradshaw pancakes I’ve heard about,” you say, as he steps in between your legs, “Seems like a good way to work on that bedside manner of yours.”

“I think you’re going to like my bedside manner, sweetheart,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over your cheek.

You tilt your head at him, taking in the sunkissed strands in his hair and the affection in his eyes, “I guess we’ll have to find out.”

“Guess we will,” he rasps.

Rooster drops another sweet kiss to your cheek, whispering for you to stay put, and then he struts off towards the automatic doors of the Emergency Room. Leaving you alone with the butterflies in your stomach and the hope in your heart.

You dig your phone out of your straw tote and check the time, doing the math in your head.

There are a few messages from Nat and other people on the team already checking in, but you know you’ll have time to reply to them later as you wait with Bradley sitting by your side.

You look up and see he’s got a wheelchair now and is making his way back to you, wearing a soft smile on his face just for you.

Only seventeen more hours until you get to kiss Bradley Bradshaw and you can’t wait.

You’ve got that forever feeling about him.

Oh, oh, oh.

Thank you for reading! Rock on. Oh that joke was schist, I'll see myself out.

This was written as part of @roosterforme's Rocktober Playlist! You can check out all the other great submissions here!

The song that inspired this story was Paula Abdul's "Straight Up"

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @shanimallina87 @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

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster x female reader

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beansprean · 1 year ago

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He might not actually know this is an option.

(final face is as always inspired by mlekonya's comic)

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1a. Knees up of Nadja, hair half up in cat ear buns with purple streaks, wearing a poofy purple off-the-shoulder dress with mutton sleeves and a darker purple leaf pattern, and Nandor, wearing a brown damask patterned belted tunic with gold fastenings and cuffs, on a mottled green background. Nadja is grinning smugly, right hand on her hip and the other pressing haughty fingertips to her breast to gesture to herself. She says, "Well, Laszlo is my best friend, too!" Nandor squints at her in confusion, brow furrowed and hands fiddling together at his waistline. He replies, "Huh? But... he is your husband..." 1b. Repeat. Nadja cocks her hip to the other side, left hand turning palm up to gesture in a kind of shrug. She frowns at Nandor, one brow raised, and replies, "Yeah? I wanted to hang out with him and fuck him forever, so I married him." Nandor continues to squint at her, brows raised and jaw slack. His speech bubble is just ellipses. 1c. Repeat. Nadja cringes, slightly concerned, and places her left hand on Nandor's shoulder, holding her right out flatly as if ready to calm a spooked horse. She says, "You are supposed to marry someone because you like them... You know that, right? ...Nandor?" Nandor is frozen, gaze moved to the middle distance, brow furrowing again as his face grays with realization

2a. Bust of Nadja on a white background, holding up a finger informatively as she says, "You can marry your best friend." 2b. Reverse shot of Nandor on a dramatic starburst background, mouth and eyes gone comically huge in shock, floating completely off his face, hair sticking out in surprised spikes. Apparently this is news to him./end ID

#wwdits #nadja of antipaxos #nandor the relentless #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #my art #fanart #image described

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ice-creamforbreakfast · 1 year ago

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::Download:: (Patreon - Free from 27th September 2023

A collection that's perfect for hosting festivals in the forest, holding secret gatherings, starting a cult, doing Enya things, farming cats, throwing gemstones at your enemies or all of the above*.

Watermark Dress - Pleated maxi-dress with split sleeves and a metal belt Saoirse Dress - Peasant dress with metallic embroidered details Eithne Dress - Off-the shoulder maxi-dress with bell sleeves and metallic embroidered details Máire Dresses - A collection of three dresses with a gold collar. Comes in maxi sleeveless, maxi with detatched sleeves and high-slit asymmetric with no sleeves (but still enough fabric to prevent unfortunate portal to Narnia flashing situations) Enya Hair - A pixie cut, spiked and flicked to 90s/2000s perfection Céala Earrings - Pearl drop earrings with gemstones Starburst Earrings - Metal starburst earrings with an inlaid cabochon gem

*No shade, I live for all of these things...apart from cults and throwing my gemstones. I love my gemstones I would never.

#the sims 4 #ts4 #ts4cc #ts4mm #maxis match #download: clothing #download: hair #download: accessories

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dusterbishop · 4 months ago

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i hear you call my name (and it feels like home)

summary. || three timelines, you have watched remy lebeau die. you didn't believe you would earn a fourth chance to save him until you find a variant with no memory of his past, lost in a void of existence.

pairing. || gambit x f!reader (past relationship with current enemies-to-lovers)

count. || 6.4k

notes. || posted on ao3 here. warning for character death and violence. this is the end! thank you all for the lovely words of support, it means so much that you all loved this duo as much as i do. i have ideas of oneshots for the future, but for now, i leave you all with this!

part one. || part two. || part three. || part four.

Your ears are ringing.

Awareness floods you in slow, uneven strokes. You can hear the roar of battle buzzing through the fog in your mind, guttural screams of pain cutting through in sharp starbursts. There’s a staff in your right hand, and you spasm your grip on it, testing its weight.

It is Remy’s.

Once, that staff had been too heavy for you to properly swing around. He had watched you practice with a pained grimace for a week before he surprised you with your own to train with. The two of you were nothing more than colleagues at that point, simply two mismatched X-Men crossing paths by sheer fate. Until he had handed you your own staff, its weight balanced with delicate perfection in the palm of your hand, and showed you how to use it.

You had never told him that you only used the staff because you could see it in every timeline, a slow conversion of your fighting style across lifetimes. Not every life you lived shared Remy, but his influence still lingered at the edges, seeping in like ink. Fighting with a staff, learning to pick locks, using sleight of hand to swap items from timelines with ease. It was all an extension of your life with Remy. Just echoes, over and over, spreading out in rippling waves.

Echoes, which could never replace the thrill that sparks your attention when a blazing playing card whizzes past your ear. There’s a muffled explosion as the card makes contact with the enemy swinging for your head, and you gracefully sidestep the half-dead man that staggers into a collapsed pile at your feet.

“Watch where you goin’, mon coeur,” Gambit calls. Another whistling hum of kinetic energy, another flash of blazing purple as he throws another card and cuts down another blank faced enemy. The base that Nova commands has a strangely illusive layout, and the war-starved bodies seem like an endless, writhing thing to overcome.

Time is a limited resource, after all. You can taste it just as surely as the blood in the back of your mouth.

“Maybe I’m too distracted watching something else,” you call back. You don’t take the time to see the expression on his face, but you hear his delighted laugh before he starts slinging explosives again. It’s easy to fall into battle. Even easier while you’re wearing your old suit, and the fabric is soft and well-worn just as you remember it. The clothes you wore in the Void were fine for travel, but you felt strangely out of place last night watching Remy adjusting his coat for the upcoming battle.

You are one of the X-Men, technically. It’s been more than a lifetime since you felt like one, but you know their colors and their mission. The suit always did feel more like a formality. There is nothing that could prevent you from fighting for people who cannot protect themselves. Everyone else only has one life, and you have an infinity of them. The gold and blue of your suit is meant to inspire hope for the people you are defending, not to boast about your position, and yet Remy had stuttered mid-sentence when he turned to see you suddenly dressed in your original suit, prepared for battle.

Been a’while since Gambit seen you wit’ those colors. Though, Gambit t’inks you look better out of ‘em, too...

“Pot callin’ the kettle black,” Gambit says. He’s closer, now, as if magnetized to the orbit of your battleground. You smash the skull of a man trying to catch a cheapshot to Gambit’s ribs, and Gambit slips an explosive card into the pocket of the man’s coat for good measure. Briefly, his hand catches the curve of your elbow, brushing his fingers over the pulse-point. Even through the sleeve of your suit, you can almost feel the heat of his skin, searing bone-deep.

“Just calling it as I see it, Cajun,” you say. It doesn’t sound as breathless as you feel. Gambit still has that infuriatingly pleased look on his face, though, so you give him a half-hearted shove with a raised brow. “Save the world, remember?”

“Mais la, all bluff no play,” he complains. “S’il vous plait, mon coeur —”

Time slips.

One moment, you take the chance to catch your breath, falling all-too-easy to the lure of sparring with Remy. The next moment, you’re on the ground. There’s blood beneath you, pooling under your head, dripping from your nose and down to the hard-packed soil.

“Remy,” you choke out. Your ears are ringing with echoes of voices, though you assume it’s across timelines based on the range of emotions. You can hear crying as soul-wrenching as fresh grief, and laughing as bright as bells. It’s like picking up a landline and hearing a conversation you’re only privy to as a passing voyeur.

You blink away some of the dirt and sweat stinging your eyes. You’re still on the ground. Something weighty and warm is settled over your back, tucked into the curve of your sides. The scent of smoke and cologne curls around you as familiar as the back of your hand.

Remy draped his coat over you. You spit a wad of bloodied saliva onto the ground, grimacing at the dark thickness. How long have you been out? You don’t remember charging up to leave the timeline.

Even worse, you don’t remember going anywhere. Time may change around you, but your mind keeps itself sharp with a constant awareness. Even when you would travel time in your sleep, you knew you were moving based on the pressure changing in the air. There had been no pressure change, this time. Only standing with Gambit, teasing him in the way that blazed adrenaline through your veins. Then, it is you laying on the ground, curled up underneath his coat, tasting blood.

You blink again. You think you’re shivering, or maybe you’re trembling, because you aren’t cold. That hazy, all-consuming fever pulses across your skin in waves, burning across your every nerve. It takes effort to turn your head just a fraction, searching the scattered battlefield. You’re still in Nova’s compound. You can see Blade and Elektra distracting any enemy seeking the weaker prey, luring them away from where you lay.

It had taken two more days before you and Gambit had met back up with the resistance. Initially, you had been wary of the strange collection of mutants, reflecting their own suspicion of you back like a mirror image. Yet they had seemed relieved that Gambit was back unharmed.

Now, far past the initial skepticism of your arrival, they treat you with the same consideration they give Gambit.

Though Gambit is… the same, and yet he’s more. The way he fights is far different than the way he did during the days when you both worked with the X-Men. He doesn’t linger near the boundaries of the fight anymore. You used to breathe easier knowing he had been prowling the edges of a fight with his cards at the ready, always protecting your back.

Now, when he fights in the Void, he storms the battlefield as a raging violet-blaze tempest. You find him easily through the crowded clusters of skirmishes, his staff humming with kinetic charge. He wields a handful of cards with careful scarcity, and you know it’s because you have his coat draped over you, holding all of his extra ammo.

He is going to get himself killed.

That thought propels you into motion. Your arms tremble as you push yourself to sit up, the back of your mouth filling with blood and nauseating saliva. It hurts to breathe. It feels like there is a shard of glass lodged in your ribs, cutting up your insides. The only blood you can sense is the slow drip from your lips, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t damage you can’t see yet. Something in your being is dismantling in slow, even strokes, cast adrift from the timelines and stranded in the Void.

One of Nova’s henchmen gets too close to Remy and sideswipes him. The soft-muted grunt of pain from Remy sends a chilling lance of fear through your gut, though before you can move, Remy is already turning and taking down the enemy with a swift twirl of his staff.

They are going to kill him if you don’t get him out. You know it, and it hurts so much to move, but you push yourself to your feet with a strangled whine of frustration. Of all the times for your body to fail you, it has to be now, when Remy is exposed to an entire base of people trying to kill him.

His coat is a familiar weight over your shoulders, but that doesn’t quell the violent shiver that runs through you. Neither does it stop the sudden rush of dizzying pain, or the way you have to hunch over and spit out blood onto the dirt. No time. You don’t have any time.

“Remy,” you call out. You fumble to wipe away the blood dripping down your chin just as he turns at the sound of your voice, his face bright with relief. He doesn’t notice the blood. He moves quickly through the battlefield nonetheless, wrapping an arm over the shuddering arch of your shoulders.

“ Mon coeur,” he says, and he must see something in your face that makes him hesitate. “Enjoy your nap, chér ?”

You suck in a sharp breath. It’s always ‘chér ’ when he doesn’t know which version you are.

“Still with you, LeBeau,” you tell him. Your hand reaches up to cradle the curve of his jaw. He’s buzzing with energy beneath your touch, but it’s the simmering fire in his eyes as he gazes back at you that makes you feel set alight.

“Wanna play?” He says softly. One arm is still slung protectively over your back, but he uses his free hand to fasten his coat tighter over your shoulders, his hand lingering at the vulnerable curve of your throat. “I deal you in, mon coeur.”

You’re reluctant to let him go, so you pull him in and press a chaste kiss to his mouth. You don’t let him go deeper than that so he doesn’t taste the blood, even if there’s a savage wanting in your gut to sink deep into his embrace and never resurface. It’s not fair, you think, that you finally found him only to lose him all over again.

“Deal me in, Cajun,” you whisper to him. His fingers drop from the hollow of your collarbone to the seam of his coat sleeve, drawing a card. He flickers it between his fingers to show you his dealt hand — the ace of hearts — before it disappears into the nothingness of time. You let Remy press another kiss to your mouth, and you have to close your eyes to fight back the burn of tears. Even with your eyes closed, you can hear the hoarseness in his voice when he pulls back.

"You an' me, chér, couple'a aces, non?"

You have to turn your head to hide a sad smile. "A matched pair."

Like that, the two of you separate. He goes into the fray of battle, the air whirring violently with charged energy, and you step back into the shadow, pulling your ace of hearts from the timeline. You have caught nothing but glimpses of Nova since you arrived, but you can feel her presence at the edges of your mind, probing for weakness.

So you look weak. It’s easy to slouch against the wall, your breathing coming in labored pants, the sleeve of your X-Men suit streaked red with the blood you keep wiping from your chin. Hurt prey is weaker, after all. You know what she must see when she sees you so far from Remy’s orbit: an injured fawn ripened for the kill.

“Don’ ya leave now, the fun just startin’,” Remy laughs. He sweeps his staff in a wide arc, warding off the enemies crowding closer to his position, but he only has eyes for you. He’s watching you, and you know the moment she arrives by the way his eyes harden with venomous hatred.

“Indeed,” Nova says. Her presence is a sudden, harsh strike to your mind. You have to grit your teeth to muffle your shocked gasp. Her hand is lax around your throat, but you are all too aware of the hand gently caressing the back of your skull. You can hear the smile in her voice when she whispers in your ear, “I’ve never seen something like you.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” you say. The air whirs in quiet contention around you, but you’re more focused on the card still clutched in your hand. Come on, come on...

“You’re a little wanderer, aren’t you,” she muses. She runs her fingers through the locks of your hair with gentle fingertips, and it takes all of your self control not to spasm and jolt out of her touch. You clench your empty hands tightly, instead, and try not to stare at Remy when he suddenly tucks his hand into a tight fist, purple light buzzing ravenously through the tight clench of his fingers.

“What are you doing running with the swamp rats, hm?” Nova strokes your head again. “You don’t seem like one of their merry band of misfits.”

Remy makes an indignant sound at that, and just as Nova looks to him, the light in his hand dies to nothingness.

“His name is Gambit,” you say. The playing card in your hand whirs with pitched fervor. Almost there. “Make sure you remember that.”

Time condenses to your will, and you’re looking right at Remy when the ace of hearts detonates, rippling a shockwave through you and Nova. Kinetic energy consumes you in a wildfire, burning through the flesh of your body with fervent hunger. You see the ache of distraught cross his face, and then there is only the movement of timelines shifting in place, carrying you through lifetimes, blurring the world around you into a wash of muddled watercolors.

When you blink, the world rights itself.

When you breathe in, settling back into a body escaped unharmed, you see Remy fall.

“No!” You shout. Or perhaps it is a whisper. Or perhaps it is spread across every timeline, every particle of your being spread thin and calling out in pained fury. You aren’t sure of anything except the way Remy twists, losing grip of his staff, and collapsing to the ground.

A wordless scream of rage tears through you. You can hear its echo filling the air as you yank time into a heel, drawing yourself across the expanse of the field in moments. You aren’t sure where the others are, or if Nova truly perished in the kinetic explosion as you intended. All you can see is Remy, lying in motionless rigor, and the man that took the shot that put him down.

Time scrambles in your mind, but you reach your destination faster than the man can draw his weapon at you. Your hands take his head in a vice grip, the tips of your gloved fingers digging harshly into his dirt-streaked skin.

“How dare you,” you snarl. If you had the chance, you would tear him through time until he disintegrated. You break his neck instead, the sickening crack of his bone fading from your attention the moment you feel his body slip from your grasp. You don’t manipulate time to fall to your knees by Remy’s side, but the space between movements is a blur you don’t care to investigate.

“Remy,” you half-sob. You reach out and grasp his shoulder, turning him over onto his back, and nearly sob again in relief when you see him squinting back at you with dazed annoyance.

“Lucky strike,” he mutters. Your hand flutters down to brush against his side, your heart seizing at the grimace on his face. The warmth of blood against your fingers spreads a numbness through your gut. You only press your hand firmly to the wound, gritting your teeth against the roaring fury building in your throat.

“What happened to ‘the house always wins’?” You snap at him instead. The blood is sticky and warm, and it won’t be staunched by the pressure of your hand alone. He’s going to bleed out.

“Raising the bet,” Remy grunts. There’s a sheen of sweat across his brow, but it’s the ashen pallor of his skin that makes your chest tighten with panic. God, you’re going to lose him.

“I hate you,” you whisper. You hate the Void. You hate Nova, and her violent-driven henchmen. You hate yourself, most of all, for doing this to him. For not being able to do more.

“Tha’ sounds more like love than hate, mon coeur.”

“Just playing the odds,” you bite out. He blinks at you, sluggish, and you realize exactly what you have to do. It’s the only thing you can do for him. You draw your hand back from his side and try not to gag on the smell of it permeating the air. There’s a steady puddle beneath him, soaking the knees of your suit, but you hardly feel it. You can’t feel anything at all, in fact.

Just that whirring buzz of time, and the slowly approaching footsteps of Cassandra Nova coming up behind you.

“Go ahead, Remy,” you breathe. The timeline whirs to life beneath your palms, a composed symphony to the crackling buzz of kinetic energy. You cup his face, thumbs smoothing away the dust beneath his blackened eyes, and you will him to live.

He reaches up to try and catch your wrists. There’s that furrow in his brow, again, like he’s preparing to curse you out for this. He’s a pulsing livewire of humming energy in your hands, simmering with an explosive potential. If he stays here, he will be nothing more than a husk. Dying like a goddamn hero, slaughtered like a martyr upon the altar, just to give you the chance to take down Nova.

So you imagine him at your apartment, in your bed, instead. Tucked under the blankets, his hair mussed from sleep. Figaro curled up on his chest, purring his strange rattling hum, the other two boys stretched out beside him. The world is quiet, and safe. Nothing is there to hurt him.

The timeline sings in your hands. You want to kiss him, but you don’t. Kissing him will feel like goodbye, and you don’t think you could bear the thought of it, not right now. Not before you finish taking down Nova.

Your gaze locks with his. You can see the moment he realizes that you aren’t going with him. The annoyance at being forced to take the retreat cracks out of his expression with sharp, desperate panic. His hands nearly catch you at the wrist, his fingertips brushing against the sleeve of your coat, but then he’s gone. You stare down at the dirt where he once was, fighting to keep your breathing steady. He’s safe.

At least, you tell yourself, one of you made it home.

Yet it still feels like a gaping wound in your side. You betrayed him to save him.

“Touching,” Nova remarks. You can’t bring yourself to move. You’re still kneeling in the remains of Remy’s blood when she strikes you.

The world flickers in and out of focus, spinning in rampant circles. Distantly, you’re aware of your legs kicking weakly in the air, your hands scrabbling desperately at your throat to ease the choking grip she has you in. Except she isn’t touching you, not with her hands.

No, she’s standing just out of arm's reach, smiling like a sphynx.

“I have seen so many variants,” she says idly. You’re choking on nothing, fighting the headache rending through your temples. “There’s been some Jean Grays, a few Rogues. More than a few Gambits. Many, many Deadpools.”

“And yet,” she continues. “I have never found more than one of you.”

The release of the grip she has on your throat makes you gasp out a cry, sucking in air with deep, hoarse wheezing. You hardly feel the impact of your body collapsing to the ground, too relieved in the taste of air. You rub at your throat with shaking fingers, trying to erase the feeling of her grip crushing your windpipe.

“That isn’t the strangest part, however.”

You know where this is going. You close your eyes.

“I could feel you,” she shifts closer to you, but you don’t have the energy to flinch and create distance between the two of you. “In your mind, you are nothing but fragments.”

“Wayfarer,” you whisper. It comes out in a croak, but you are far beyond caring. “I am everywhere and everything.”

“Broken,” she agrees. You open your eyes at that. She looks vindicated, as if admitting your ability has only made you weaker. You suppose, hunched over and wheezing, you don’t look as threatening as you used to during your X-Men days. You must look like nothing but bleeding prey.

Good, you think. You smile at her with bloodied teeth. “Broken things are meant to hurt, you know.”

Like shuffling a deck of cards, you let time flutter through your hands, staggering into a timeline version of yourself where you can breathe without choking. Your body follows the commands of your mind with elegant obedience.

Your hands meet their mark, and latch onto Nova tight enough to turn your knuckles pale. The pair of playing cards pressed against each of your palms sizzle with hunger where they make contact with her body.

Pain lances through your skull, exploding into brilliant light behind your eyes. You think your hands are still clutching onto Nova, but you cannot feel them. The world is bright violet, time shuffling with a charged whir. The kinetic energy ripples down your hands in great, staggering waves, a faint prickle of pain among the agony of time rendering itself apart around you.

Nova is screaming. Distantly, you feel her hands pulling at you, yanking at the lapels of Remy’s coat, hitting your face. She must be trying to delve into your mind. She cannot catch you, though. You are plummeting through every timeline, shuffling from one version of yourself to the next, then the next, then the next. Over and over. Over, and over, and over.

Shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull —

You think you let go of her.

— shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull, shuffle, draw, pull —

No, it’s not your hands that have let go. Your arms are shuddering through time, but your hands keep locked onto her, holding her steady, burning violet. You haven’t let her go, but your body is being torn into pieces.

Nova isn’t screaming anymore.

You are.

You can’t hear it over the roaring of time rushing through you, but you can feel your throat blazing, screaming through every timeline, every version of yourself. This must be what dying feels like. It is infinite across all time. There is no other way out.

Her body dissolves with slow tendrils of violet light creeping beneath the exposed flesh, tracing whirls with the lines of her veins and arteries. It consumes her from the inside, spreading out with a meticulous, parasitic intensity.

Remy’s power consumes you, too. You see the light creep up your wrists, then your arms, then your shoulders. You can feel its warmth down to your bones. It almost feels, strangely, like it’s him hugging you. It feels like it did last night, tangled in his arms beneath the sheets, your ear pressed to his chest to listen to the rhythm of his heart.

You wonder, distantly, if his power is trying to keep your body together. The charge of kinetic energy is concentrated in your hands, but you can still feel the heat of it pooling in the pit of your stomach and scorching the back of your mouth. Remy had been dismissive when you asked him what it felt like to charge something, though you figure he had been exasperated by your own explanation of your ability. You doubt he would have known what it felt like to be torn asunder with only the kinetic lightning crackling through him.

You think about Remy, for a moment. You think about the apartment that you both signed the lease on, furnished with a thief’s eye of luxury, cluttered with the little bits of memorabilia and creature comforts you curated over the years. You think about the cats that Remy dotes on, your own cats by marriage, all curled up in their favorite spots around the two of you. You think about the couch that you had teased Remy about for the price, only for him to turn around and gloat about the amount of naps you took on it. You think about the movie nights with you two intertwined on that couch, the cats pressed into your sides, the room dim-lit and safe.

You think about how you would like to do that, again. To be able to sit on the couch with your husband and watch a movie. To be with Remy, and not be caught in this web of unraveling agony.

Like a loose thread, you unravel.

Shuffle.

It starts in your hands, with your fingertips, and it spreads from there.

Draw.

Your eyesight goes last.

Pull.

You see Remy in every lifetime, looking at you, his outline glimmering with that kinetic violet light. His mouth is moving. It almost looks like your name.

Shuffle…

Nothing comes to your mind. Everything comes into pitch black.

Shuffle…

Your hands are empty.

Shuffle…

Time is empty, now absent when it once was vast. You had been infinite, once. Like time, you had been endless.

Shuffle…

You had been lost before you knew what it felt like to be seen. You could never be sure what timeline was originally yours before you switched them. Even the smallest of details could escape your attention if you weren’t looking for it. At a certain point, you realized you had to choose a life to claim as yours and stop wandering. Even a Wayfarer needed an anchor to call home for when it was time to rest.

Draw.

You had wandered for a long time. Years, perhaps, though your physical bodies changed shape and form in ways you couldn’t predict. The face in the mirror had never been home, anyway. There were too many genetic variables to each timeline to preserve the way you looked. Your body was merely a temporary housing for your time-stepping mind. A body was not an anchor. It was simply a tool to be used and discarded.

Pull.

An anchor needs to be constant. It needs to be something that will not retreat when time grows teeth and begins to hurt. It needs to be loyal to the cause. It needs to be kind, deep down, even if the surface is skin-deep careless. It needs to make you feel safe.

It’s… warm. Soft.

You bury your face deeper into the pillow with a long, blissful sigh. You will never regret insisting that you splurge and spend the extra money on a memory foam mattress. It feels like floating in the clouds.

A soft, questioning mmrph rumbles next to your ear. It’s your only warning before a small, wet nose presses to your temple. You know it’s Oliver by the way he starts to knead at the pillow next to your head, purring a roaring chorus. There’s another weight on your legs, pinning them down, and a third is nestled into your side. Remy must be up, already, if they’re all stuck to you for warmth.

“Did your father abandon us again, boys?” You mumble sleepily. Oliver purrs louder at the sound of your voice. You can feel the weight on your legs shift, no doubt being that it’s Lucifer standing up to stretch before he starts to walk up the length of your body. He’s purring, too, though he resettles on the spot between your shoulder blades, the hum of his purr radiating across your back. Figaro doesn’t grace you with an acknowledgement, but neither does he unfurl himself from his spot next to your side.

Warm, soft, and safely nestled amongst your cats. It’s nearly heaven. You end up half-dozing back off, lulled to sleep by the purring next to your ear. You feel like you haven’t slept in a lifetime.

You don’t hear the door open, though you know something is wrong by the way Figaro leaps to attention and Oliver’s purr stutters to a stop.

When you open your eyes, it’s half-lit by the morning sun. It must be closer to noon than the time that you usually wake to train. Any trace of lingering sleep drifts away when the bedroom door creeps open with its usual squall of hinges.

You smile and twist to look over your shoulder, dislodging Lucifer despite his soft sound of discontent, and yawn, “Morning. I think.”

Remy is posed in the doorway. Your next words die in your throat as you see the look on his face, the staff still gripped tightly in his hand. He’s dressed in his usual armor, not his civilian clothing like you expected. His hair is longer, tied back carelessly from his face, flyaway strands curling around his temples. His eyes are near-black, both through his irises and the dark shadows collecting beneath them.

He looks like he has spent years surviving an apocalypse.

“Jesus, Remy,” you breathe. You’re sitting up in an instant, one hand out reaching towards him. His armor is dust-streaked and worn from battle. “Are you hurt?”

“Where’d you go, chér?” He rasps. His face is still utterly, terrifyingly still. You have never seen him at the brink of collapse like this, before. He looks like he wants to step further in the room, his hand twitching with a nervous tic of adrenaline, but he stays stock-still. Waiting for you.

“Nowhere,” you say softly. “I’ve been in bed with the boys, love.”

You have to resist the urge to spring out of bed and run your hands along his body to look for any sign of injury. You aren’t entirely sure what’s gotten into him, but if he’s hallucinating or delirious, you should probably reach out to the other X-Men. Maybe the professor would know why Remy’s in full gear and looking battle-worn at this hour. Why would he go without waking you first?

Remy wavers. He looks heartsick. “Don’ lie t’me, chér.”

“Never,” you agree. You offer the spot next to you in bed with a half-pleading, half-alluring gesture. “Come here. You look like hell, Remy.”

“You…” he starts, then stops. Abruptly, he drops his staff with a rattling thud. Within three strides, he’s in your arms, melting into your embrace. You clutch at him just as fiercely, burying your nose into the crown of his hair. He smells like smoke and dust, but there’s no indication of blood and pain. He simply sags in your grip, his breathing quick and unsteady against your collarbone. His fingers curl weakly into the back of your nightshirt, as if that’s all the strength he can muster.

He’s mumbling, even with his face pressed tightly to the curve of your throat, but you can’t make out much more than your name, over and over.

“Shh, Remy, I’m right here with you,” you whisper against his crown. With a free hand, you reach up to pull out the elastic band holding up his hair, letting it fall in uneven waves. When was the last time he took care of himself? Your Remy loved to indulge in fine-smelling soaps and lavish hair routines, surrounding himself in a luxury he earned himself. His appearance was just as much armor as his coat was. You had never been fooled by his demeanor: his weapon of charm was just as sharply honed as his weapon of playing cards.

Yet it’s the length of his hair that sours the back of your throat with nausea. You run your fingers through it, slowly massaging his scalp in the way that makes him pliant and sleepy. It’s not that you haven’t seen Remy with long hair before; it’s simply the fact that you haven’t seen him with long hair in years. Just last night, his hair had been just long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. You had run your fingers through it and mentioned a haircut, and he had been a deadweight in your lap, humming sleepily in acknowledgement.

You swallow thickly. Either this is not the same Remy you went to sleep next to the night before… or you are missing time.

“You should take a bath, love,” you murmur, gently scratching his scalp. You can feel smudged wetness on the collar of your nightshirt from tears, though he hasn’t made a sound other than a few deep, unsteady breaths. Back when you first got together during missions, the shower was the first place you two could unwind and start to sort through your fading adrenaline rush.

He pulls back from your embrace, just a little, and every word of encouragement dies in your throat at the look on his face. Rage. Betrayal.

Heartbreak.

“You been gon’ awhile, chér,” he says. It’s not an accusation, but there’s a simmering anger beneath that matter-of-fact tone. It’s always ‘chér’ when he doesn’t know which version you are. His eyes burn through you, intent on stripping you raw. You wonder what answers he could possibly expect from you. If it’s answers he wants at all, or rather an apology.

You have to offer him something.

“I —”

“Gambit go lookin’ for you,” he laughs, mirthless. “Got him spending two years lookin’ and you jus’ show up in bed. Like nothin’ happen.”

Two years. There’s a small itch in the back of your mind, like the whisper of a memory raking its claws down your back. There had been an unraveling. Utter destruction. Then it had been you here, you waking up in bed as if nothing had happened.

You blink back at him, struck speechless. You don’t have to offer a word, though, because there’s true anger in his eyes, now.

“I go to de Void,” he says. “I t’ink that’s what it was. Nothin’ left there. Dere’s no life around, hein? Mais, non, not even my wife, only the dead. Ev’rybody dead.”

His eyes close as if he can ward away the images tormenting his memories. You’re grateful that he can’t see the way your face crumples at that. He went back for you. He had survived the wound, and he found a way back to come for you.

And he had found nothing but death.

“You’re such an idiot,” you choke out. His eyes snap open at that, but you merely cup his face in your hands and draw him in to bump your forehead against his, sucking in a shuddering breath. He is warm and alive under your touch. You didn’t think you could touch him like this again when Nova had been standing above you, prepared to tear you in shreds. “I sent you ahead, but I was coming with you.”

“We stay together,” he tells you. There’s a strain in his voice just as painful as yours, but the way he reaches up to swipe away a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb is careful. As if he’s marveling that he has the chance to touch you at all. “Mais la, don’ tell Gambit he wrote up those vows for nothin’, Mrs. LeBeau.”

“Matched pair,” you whisper back.

“Couple’a aces,” he agrees, and he kisses you just as gently as he wiped away your tears, as if you have all the time in the world.

#remy lebeau #gambit #dp3 #gambit x reader #remy lebeau x reader #gambit x y/n #remy lebeau x y/n #d&w #gambit fic #gambit imagine

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synajewel · 2 years ago

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struwberrii · 5 months ago

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haikyuu!! halloween headcanons ₊˚🕯️♱‧₊˚.

i know it’s july, i just love halloween time and it’s basically around the corner now that i think about it :3 but anywho here are some of my silly headcanons of what costumes/activities the haikyuu characters would do on halloween ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

characters: tsuki, kuroo, bokuto, sugawara, semi, osamu

🕸 ⋆｡°✩ ⋆｡°✩🕸

tsukishima

probably thinks halloween is lame and doesn’t want to participate but i feel like you could convince him

at MOST he might put on some face paint or animal ears

would rather stay in and watch scary movies

probably randomly starts ranting about how halloween is a capitalist holiday or something

buys a huge bag of candy but only eats all the strawberry starburst and leaves the rest for you

when you’re at a suspenseful part of the movie he screams just to scare you

makes fun of all the people in bad costumes passing by his house with you

kuroo

has the ugliest costume ideas ever

bro is pulling up to the function as papa smurf

i know he’d be such a huge halloween fan

he lets you paint him blue 😭

probably invites you to a festival or party

takes 1000 pics of your night together

offers to carry your candy and literally just starts eating yours instead of his

tells scary stories all night and ends up scaring both of you guys

constantly talking about how good you look, bro is a sweetie pie

eats so much candy and goes home with a stomach ache

bokuto

i feel like he’d like halloween because he’d like dressing up but at the same time he would literally just wear any costume

i feel like his costume would also be really low budget and last minute but still cute

imagine bokuto as finn from adventure time ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)

challenges you to see who can get more candy but somehow loses (eats) most of his candy by the end of the night

participated in every festival activity, like he is NOT playing about that sac race

i also feel like he might participate to be the person that sits in that dunk tank while people try to throw a ball at the target and make them fall yk?

someone gave him raisins and he was genuinely distraught

makes akaashi go to booths he already visited so he can get more candy (they stopped giving it out to him)

sugawara

he does NOT play about his halloween costumes

imagine suga as mr fox from fantastic mr fox :3

would probably make a million silly tiktok’s

also participates in every festival activity

he’s the one who hits the target and dunks bokuto into the water tank

offers you a bunch of his candy and then says you guys shouldn’t eat it because it’s bad for you

also eats like 3 caramel apples in that same breath

wants to end the night watching a horror movie and also jump scares you during suspenseful moments

semi

would probably throw a party and invite you ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

probably just does cool skeleton face paint or something

plays the best music and has the best food

dedicates like half of his whole night to scaring you and gets tendou to help

leaves someone else in charge of the party while you two sneak off to his room with a bunch of snacks and drinks

maybe he even plays a song on guitar for you :o

he puts on a genuinely scary movie that has both of you in tears 😭

osamu

forgot to get a costume so he went as atsumu 😭

invites you to a halloween festival with him, not because he likes them but just to hang out with you and some of his friends

he and atsumu keep challenging each other at games and they both keep winning stuff

wins so many prizes at the booths and gives all of them to you

i feel like he’d only eat the twix bars he gets and no other candy

he’d probably want to leave the festival early bc he got bored

gets you guys junk food on the way home bc he’s tired

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akiragatr · 6 months ago

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Bonus challenge: Draw the creature that hatches from the egg you chose.

#my posts #my polls #polls

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4ranghaes · 2 months ago

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hii!! idk if ur taking reqs but if not feel free to ignore this 🫡

can u do another song fic for sungho? i love how u write for him 😵‍💫😵‍💫 ty and take care!!

song fic!💋

now playing… starburster by fontaines d.c.

park sungho x reader [smut, fem!reader, mdni!!]

warnings: fingering, overstimulation

a/n - this song is actually about having a panic attack but i didnt want a repeat of taesan’s one so i’m applying it to orgasming😁 enjoy!

18:16 - “s-sungho, o-oh my god!” you groaned, voice deep, eyes rolling back in your head as you gripped the sheets beside you.

a cocky smile was plastered on sungho’s face as he sat behind you. his head was resting on your shoulder, his finger knuckle-deep in your pussy as they worked in and out, feeling the spongy spot as well as massaging your clit.

just 20 minutes ago, you’d told sungho you had been able to make yourself squirt a couple times before, when you were both really horny and multiple orgasms down. now, he’d made it his personal mission to see the skill for real.

you were out of breath, your body slumped against your boyfriends. you could hear his wild breathing in your ear, he himself grunting at the effort he was putting in. you began whining again, approaching your second orgasm.

“s-su-sungho! i’m gonna– god! i-it’s coming!”

“do it, baby,” he commanded, “is this it? do you feel it?”

you shook your head tightly, not feeling the usually build up, then needing to piss sensation. “n-not yet… b-but i can’t—”

you cut yourself off with a loud whine, your body slinging forward before sungho reached out to you with a harsh grip, dragging you back to his body as you rode out your orgasm on his fingers.

he tutted in disappointment, as you were left panting against his chest, your heart rate slowing as you came down from bliss.

“again.”

“sungho, please,” you begged, as he started kissing along the side of your neck, down on your shoulders. his fingers started circling your clit again, your hips bucking up into his hand, your hole clenching around nothing.

“please what, baby?” he muttered, “you know your safe word?”

you nodded quickly, not feeling unsafe, just overstimulated beyond belief, as though your heart could burst at any time from the differences in pace it was being put through.

“good girl,” he murmured, his fingers once again entering your hole, two fingers going in immediately now he knew how loose you were.

his hair was flopping onto your chest, rising and falling rapidly as you - quicker than ever - felt your orgasm already approaching.

“sung-sungho!” you gasped, your voice high as you grabbed ahold of his wrist with one of your hands, the other gripping onto his hair, “t-th– ah! this is it!”

“this is it?” he repeated, a perverted smile spreading across his face as he sped up his thumb on your clit, his fingers inside you pressing hard against your walls.

your nails dug into his wrist, feeling the build up just beyond your walls as your heart sped up to a momentarily-concerning pace, your body hurtling towards orgasm.

“my good girl,” sungho smirked, nibbling on your shoulder, his figure a picture of calm as yours thrashed around, trying to run towards pleasure but yank away from the overstimulation that went with your third orgasm in a row.

you finally came with a high-pitched moan, whimpers leaving your mouth as you felt a gush of liquid cover sungho’s hand and the bed below you. sungho moaned, his cock grinding into you from below. he lifted up your lifeless body, throwing you on the bed so he was staring at your soaked, swollen pussy.

his mouth dropped open at the state of the bedsheets below you. he left soft kisses on your lips, hovering over your body.

“you with me, baby?” he whispered between kisses.

you blinked heavily, nodding slowly.

“good girl,” he hummed, lifting you into his arms to hold you to his chest.

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cerebralisis · 4 months ago

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I appreciate the work put in by the Taylor Swift Styled page for finding all her outfit pieces so quickly, because what an interesting combo. It makes the whole football performance slightly more interesting.

Her two middle-finger rings were the most interesting to me: the “Ruby Cocoon Ring” and the “Ruby Impetus Interlocking Puzzle Ring”

These rings with the maroon boots are very much giving the rubies that I gave up, except now the rubies are in their cocoon waiting to be a free little butterfly while she finishes completing this PR puzzle mastermind strategy.

This, paired with the “Long Love Explosion Starburst” earrings, the GRLFRND denim shorts, the custom TNT bracelet, and the Medusa head full of snakes turning men to stone with her gaze denim top? And the step by step reenactment of her So High School choreography throughout the game? Sad girl autumn for real, but she’s doing it. I’m here for it.

#taylor swift #lgbetty #friends of dorothea #friend of dorothea #gaylor

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chimivx · 2 months ago

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home;run -> fem!reader x mlb!mingyu, mlb!vernon, mlb!dk

College didn't work out, so you're stuck with the next best thing. Living with your superstar brother, traveling with his championship winning team, haunted by your past and heavily influenced by your present.

wc; {part four} 5.9k warnings; 18+, sexual content, alcohol consumption/abuse, bad influences around her, manipulation, her name gets taken advantage of in public media, if i missed anything please let me know!! notes; peese n lurv. <3

Cheers had an awful remix of a fairly popular song blasting from the speakers invisible in the room. Four walls, dark grey walls, confined you, Mingyu, his two teammates and their wives along with fifty other people within them.

Arriving here shortly after you found your seat at the dinner table again with tears brimming your eyes, you accepted Mingyu’s hand over your knee and begged him to get you out of the hotbox and into a car, into the bar, and he did. Waltzing inside with his hand around the back of your neck and his friends behind you, the bartenders cheered at your appearance and the first round was on the house.

Shot after shot, glass after glass, you danced with the five of them first, keeping up with the terrible beat the bar thought was good enough to play. The crowd on the dance floor and all within Cheers differed from the one in the restaurant, most bar crowds did. People were calmer, chiller, they greeted you and your group like you were old friends, not internet glorified household names. Drinks were bought for you, handed to you from strangers with gleaming smiles, handed to Mingyu and Hoshi and Minghao though they wouldn’t sip them but slide them into their girls hands, your hands.

Mingyu kept a hand around your waist, pressing you to his front while your bodies moved to the music, getting lost in the occasional kiss that tasted sticky sweet after the rounds of pink starburst shots. Whispering in your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin, he talked you up, wound you up, persuaded your hips to move in a way that drew more attention than you were looking for. Not a thing bothered you, the room was wavey, people took pictures of you, with you, Daya ogled your boyfriend over her husbands shoulder, but then when they spun he shot you a wink while Mingyu’s face was buried in your neck.

That was weird.

Slinging an arm around Mingyu’s back you dug your fingers into his curls and lifted his head, a wicked grin on his glistening lips. Poking your tongue out between yours, you close the air between you and inhale all of him, every push of his lips, every lap of his tongue, every groan from his chest. Mingyu was your boyfriend, you were his girlfriend. Daya and Hoshi were married, they had a baby. You were used to people looking at you, people looking at Mingyu, but they were always strangers. Too many times today had Daya shamelessly mentioned your boyfriend or looked at him like he was her prey.

“Take me home,” you said to Mingyu after the slowest pull away from him, your lips parting with resistance. “Can we leave?”

He smirked, his forehead pressed to yours while your bodies rocked. “Little bit longer, baby. You want me already?” You nodded and he pushed out a laugh. “How bad?”

Enough to get him out of this place and away from Daya, to get you away from Hoshi. Did they even know the other was flirting with the two of you behind their backs?

“Bad,” you whispered against his lips and he laughed again. “Please, can we leave?”

His name was said behind you, either Hoshi or Minghao, you couldn’t make out who it was. Mingyu lifted his head, watched as one of his friends spoke without words, then smiled and nodded. Placing his hands to your hips he moved you off of him and gestured toward the bar.

“The girls are buyin’ shots, go with them,” he said. Stumbling backward, you lowered your brows. Mingyu pointed behind you, his smile giving you enough comfort to trust him. “I’ll be right back, go with the girls. I promise, then we’ll leave.”

“Okay,” you whispered, walking backward, watching him take Minghao by the neck of his shirt, all three of them laughing with one another as they weaved through the crowd to the darker side of the bar. Turning once they disappeared behind several heads and bodies, you pushed past people trying to say things to you and followed the glow of the lights from the bar, Halle and Daya leaning over the glass chatting away with the bartender with dark wavy hair touching his shoulders.

“Party girl!” Daya shouted over her shoulder as she glanced your way, her face lighting up but her eyes remaining the same. Dark, sharp, on watch. “C’mere, you want more of that pink shit?” Wedging yourself between the girls, both of them smelling like money, you nodded and sunk into Daya’s hold as she swung her arm around your shoulder. Acrylic coffin shaped fingernails dug into your bare shoulder. “Yeah, you like the pink shit, don’t you?” Looking up at her she had her nose inches from yours.

“Be right back,” the bartender said after Halle confirmed the order with him.

Daya and her almond shaped eyes, a color so deep yet swirling with a lighter shade that added that extra spark, gazed down at you, the woman a few inches taller than you especially in her heels. Her long, slender nose was positioned perfectly in the center of her bronzed face, striking features that complimented and contrasted perfectly with the softness of her wideset, fuller lips.

Oh shit, she was pretty.

“I do like the… the pink shit,” you muttered and she smiled, her teeth a bright white, insanely straight. “Do you like the pink shit?”

She narrowed her eyes and came closer to you. “Depends who’s asking.”

Nerves flooded your veins. “Okay,” you breathed, laughing it off, wiggling around in her hold to glance at Halle who rocked to the beat of the music. “Where’d they go?” Her and her warm eyes looked over to you, her gaze less intense than Daya’s. Halle was pretty too, it was clear why she and Minghao had been together for years. She wore the same unbothered energy her husband did. “The guys?” you asked after she questioned you with a look.

“Oh, someone they know is here,” she said quickly, waving her hand in the direction they walked off in as if to tell you to ignore it. “They were suffocating anyway, we have to be stuck here all month with them, we girls need to stick together.” The bartender came back and slid several shots full of sparkling pink in front of the three of you. “This rounds on me, ladies.”

With Daya’s arm still around you, you looked back at her. “Where’s your kids?” you asked, shifting your gaze between them both as they took one of the shots.

Daya licked her lips and smacked the glass down on the bar. “Who knows.”

“We have nannies,” Halle scoffed, shooting a glare at her friend. “They’re asleep at the hotel, in good hands.”

A smirk pricked your lips. “You have a baby and you don’t care about her?” The way Daya looked at you made you want to laugh aloud, but you kept it within you. Halle’s eyes shot open so wide she had to turn away for a few seconds.

“Yes I do,” Daya said, a little harshly. “Take your shots, princess, I know you can drink more than this.” Giving her a smile that made her hand tighten on your shoulder, you took each shot like it was nothing, three of them right in a row, faster than Halle or Daya. “There we go,” she snickered, waving the bartender down to your end. “More of whatever the fuck this was.”

Blurrier, louder, more exciting. With each round the atmosphere in the bar fueled the energy within you, it pulled you back onto the dance floor with the girls, the three of you holding hands dancing and singing along to the music you once hated but now adored. You invited other girls into your circle, dancing with them while they opened their phone cameras and snapped selfies and videos, talking to you like they knew you, because they did. Boys tried to talk to you too, and you entertained it, but never let get any further than dancing beside you. Your boy was here somewhere, with someone, doing who knows what.

The second your brain remembered him you wanted nothing else. His hands, his lips, his body, his everything.

Whirling around in a circle, searching each corner, each group of people bobbing up and down in the lights, you found him by the hall to the bathrooms lounging in one of the booths with Hoshi and Minghao sitting on the seats in the other. Mingyu had a leg stretched over the cushion and his back pressed to the wall with his head knocked back. The three spoke close together, their heads nodding a bit, their eyes telling stories you weren’t sure you wanted to know about.

The three buttons undone on his shirt called to you. His hair pushed back from his forehead pulled you in. Wandering away from your group on the dance floor you followed the siren call that was simply his energy, his aura, his appearance. He clocked you halfway, a devilish smirk lighting up his lips as he watched you sway.

“Hey baby,” he said once your knees hit the booth cushion. Crawling over his leg and onto his lap, you straddled his waist and moved with him as he placed both feet to the floor and his back to the booth. Sliding your arms around his neck you pressed your chest to his and locked your lips together, not wasting any time and working them over his cheek, across his jaw, and down his neck. “See, she likes me now,” he said to Hoshi and Minghao, the three of them sharing a knowing laugh, one that didn’t bother you in the moment. Hands moving to your waist, Mingyu held you still over his lap, stopping you from grinding on top of him like you were beginning to. “Yeah, we’re out of here soon,” he said to his friends that left for their own wives amidst a conversation you couldn’t keep up with, too drunk on warm, smooth, golden skin to care.

“Mingyu,” you whispered, finding his lips.

“Isla,” he whispered back, big hands smoothing over your exposed thighs, mini skirt riding higher than it should be right now. “Having fun?” He caught your lips in a quick kiss.

“Yes,” you breathed within the shared air.

He half smirked, sliding his hands over the curve of your ass. “You like it here? Seems like you do.”

“I do,” you nodded, “No one’s bothering me now.”

Mingyu curled his brow. “Us? Or, other people?”

“Other people,” you said without a second thought and kissed him. He let it go on for a minute or so, pulling away when your tongue drug along his teeth.

“You don’t like other people talking to you?” he asked, tightening his grip on your hips that longed to move. The music, the intoxication, his body, you wanted something, you wanted him.

“Not while I’m trying to do this.” Wiggling your hips, or trying to, he laughed, then he released his hold and let you have your way with him. Grinding down on his length half hard in his pants, you sighed and caught him in a sloppy kiss. He took his hands to the back of your neck, pressing his thumbs into the sides creating some sort of pressure to make you groan. You weren’t sure how long you spent lost in him, enough to build up pressure within you.

“Let me ask you a question, baby,” he said and you whined.

“No, just kiss me.”

“No, no,” he snickered, yanking you backward, wrapping a hand around the bun in your hair. “Hang on.” Trying to lean forward, tongue lolling out from your lips, he smiled and shook his head. “Tonight at dinner,” he said, pausing, taking a second to study your face. “Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on me, I’m nervous, even more now that you’re mine…”

Your heart beat steadily between your lungs. “Tell me. What happened?”

Mingyu pulled his lips between his teeth and blinked a few times. Releasing a breath through a laugh, he asked, “What’s the thing with Hansol?” Your stomach did a cartwheel, every shot in your system making itself known. “I just… I wanna make sure you’re okay, you were looking at him, he was looking at you…”

A gulp betrayed you, one Mingyu picked up on. “He was looking at me?”

Maintaining face, Mingyu analyzed yours. “Yeah, he was, he couldn’t stop.” You tried your best to withhold every emotion this made you feel. He was looking at you, too. When? When you weren’t looking at him? Which was when? You barely drank at dinner, you wouldn’t have missed it. “And then, it made me think of what happened at practice today, so…”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” you whispered. Attempting to lean forward, he held you back.

“So you do know him,” he said.

“I- Yeah,” you shrugged, “He went to Nasara at the same time as me.”

He was quiet, then his smile grew. “Of course he did.”

“Leave it alone,” you said, trying to kiss him again.

“No, c’mon,” he laughed, taking his other hand to your waist where it had been, holding you down. “Tell me, baby. What did my baseball player loving girlfriend do with him in college?”

Whining, wriggling in his grasp, you said, “I don’t want to talk about him.” Pausing, you played back his words and pouted. “And I am not a baseball player lover.”

“Oh, baby,” he smirked. “I beg to differ.” All of your defense fell. Dropping your hands into your lap you sat back on his thighs and slouched your shoulders. “You guys were friends?”

“Mingyu, stop,” you whispered without much fight left in you. Even a shake of your head, the pleading of your eyes wouldn’t shut him up. He stared back at you, his eyes taking in every microexpression.

“What,” he began, and his eyes narrowed, like your thoughts were plastered onto your forehead. “Did you guys sleep together or something?” Your throat tightened. Every limb on your body felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds.

“Gyu- We- Just, leave it alone.”

Weak.

His face lit up with something you’ve never seen before. “Ohhoho… Okay, sure.” Wrapping his arms around your back he moved off the cushion of the booth, relishing in how you clung to him for balance before he got you on your feet. His hands held onto you with a power that both excited you and frightened you. You’ve never experienced jealous Mingyu. “We’re out of here.”

It went by in a blur, him moving you from the bar to the hotel and up into his room where the clothes you wore hit the floor in seconds. In the dark his hands were on you, touching you, squeezing you, pleasuring you, making you feel so good, too good, and he still wore all his clothes. Face buried in your chest, lips wrapping around the delicate skin leaving purple marks in their wake while his fingers worked within you, drawing you to the edge too many times and he still wore all his clothes.

You didn’t have any extra breath to give him, to ask him to take them off, you couldn’t say anything but his name, which was what he wanted. His other hand clamped to your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks so tight your lips stayed parted for him to kiss, nip at, spit into. He worked you dumb, your world entirely too blurry, too fuzzy to tell him to slow down, but you didn’t want him to.

It was Mingyu. All him. You couldn’t think about anything else.

Just the way he wanted you.

It wasn’t until his head was between your thighs that you could finally utter something other than Mingyu. “Inside, Gyu,” you whispered, fingers clawing at his curls so tight he was groaning against you. “Please, please, need you in me.”

Letting go of your thighs he stood with a smile and took his hands to his belt buckle after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Smiling down at you, eyes heavy and full of lust, he asked, “Condom?”

Unable to move, you blinked up at him and tried to shake your head. “I don’ care.”

“Oh, my pretty girl,” he groaned, shoving his pants to the floor, kicking them away. Grabbing your ankles he pulled you closer and sunk into you, a delicious moan pouring from both of you. “Never let me hit it raw,” he groaned, taking his time with a few strokes. “Who’s fuckin’ you, baby?”

Clawing at the sheets, you writhed beneath him and choked out, “You, Mingyu, you are.” He pushed your knees backward and laid over top of you, pistoling his hips into yours.

“Say it again.”

Lips caressed your cheek, stirring you awake.

Deja vu.

The sun, the curtains, the bedding, the nakedness, the sore body, the hangover.

Except now Mingyu was crouched beside you dressed for training.

“Hi,” he whispered, his cheeks full of joy. Taking a breath, you couldn’t do anything but blink at him. “I got you a coffee already,” he said, resting his chin on the mattress. Taking a hand to your cheek he drug his thumb beneath your bottom lashes. “Come today. I want you in the stands.” A smile found his lips. “Our first season together, I wanna start it right.” He waited for you to answer but recognized he wasn’t going to get one. “Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll see you in a bit, I’ll have a car waiting for you.”

He left so fast you didn’t even hear the door close. You couldn’t put two senses together.

Another day, another hangover.

You felt like dogshit.

Taking your time to sit up, knowing this time you really felt like you could be sick, when you peeled the sheets back and caught a glimpse of your body you groaned and flopped back onto the pillows. He made a mess of you. Hickeys littered your chest, hopefully not your neck, and the insides of your thighs. You’re certain the tiny blue marks in a rounded line on your hips were from his fingers, he had you flipped every which way last night you supposed.

You barely remembered it.

But you remembered Vernon.

The way he looked at you, how he brushed you away, when you told you he loved you.

As in past tense.

It brought you a brand new physical pain you’ve never experienced, one lodged between your lungs, pulling on your heart. A hole punched there, a wound so big you weren’t sure what you were supposed to do about it. You could drink it away, have Mingyu fuck it away, but clearly it’d come right back when neither of those things were happening.

“Did you even read any of the messages I sent you at the end of last year?”

Every single one.

He was the first to message you, the first to call you, to try to get a hold of you while you cried in DK’s backseat. For days he sent little anecdotes of care, asking you if you were alright, hoping and wishing that you were safe, that you weren’t being too hard on yourself. He sent a long text the day after the dinner ITZ and ATZ shared, and he was angry. He found out you were with DK, that you left school, but he wasn’t angry with you. He was angry with Yeji, the president, for keeping your absence a weird secret from everyone, not telling anybody that you were leaving, that you withdrew from school completely.

The messages to follow were of shorter stature, and they came less frequently. Each one, between the lines, you could feel what he was feeling. Sometimes he’d call you, or try to, without it accompanying a message, hoping that maybe you’d pick up if he rang. He constantly wished you well with each text, encouraged you to do better, that he knew you would be okay, that DK would help, that you should do whatever he tells you and follow your big brother's advice.

The last one he ever sent, right around Christmas, a week before the first story of you and Mingyu erupted, he shared some words that would forever strangle you completely. Mentions of you meaning the world to him, or something, and him saying he hopes he’ll see you soon, that you’re his best friend and he has so much to tell you.

It haunts you, that message.

You should’ve answered it. That should’ve been the moment you called him.

But Mingyu had just bought you diamond earrings for Christmas. You opened them Christmas morning with both your families watching, the group of you lounging in the living room of the Kim’s mountain cabin surrounded by mile high trees, snow, and mugs of hot chocolate, the place fit to house several families at once.

You should’ve answered it.

“That’s all you got?!” you shouted, your voice echoing onto the field over Vernons head from where you sat behind home plate. Leaning against the barricade you watched him swing, just missing the ball. Dropping the bat to the dirt he flashed you a look over his shoulder, his smile teasing his lips, and started to unstrap his gloves. His coach gathered the things on the mound and began straightening up the field.

“I told you to heckle, not to be mean,” he breathed, making a face.

You pouted and he laughed. “Did I hurt your feelings, Nonie?”

“Ew,” he spat. “Don’t call me that. My little cousins call me that.” Lifting his hands over his head he stretched and groaned, leaning side to side.

“Fine,” you sighed. His eyes shut, his brows flatlining above them. Leaving your seat you wandered through the stands and hopped into the dugout, taking yourself out onto the field to meet him where he stood. “Where’s it hurt?”

Vernon brought his arms to his side slowly, looking at you like he was trying to keep his discomfort hidden. “Everywhere,” he whispered, and you let out a laugh together. Reaching for his arms you unstrapped everything else he had on him, and he watched, quietly.

“Come on,” you said, shoving his gear into your arms. Dropping to the ground you picked up his bat and nodded your head. “Where do these go?” Massaging his own elbows he took in the sight of you carrying all of his things and took a deep breath.

“Uh,” he stammered, “Locker room. My bags are in there.”

“Okay, let’s go,” you said, and started for the dugout and the stairs that awaited you there.

“Hansol,” his coach called out, stopping you both. The man eyed you, then Vernon. “Good work today, I’ll see you here same time tomorrow.”

Vernon nodded once. “Same time tomorrow.” When he turned to you he furrowed his brows and held up a finger, stopping your thoughts that longed to come out of your mouth. “You leave him alone,” he said, passing by you.

“You need a break,” you said, following him down into the dugout and through the door into the locker room. Showers lined one wall, double stacked lockers lined the other. It was a smaller space, definitely smaller than the locker rooms at Lions Stadium in Iloa, but it was good enough for Vernon and his team.

He took to his locker and pulled it open, waving you to his side. “I don’t,” he said with a smile, taking some of his things from your arms. “I’m fine.” Gloves, gear, straps, buckles, it all went into his locker. The only thing left in your hands was his bat, a sleek black with a silver V etched into the top in a stunning font.

“You just told me everything hurts,” you said, stepping closer to him, leaning against the cool metal of the Nasara blue lockers. He copied you, thinning his lips, facing you. A few inches lived between the two of you. “You wanted me to break your hand-”

“It was a joke, Iya, I just-”

You closed the space, your middle touching his, the tips of your toes meeting. “I don’t find it very funny.” He dropped his gaze down, looking between you. “What are they working you like this for? Where’s your team? Why are you alone?”

Vernon nibbled his bottom lip and hit you with a subtle shrug before he met your eyes. “I dunno, I was… I was hoping it was, yanno, good things, but Coach has me doing the same stuff over and over. He won’t even tell me why we’re doing what we’re doing, I think I’m,” his voice trailed off as his eyebrows scrunched together, “Think I’m not doing as well as I thought I was.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, reaching for one of his hands, toying with the roughness of his fingers, his palm. He looked down at it and tried to smile. “He just told you you did great.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “To keep me coming back.” When he met your eyes, his gaze shattered your heart. “This is the part where guys start to give up. I’m a senior, well over the age a lot of guys in the MLB were when they were drafted and signed, if it doesn’t happen soon, I…”

“It will,” you whispered. Letting go of his hand you drug your fingers up his arm and gently dug your fingers into his muscle. His eyes fluttered shut with the quietest groan. The muscle was hard, full of knots, you could only imagine what the rest of him felt like. “Come here,” you whispered, moving him to the wide bench along the length of the lockers. “Sit down.” Placing him on the edge, you straddled the bench behind him, your thighs framing his hips. “You can keep talking to me, just let me do this.”

“Do wha- Oh my god,” he groaned the second your thumbs dug into his shoulders. A breathless laugh tumbled from your lips. “I don’t think I- Oh, god.” His head tipped backward. “Is this what they teach you in- in class?”

Popping your brows, working your fingers harder, deeper into the tissue, you said, “Kinda. On days when I can pay attention.” He groaned, lips shut, the sound emitting deep from his chest. Sucking in a deep breath, ignoring the way every groan made your heart feel, you took your hands down his knotty back and worked them there over his sleeveless shirt. “Did you know, these muscles back here, if you don’t take care of them, they could cost you your career?”

Vernon took a breath between grunts and shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “That’s your job, the therapist tells me what to- fuck, tells me what to work on- H’mygod.”

Leaning forward, pressing your chest to his back, you whispered in his ear and a shiver ran down his spine, one you could feel in the tips of your fingers. “That feel good?”

“Jesus,” he mumbled. “Don’t say that right now.”

You smiled. “Why not?”

“Because,” he pushed from his lips fast. “Just keep… Keep going.”

“But, does it-”

“Yes, Iya,” he hissed. “It feels good.”

You wished you were in front of him, in both places at once, you wanted to see his face, wanted to see what he looked like while he groaned and melted into your touch. Taking your hands all over his back, taking your time in places tighter than others, his exhausted self didn’t hold back, he told you what was good, what needed more, where he needed you, where he wanted you. Your heart pounded in your chest, you prayed he couldn’t feel it with how he leaned against you now, your fingers rubbing into his neck, toward his jaw. He rested his head on your shoulder, his eyes closed, his breath hitching in his chest with every sound that came out of him.

“Noisy boy,” you whispered, slowing your fingers that were starting to get achey. Keeping them on his shoulders, he blinked open his eyes and turned his head to look at you, his entire being relaxed, sleepy. Your thighs hugged his body, his waist, he fit perfectly between your legs.

“You’re good at that, I can’t help it,” he whispered. He must’ve realized how he was sitting, splayed back on you like you held onto his consciousness through your ministrations of his body, because he tried to sit up, his body moving slow, heavy.

You kept him in place, holding him back, keeping him pressed to you. Giving you a look, his brows showing the slightest bit of pure curiosity, you took a breath and slid your hands down his chest keeping your eyes locked on his. Placing them right over his heart, you paused, and waited.

Then you felt it.

His heart beat in time with yours, racing faster than it should be for what you were just doing to him. Shifting, trying to move, Vernon hummed his disapproval of what you were feeling. The smallest smile graced your lips.

“No,” he whispered, smiling with you. “You started it, I felt yours first.”

Flickering your eyes to his parted lips, you held your breath and looked back at his hooded gaze. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” he whispered.

Taking a hand to his curls, leaving the other over his heart, you dipped your chin down and altered the relationship you shared with him forever. His lips, soft, a little shy, met yours and he sucked in a breath, his heart beating quicker, heavier. A single breath between parted lips was like a switch flipped, in seconds his energy came back and he was pulling you off the bench and onto his lap, helping you straddle his waist comfortably on the wood beneath him.

With your hands on his jaw you kept his head tipped upward, not wanting to waste a second without his lips on yours. Your body melted into his with his arms around your back, his fingertips pressing you closer, holding you tight, yet ever so gently. The way you responded to one another, your bodies, your breath, it was unlike anything you’ve ever shared with anyone else. In just a few heated kisses a warmth filled your being, tangled with your veins, your heart, pooling in your center telling you that this was it.

It was Vernon. This was it, everything you’d ever need.

As much as it terrified you, you'd never felt more sure about anything, god, you felt like you could cry, like so much was pent up within you, so many things you’ve teased him with, teased each other with, but deep down knew was horrifically true.

Without thinking you rolled your hips against him and felt him smile into your kiss. Hands with a mind of their own, they scrambled for the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head, two blushing smiles meeting in the middle all over again once it hit the floor. Kissing you, long and slow, his hands took their time dropping the hoodie from your shoulders, the grey cotton meeting his shirt where it was dropped. Lips ghosting each other, he brushed his nose over yours, shivering as your fingers danced down his bare chest and tugged at the strap of the shorts he wore that made it so painfully obvious what he wanted.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a whisper, his smile never seeming to leave his face.

Rolling your hips a bit, you smirked as a breath corrupted his lungs. “Finishing what you started,” you whispered, and kissed the tip of his nose. “Can I take these off?”

Vernon breathed through a laugh. “Yeah, you’ve seen it before.”

“Right,” you giggled and tugged at the elastic. “Can I taste it?”

His hips pushed up beneath you as another breath shot through him. “You, fu- Iya, hang on,” he rambled on as you giggled and worked him out of his shorts. “If you- If you do, I won’t be able to- fuck.” Straddling his waist again you wrapped a hand around the bottom of his length, smiling as you gave him a good squeeze.

Leaning into him you caught his lips in a kiss. “You grower,” you teased, and he tried to laugh with you. “Holy shit, V. Can I…”

Steadying his breath, or trying to, he narrowed his eyes. “Can you, what?” he asked, tilting his chin just to brush his lips over yours, not even to kiss you. “What do you want?”

“You.”

“You have me.”

Kissing him, a soft whine was muffled by his lips, his tongue slipping between your lips this time. Moving off of him, your lips the last thing to leave him, he watched you where he sat, chest rising with each breath he took. Fingers finding the zipper of your mini skirt, Vernon reached forward and shook his head, wrapping his arms around your waist, slotting you between his legs. Looking up at you, he took you out of your skirt, then pushed up the hem of your tank, pressing kisses to the skin above the thin stretch of lace waiting for him beneath the denim.

“That skirt makes me crazy by the way,” he whispered, both of you laughing. Pressing his nose to your skin, his fingers curled over the lace and pushed it down your thighs, his lips worshiping this unexplored part of your body. Big brown eyes gazed up at you and you couldn’t take anymore. With a smile you leapt on top of him, tangling your fingers in his hair, engulfing his lips with yours. Reaching between your bodies you wrapped a hand around him and parted from him to rise to your knees, but his hands latched onto your shoulders, both worry and disappointment in his eyes. “Iya, Iya, wait,” he whispered, mentally kicking himself. “Are we not gonna… Do you want me to… I don’t- I don’t have anything here, or on me.”

You admired his worry, you smiled at him, reassuring him with a kiss. “I’ve seen you make double plays,” you whispered and his eyes softened. “I trust your sense of timing.” Before he could say anything else, protest about your safety like you knew he would want to, like you’ve been doing to him for weeks, the hypocrite, you kissed him, and you sunk down on him, moaning into his mouth at the stretch and how his hands gripping onto your hips in a hurry, his fingers digging into your skin.

Neither of you moved, for several seconds, maybe minutes, you held onto one another, pressed chest to chest, sharing nothing but the laziest kisses and labored breaths. He was the first to move, flipping you over to your back, the wood cold against your skin making you gasp.

“No, come on,” you whispered, half a laugh coming out with it. “Let me take care of you.”

Vernon smiled, pressing his lips to your cheek and down your jaw. With the slowest push of his hips your jaw fell open and he caught your parted lips in a kiss. “You already did that,” he whispered, lowering himself on top of you, “My turn.”

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