#fat decimator

[yuckybusiness]

Helping Hands

[queenohatred]

*agent walks in to check on you since they heard a loud noise but they also slip on the banana peel that was kicked to the door and land on top of you*

[littleplantfreak]

Assumption: type of person to enjoy gardening

I have a garden every year! I’m quite fond of getting my hands dirty 🤭

[griddlegold]

my sister's friend called my (small-framed, nine pound) cat fat as a joke over the weekend and i'm still legitimately so mad about it

[cosycafune]

MATING PRESS!

1.0k words. kento's a little tipsy, a pussy-strucken mess. all he wants is to divulge in his precious housewife's cunt, consistently engaging in a mating press. he's desperate, wanting all of you...entirely. maybe, just maybe, he'd stuff you enough to corrupt you.

acts: messy sex, nasty sex, unprotected sex, mating press, slight corruption kink, breeding kink, teasing, overstimulating, crying, submission, creampies, sloppy kissing, consensual intimacy. mdni. 18+. masterlist.

a/n: kento likes messy sex, when he's slightly drunk.

YOU'RE TREMBLING, faced with the sight of a partially drunk Kento – flaunting an intimidating manspread. Nothing within you could face his wrath, sensing the itching lust that captures his low eyes. Naturally, you knew what Kento longed for. It’s so obvious, the moment you’re settled between Kento’s thighs – shaking with yearning you can’t shed.

Intoxicated with your presence, Kento pushes himself into drawing you nearer – toying with the ends of your frilly summer dress. Hungrily, Kento’s gaze darts up to you – sporting an intimidating aura. Whenever Kento drank in tolerable amounts, he’d become pent up – tinted with an insatiable urge for you.

Gluttony adorns him. Kento wanted to consume you, filling you up endlessly with his fruitful seed. Just seeing you, nervous, unable to control your lust, in front of him, drove him crazy. Even with him warmed by the alcohol, he always longs to stuff his beautiful wife, no matter where he lingers.

Shit, he’d take you on the couch he’s sitting on, the table, the floor, on the wall. Kento just wanted to take you on any spot he could, he didn’t fucking care in the slightest. All he longed for was to stuff you with his heavenly cock, pounding and decimating your cunt with everything he had. Sexually, he longed to suffocate you — driving into you to listen to every squeamish sound you make.

“Kento?” Meekly, you speak – gasping at his burly fingers kneading your doughy bubble butt.

“Hm?” Consumed by longing, Kento lowly greets your eyes – barely muttering a fruitful sound.

“‘Sure you wanna do this?” Squeezing your eyes close, you question him, “You’ve been drinking.” Frowning, you warm at Kento drawing you nearer to you – sitting you upon his tender lap.

“I’ve only drank a little, my love.” Reassuring you, Kento removes his lime glasses – displaying the aged contours beneath his eyes.

“If you’re sure, Ken’,” Teasing him, you fall tender – smitten at Kento’s fingers roaming over the fabric against your hips.

—⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

You’re an unredeemable mess, your lips sloppily capturing Kento’s while his fat, angelic cock passionately pounded your plushy pussy. Gasps, desperate, dirty moans and pleasurable squelching sounds flooded the room. Unspoken tension riddled each one of Kento’s crazed thrusts, pooling into the subtle alcoholism that tints his breath. It’s so obvious, your decimated pussy tells its story – singing a sinful melody.

“Kento! Ngh! Warm!” Overstimulated, you frantically warm – enclosed by Kento’s physique in a mating press. 

“Love…when you’re like this,” Needy, Kento’s smooth tone adorns your ears – paring with his eager thrusts.

“‘Ts too…deep,” Mewling frantically, you feel Kento grab your jiggly ass cheek – gripping it to lodge his cock further into you. 

“You can…handle it,” Subtle aggressiveness tints Kento’s voice, leading him into softly kissing your lips.

“‘Can…Mhmm! Handle…it,” Cock-driven, your moans are breathless — consumed by Kento’s extreme neediness.

“That’s…my baby,” Hazy, Kento gently praises you — allowing his heavy balls to slap against your ass.

“So…warm,” Mewling, so, so, out of it, your eyes flutter — lifelessness tinting your battered eyes.

“Mhm, you ready… for my cum?” Kento’s tone holds a fragment of degradation. 

Instinctively, it causes him to pound into you with a might he knows you’re unable to handle. You’re barely able to breathe, your breasts perched up while his lips greedily meet your own. Ironically, your cognitive functions are limited — filled with the deepness and manhandled by Kento’s large cock. Every ounce of your physique is stuffed with Kento — intoxicated — tickled with the deepest elements of him.

“Baby, please!” Pleading, you tremble frantically — unable to function or breathe without Kento’s cum.

Within his presence, you always longed to be stuffed and decimated by him — every string of you wrapped around him. Your eyes were always flooded with love hearts, blooming further with the more cum Kento poured within you.

When it comes to hardcore intimacy, Kento’s extremely nasty — ruining you until you’re absolutely nothing. It’s a tad worse when he’s drunk and whiny, but able to consent enough to function. Hours would flow by, but Kento wouldn’t release you — honing his body with each thrust. None of him cared about drifting into overtime, he would simply expand on his nastiness.

Like, right now, the bedsheets are town, soaked with cum and squirt. The room’s thick with the blissful smell of sex, the sounds of inhumane struggling, cock handling and everything indecent. This imagery contrasted with Kento’s clean imagery, especially since he’s a man of hygiene. 

Yet, currently, he’s extraordinarily sweaty, his cock decorated with your dripping cum. Kento’s blonde locks stick to his forehead, his narrow eyes greeting yours as he bucked his deepest within you — feeling his previous rounds of cum clinging to his thighs. The whole room is extremely trashed, riddled with marks, and scattered furniture; everything’s clustered and unjust.

“Shit, I’ll give it to you,” Satisfied, watching you extensively beg for his cum, Kento responds — grinning.

“Please, I've… earnt it, Kento,” An external and internal mess, you plead heavily – your stomach churning at Kento fulfilling the mating press.

Mentally conquered, Kento tugs at your bubble butt – thrusting himself so deeply within you. So deeply, you’re unable to remember your name. You groan, thrash, basking within his company – eerily complete. Complete before he suffocates you beneath you, his diabolical cock pulsating deeply within you.

Wickedly, Kento glances down at you �� his precious wife – enjoying the discipline he gifts you. When it comes to you, Kento’s unable to resist corrupting you – someone he’d spoil more than anything. Obviously, you loved it when Kento’s rough with you – pulverising you. Even with you as his precious housewife, Kento couldn’t help but gift you baby batter – so you can nurture a bun in your oven.

“Mhm, you…have,” Proud, Kento harshly finishes inside of you – filling you preciously with his manly spurts of cum. Every ounce of his cock was structured for you, no matter what moment remained. Shit, this moment compelled him frantically – toning him with love, devotion and solace.

Filled, Kento kisses your tender lips – observing the explicit mess he has made of you. Right now, you’re beautiful marked – submissive for him. Every crevice of you is structured for him, especially in this mating press.

He knew he would have to try this position again.

--

do not copy, modify or claim any of my works as your own. all rights reserved; cosycafune. 2024. banner by cafekitsune <3

[orderforbrian]

and the winner for most fucking DECIMATING burn in the entire history of magnus pod goes to alice

[Start ID: Three panel comic from The Magnus Protocol. First panel is in full color, the rest in black and white. First panel: Alice sits with a hand on her chin, smirking and says "Whiny little toad". She is a half black woman with curly, dark orange hair down to her shoulders, brown eyes, freckles, and a gap tooth. She has red/purple eyeshadow and thick eyeliner on, as well as a gold nose ring. She wears a dark green collared shirt with stripes and golden star and moon designs on the collar and center of the shirt. Second panel: Martin looks up in absolute offended shock, his mouth hung open. He is a fat mixed Polish/Korean man with short hair, browline glasses and a beauty mark under his lip. He wears a simple sweater. Jon stands behind him with his arms crossed and does a terrible job to hide a snort of laughter. He is a thin Persian man with long curly hair pulled back into a half knot, a beard and mustache, and wears a simple cardigan with a turtleneck. Third panel: Martin shoots Jon an utterly fuming, rageful glare for laughing at the comment. Jon is turned away with one hand leaned up against an imaginary wall and the other on his hip, and starts whistling nonchalantly like he did no such thing. End ID.]

[eiightysixbaby]

just some eddie filth that came to me late last night - 18+

cw: unprotected sex, creampie, dacryphilia, slight breeding kink, daddy kink

riding eddie while he just watches you, hands folded behind his head, his expression unbothered. he has you bouncing on his cock so desperately, begging him to touch you, to give you more. you’re messily rocking your hips, strings of curses leaving your lips as eddie just chuckles to himself.

“c’mon, sweetheart, you can do better than that,” he huffs.

“eddie, please,” you whine, “please, I need more, I need you to move,” you brows worry together in desperation, your thighs burning with fatigue from how long you’ve been bouncing on him.

his hips don’t budge, his cock doesn’t rut into you the way you so badly wish it would, he just remains still. you’d been a brat earlier, letting some guy flirt with you at the store to rile him up, and this was eddie’s idea of a punishment. his reminder to you that you need him to make you feel good, the way no one else can. he knows it’s not enough for you to get off riding him by yourself, with no assistance from him or even from your own hand. the coil in your stomach aches, tension building but not enough, your clit throbbing with a need to be touched. you need eddie deeper, need his hands all over you, but you know if you try to get smart he’ll stop this whole thing altogether.

“please, daddy, please,” you’re close to tears as you beg. “I’ll be good, I promise I’ll be good, need you to make me feel so good baby,” you plead, pitiful whimpers falling from your lips as you sink down onto him once more.

“why should a brat like you get what she wants, hm? do you feel bad for how you were acting?”

“yes-” you choke out. “I’m sorry, ‘m so sorry. I n-need you to fuck me, eddie, please I can’t take it.”

fat tears are rolling down your cheeks at this point, trickling off your chin and down onto your breasts.

“aw, sweet girl’s gonna cry cause she wants my cock so bad? love when you cry those pretty tears for me, babydoll,” eddie taunts, but he finally brings a hand to your face to wipe a tear with his thumb.

“w-w-want you so bad, need you to make me cum” you stutter through your tears, wobbly lips curving into a pout.

eddie takes pity on you, deciding you’ve had enough as he finally brings his hands to rest on your hips. he guides your movements, urging you faster on his thick length. once your pace is steady, he moves his hips to match it, fucking himself into you right as your hips rock downwards. you cry out in pleasure, the head of his cock sinking so deep inside you. tears still stream down your cheeks, your eyes glassy as they meet eddie’s.

“hey now, sweet thing. daddy’s got you now, ‘kay? no more tears, baby. ‘m gonna make you feel so good,” he murmurs, wiping more tears away with the rough pads of his fingers.

your face presses into his neck, tits pressed to his chest as he wraps his arms around you, fucking you faster. one of his hands weaves its way between your sweaty bodies, rubbing your swollen clit in quick circles, just the way you like it. you’re almost screaming his name, his touch setting your body on fire after you’d been waiting what felt like forever for it.

“that’s it, baby, who makes you feel this good, huh?” he growls.

“you, eddie, only you- oh my god,” you moan, his cock relentless as it decimates your hole.

you’re so pent up, it doesn’t take long at all for him to make you cum. you gush around him, soaking the patch of curls at the base of his cock, your walls squeezing him so fucking tight as you ride out your high. he fills you to the brim with his release not long after, only to pull out and push his cum back in with his fingers when it starts to seep out of you.

“gotta keep every drop in there, baby, get you knocked up, hm? make sure everyone knows you’re mine,” he says, voice husky as his eyes rake up and down your body.

you give him a delirious smile from where you lay on his wrinkled sheets, nodding your head with a hum. shaggy curls tickle your face as he leans down to nibble at your jawline, peppering kisses on the bone, running his still-hard cock through your now slippery folds. his body wants more of you, animalistic urges taking over. the way you shudder when his cock nudges your entrance makes him think you want more too.

“hm, think you can handle another round?”

[diettwistup]

HALF OF YOU

PAIRINGS: tashi duncan x f!oc, art donaldson x f!oc, patrick zweig x f!oc

SUMMARY: No matter how bright Tashi Duncan shined, her best friend, Milan Mikaelson, wasn’t far behind. Though seeming second best, Milan would never let that define her career. Holding as much fame as Tashi, Milan encountered Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson. Would this encounter change the trajectory of her life, and would it completely alter her relationship with Tashi Duncan?

WARNINGS: challengers spoilers, reader is milan mikaelson, sexual situations, language, angst, plot alterations.

WC: 3.9K

NOTES: hey y’all!!! so excited to be posting the first chapter of this story. manifesting my edits are all good LOL. enjoy! 💋

READ BEFORE THIS: INTRO

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTIONS AND EMBARRASSMENTS

US OPEN TOURNAMENT- 2006, 2:00 PM

Sitting down on the hot bleachers, I put my sunglasses on and adjusted the braids in my hair. Sucking on my teeth and brushing my fingers across the hem of my uniform skirt, I let my eyes gaze at the large crowd of people accumulating. 

Damn Tashi, you always know how to make a bang. 

Crossing my arms and softly laughing, I let my mind wander back to my match yesterday. 

I had lost to the girl who would be playing Tashi for the championship. I really don’t know if that was a good or bad thing. On one hand, I lost from a bad call when I was so close to the end. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have to battle my best friend and get absolutely decimated, as she would say. 

As I continued to lose myself in thought, two boys, blonde and brunette, moved through the growing crowd and sat in front of me. 

You’re kidding me. 

Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson—the “fire and ice” duo—had just won their doubles match, if I’m not mistaken. How could I be when their trophies were sitting right on their laps?

There's still a ton of seats open, and they choose to sit here? 

Rolling my eyes and crossing my arms, I pushed my sunglasses up, waiting for Tashi to come out. 

Staring at the door to the locker rooms, I clicked my tongue in boredom before grabbing the tournament pamphlet to look at everyone’s stats. 

“Don’t you wanna meet Tashi Duncan?” 

My ears perked at this as I put the pamphlet down and narrowed my eyes at the brunette boy. 

Whoever said eavesdropping was a bad thing…

I had to hold in my laughter as they began to talk about Tashi and how she was the entire package. Telling her this later would be the highlight of my week. 

“What about Mikaelson, you know her?” Patrick asked as he slung his arm around his companion. 

I froze at this and tilted my sunglasses down to better see the two of them. 

“Of course I know her. Have you seen her play? She’s fucking hot.” Art added with a smirk as he attempted to whisper, failing miserably. 

My face heated up at this as my eyes narrowed at the boys. 

Do they not realize the person they’re talking about is behind them? 

“Agreed,” Patrick started as he pulled his friend closer. “She’s also got a fat ass.” He laughed as Art chuckled along with him. 

Gag. 

Closing my eyes and pretending I didn’t hear that, I heard cheers and claps from around, signaling that Tashi had come out of the locker room. The chair umpire immediately began to talk about her stats and how she was the best female player in our division. 

I happily clapped as I beamed at my friend, her eyes scanning the crowd and locking with mine, a large smile playing on her features. 

“Fuck, did you see that? Tashi Duncan just smiled at us…” Patrick exclaimed in awe as he pushed Art in the chest. 

“Shit, I missed it.” Art complained before leaning back and adjusting himself in his seat.

I almost had to cover my mouth to hide the vomit that was about to let loose. 

Dumbasses. 

After a few minutes, Tashi’s match began, of course, in her favor. Everything was perfect: her serves, backhand, line receives, counterattacks, and every single step she took. 

I smirked widely as I watched Tashi decimate the bitch who, unfortunately, decimated me. 

Patrick and Art watched Tashi in awe for the first ten minutes of the match while commenting on how amazing a player she was. 

I snorted at this, wondering how long it would take to notice who was sitting behind them.

On the next serve, Tashi’s opponent hit the ball out, but the line umpire declared it as in. 

Standing up immediately, I pointed a finger and yelled at the top of my lungs. 

“What?! Come on, Tash, don’t take that shit!” 

Everyone else agreed with me as the crowd began to roar in protest of the shitty call. 

Lost in the moment, I hadn’t realized that Patrick and Art had turned around and stared at me in horror and awe. 

“Oh,” I started and took off my sunglasses. Did I yell in your ear?” I looked between them before looking back up at Tashi. 

“Fuck, you’re-“ Patrick started in a slightly panicked state before I cut him off. 

“Milan Mikaelson? Yeah, I’m guessing you two know me.” I spoke with sarcasm as I kept my eyes trained on Tashi and her opponent. 

Caught. 

“Shit, I’m real sorry for what I said, I-“ Art started before I placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him, eyes still not leaving the game.

“Don’t sweat it, was too focused on the game to give a damn.” I lied straight through my teeth as I pretended to act nonchalant. 

I could feel both of their eyes staring long and hard at my hand lingering on Art’s shoulder before I took it away to throw my hands in the air and yell as Tashi locked in another point. 

“Come on, Tash!” I yelled and clapped with the roaring crowd, boys still looking back at me. 

Sighing, I crossed my arms and looked back down at them. “Take a picture, it will last longer,” I spoke in annoyance before sitting back down and putting on my sunglasses. 

All I could hear were muffled whispers and attempts to counteract my statement before they turned back around and shared we’re fucked looks. 

Stifling my laughs, I angled my eyes back to the match. 

As Tashi continued to hit the ball effortlessly for the rest of the match, her win came almost naturally. 

Standing up and yelling, I quickly ran down the bleachers, feeling two pairs of eyes following me. I stood against the fence and clapped loudly while Tashi caught my eyes after her victory yell and smiled widely at me. 

I jumped up and down with all the fans cheering with their signs and matching t-shirts. 

Running around the court to thank everyone for coming, Tashi came over to me and grabbed my hands. 

“Tashi! I’m so proud!” I yelled and bounced on my heels, extremely happy with my friend's success. 

“My biggest fan.” She smiled and reached over to hug me before letting go and continuing to thank everyone. 

Smiling proudly at her, I pushed my braids behind my back and took off my sunglasses. Turning around, I looked back at the sea of people cheering for Tashi before my eyes landed on two figures. 

What a mystery those two are…

I smirked proudly at them as their eyes shifted between Tashi walking back to her locker room and myself standing by the fence. 

Patrick leaned over to Art and whispered something as their eyes darted between us. I could only see Patrick's smirk and Art’s growing grin at his friend's words. 

Snorting to myself, I turned around and put my sunglasses back on. 

“Fucking morons…” 

ADIDAS BRAND PARTY - 2006 8:00 PM

“Tashi!” I exclaimed as I weaved through a crowd of familiar and influential faces to ambush my best friend. 

I could see her bright smile miles away as she turned to meet me at the edge of the dancefloor, engulfing her in a hug. 

“Milan, I was wondering if you weren’t coming.” She laughed as she wrapped her arms around me and returned my hug. 

Pulling away, I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms. “Tashi Duncan, my best friend, thought I would miss out on this?!” I questioned as I gestured to the bustling party. "You must be crazy if you think I would miss out on anything that concerned you and your tennis career,” I snapped at her with a knowing smirk.

“I’ll have you know I was late because my mother insisted on making me change ten times.” I rolled my eyes and tilted my head to where our moms were conversing. I stuck my nose up and closed my eyes, annoyed at the memory of how nagging my mother was when getting ready for the party.

Immediately, she raised her hands in defense and raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, Miss Mikaelson, didn’t mean to assume.” She laughed before crossing her arms. 

I watched her expression change slightly as her eyes softened and lips parted. 

“I watched your match yesterday,” she said, lightly treading. “I’m sorry about the loss.” She finished and brought a hand to my shoulder, rubbing it gently with a sad smile.

Flashes of my match fluttered back into my mind as a small pit formed in my stomach. 

I shrugged this off and took up a carefree attitude, whereas my insides were screaming. 

“It was a shitty call, what can I say? That bitch had and has nothing on me.” I smirked and made sure not to falter, but secretly, the loss had internally crushed me.

Tashi laughed, brought her other hand to my shoulder, and bent down to level our eyes. “Don't worry, I decimated her for you. Plus, at Stanford, the both of us will be fucking up bitches right and left.” She shot a cocky smirk at this as I gave her one back in turn. 

Stanford. The next four years of my life with Tashi Duncan would be the ultimate dream. 

Right? 

I extended my pinky to Tashi with a slight wink. “Promise?” I bit my bottom lip and smirked at this familiar gesture between us. 

As long as I can remember, Tashi and I have made over a hundred pinky promises. Our first one involved her letting me borrow her Barbie doll while we played house and my promise to return it. Since then, it’s been a norm between us. 

I felt the confidence radiating from Tashi’s grin as she moved her right hand from my shoulder to interlock our pinkies. 

“Promise.” She repeated and swung our interlocked pinkies back and forth. 

I laughed like a child all over again before quickly raking my eyes across the entire party. As I scanned the crowd, I let go of Tashi’s pinky and leaned in to whisper. 

“Lots of important people here, I see,” I whispered as Tashi’s eyes followed mine.

“And familiar faces too…” She responded in a lower tone, angling her eyes to an older man by the beverages. 

“Shut up!” I gasped before looking back at Tashi. “Is that Mr. Reynolds?!” I asked in shock at seeing our fifth-grade English teacher. 

“Yup,” Tashi responded, standing straight as she crossed her arms. She studied the older man as he scanned the beverages offered. “He was always my favorite,” she quipped, not needing a huge explanation for why he was here. 

At this, I burst out into laughter, as did she. 

“I thought he died years ago.” I clutched my stomach before placing a hand over my mouth and muffling my small laughs. “Wait, that’s not nice. I mean, I thought he passed on peacefully years ago.” I corrected in a serious tone as I watched the older man before glancing at Tashi and bursting into laughter again. 

As I laughed with Tashi, I felt a burning feeling on the back of my head. 

Was someone staring?

Wiping my eyes carefully to avoid messing up my makeup, I slowly turned around and almost froze as I locked eyes with the person, or should I say persons, staring at Tashi and me. 

Oh, hell no. Is that who I think it is?

Quickly, I turned back around and whispered to Tashi in a hurried tone. 

“Tash, is that Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson?” I looked her in the eye as they narrowed at the mention of the “fire and ice” duo’s presence at the party. 

“Oh yeah, they’ve been staring all night.” She smirked and looked between the two of us. “Frankly, I don’t blame them.” Her smirk grows even wider, mirroring the Cheshire Cat. 

Biting my lip, I remembered my earlier encounter with the two tennis players. I shuddered as I remembered their smirks and remarks about Tashi and me. 

“Tash…” I said warningly, pointing my perfectly manicured finger in her face. “Please tell me you don’t have one of your ideas in mind.” I slightly scolded her, studying her face to see what she was thinking. “Those two are complete and utter idiots.” I continued as I shook my head. 

She wrapped an arm around my shoulder and whispered back as she lowered my finger and sucked on her teeth. “Do you really need to ask this?” She questioned with an air that spoke obviously, are you stupid? 

“And believe me,” She started and moved to fix the straps of my dress. “I know exactly how they are…teenage boys.” She snickered wider at this as I rolled my eyes. 

I huffed loudly before grabbing a piece of my hair to fiddle while I groaned. “But Tash, it’s our summer before we go to college. No boys.” I retorted as the music in the background got a little louder. 

Grabbing my hands, Tashi dragged us to the middle of the dance floor and forced me to dance. “First of all,” She started as she twirled me around, “This was never a pinky promise.” She spoke, wrapped her arms around my neck, and swayed us to the music. 

Fuck, she got me there. 

“Second of all,” She continued before touching my neck to untangle my necklaces while swaying with me. “I know you’re internally drooling over Art Donaldson. He’s exactly your type, and he’s going to Stanford.” She laughed to herself as she worked on my necklaces. 

Fuck x2 can’t deny that. 

I rolled my eyes and turned away, knowing I couldn’t argue either of those statements. 

“You’re crazy…” Was all I could protest. 

Untangling my necklaces, Tashi clapped and smiled brightly at me before putting her hands back on my shoulders. “This is gonna be a great start to the summer.” She grinned like a mad woman as we kept dancing across the floor. 

After dancing, mingling, and trying not to focus on the two hard stares hitting Tashi's and my head for the entire night, I decided to go to the beach. 

“Hey, Tash, I’m going to the beach for a quick breather. If my mom asks, I’ll be down there. Come down if you need anything or if I miss something interesting.” I smile gently at her while I take my heels off.

“Got it. Be safe.” She waved before going to get pictures with her family. 

I smiled at her before walking to navigate the path to go down to the beach, pretending not to notice the two pairs of eyes following me. 

10:00 PM

I wonder how long I had been down here listening to the sweet waves ripple against the hot sand. I almost feel as if the ocean is calling me. 

Imagine the escape of living on a secluded island where nothing mattered. Not school, not tennis, and not the future.

Especially the future. 

Staring at my newly manicured nails, I continued to get lost in my thoughts while the ocean rang in my ears.

Shit, I’m over everything.

I reached a hand up to my mouth and began to bite one of my nails. 

Do I even wanna go to Stanford? 

Practically gnawing at it, I can feel the acrylic wearing off.

Doesn’t matter because I’ll be with Tashi… right?

SNAP

“Fuck…” I muttered to myself as I broke off a nail, leaving a tiny bit of blood seeping from my nail bed. 

Rolling my eyes, I held onto the broken nail and rested my head on my knee as I watched the ocean. 

“We’re not interrupting, are we?” I heard a deep voice ask behind me, making me let out a small yelp and nearly fall off the rock.

Quickly turning around, I was met with two, unfortunately familiar, faces. 

Why now?

Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson stood before me, shoes in one hand and cigarettes in the other. Frankly, I had no idea which one spoke, and I had no care to know at this rate. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts, and they disturbed that. 

“What the fuck,” I explained as I stood up from the rock and patted my dress down. “Do you know how rude it is to sneak up on someone?” I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes as I looked between the two boys sheepishly standing before me. 

“Shit, really sorry, didn’t know you were here,” Patrick spoke up as his counterpart dropped his cigarette from his lips upon seeing me study his stature. 

Bullshit. 

“Hm, okay, well, I’ll be going then,” I exclaimed, irritated, as I bent down to grab my heels. “I hope you two have a grand time.” I sarcastically quipped as I went to walk past them and go back up the path to the party. 

“Wait,” Art, almost panicked, stood before me with a lopsided grin as he flicked his cigarette bud beside him and treaded lightly as he motioned to the chairs near the rock I had just occupied. “We’d love it if you joined us, just for a chat.” He had a genuine smile on his face now. 

Are they serious?

Before I could open my mouth, Patrick beat me to it as he walked to sit in one of the chairs Art motioned to. 

“Yeah, just to talk. You're one of the best players in our age bracket, and it would be a real treat to get to know you as an apology for what happened earlier.” Patrick added and smirked so wide I could feel pure smitten radiating off it. 

They are serious.

Both boys were now staring at me, gazes identical in pure amazement, awaiting my response. 

Fuck this. Fuck me. Fuck x3.

Sighing softly and crossing my arms, I dropped my shoes, returned to the rock, and sat down. 

“You get five minutes,” I spoke curtly as I looked between the boys, waiting for one of them to speak up.

Art took this chance to open his mouth, but before he could begin, I held a hand up to stop him.

“Oh, and there’s no need to introduce yourselves. Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig, the “fire and ice” duo.” I spoke unenthusiastically, keeping my eyes on Art for a little longer before angling my expression to Patrick.

Both boys stared at me with slight smirks as I adjusted my dress and grabbed a piece of hair to play with while they continued. 

“Well, Milan Mikaelson,” 

I inwardly shuddered as he spoke my full name. 

“During your match, I thought that call was fucked.” Patrick spoke up and got right to the point. He laughed as if he remembered it as a fond childhood memory. 

Almost instantly, Art chimed in to add to his friends' thoughts, a bit too eager for my liking. “I mean, that Anna girl could barely serve your entire match, and then that?” He stated as he shook his head, acting like he was scolding my opponent to her face like a coach.

My eyes lit up at this. They knew how to crack me. Bring up my pride and losses, and I’ll talk your ear off for hours. 

“I think the official was blind because that bitch’s ball was totally past the line,” I explained matter-of-factly. “Did you see the way he hesitated before calling it? He probably had it in with her.” I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms in annoyance at the memory of the loss. 

“Still, you were fucking amazing out there. How did you get your backhand to be that powerful?” Art quickly added and leaned forward in his chair as if moving closer to me would allow him to understand my words better. 

I let a slight smile adorn my features as I studied his position. 

Fuck x4.

For the next four minutes, the three of us talked about tennis and our matches throughout the tournament. Though brief, I could quickly tell how these two relied on each other and their sport. It was definitely the glue for their friendship. I could also tell how they hung onto my every word, like a toddler waiting for his mother to let him out of the time-out-chair. 

Checking my watch, I stood up and looked between the boys. 

“Though this was fun, your five minutes is up.” I flashed my watch at them with a subtle smile before bending down to grab my shoes. 

When I bent down, I could hear some rushed scuffles and whispers. Standing back up, I saw that both boys were also standing, very tense, might I add. 

“How can we contact you to do this again?” Patrick asked with a smirk, which I presume was a signature for him.

Raising an eyebrow at him, I crossed my arms and looked between him and his blonde companion. 

“Who said I wanted to do this again?” I asked as Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets with a defeated grin while Art let out a muffled chuckle. 

“Come on, this was fun.” Art added and took a cautious step towards me. “Can we get your number?” He asked as he studied my face with the cheekiest grin he could muster.

I laughed at his question dryly before pointing my finger between the two boys. “We? You think I’m gonna get between this? Hell no.” I replied, walking past them to the stairs and back to the party. 

Immediately, I could feel their eyes staring into the back of my head, and I wondered if they would beg or plead. 

They better not. 

“Come to our hotel,” Patrick yelled, making me whip my head around. “We have beer,” he grinned once he saw my interest somewhat piqued. 

Fuck x5.

“It’s not far from here. We can talk more.” He gestured between the three of us and then pointed up to the party. 

This made me look back to the party, about to question what he meant before Patrick chimed in. 

“We talked to Tashi earlier and told her the same thing. Would be fun getting to know the beautiful golden tennis girl duo.” He chuckled as I watched his eyes flicker from my face to my lips.

This made my face heat up, but I would never reveal that. Teenage boys don’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing they have any sort of effect on me. 

Clicking my tongue, I nodded at this new piece of information. 

Tashi did say she had a plan in place. This could be fun. 

“Maybe,” I replied as my eyes shifted between the boys.

You’re not easy, Milan Mikaleson. Remember that.

“Depends on my mood.” I finished and shot them small smirks before walking back up the stairs, not giving the boys a moment to retort. 

As I walked back to the party, my eyes shut as I felt a headache coming on. 

What the hell did I get myself into?

[nkogneatho]

Pasi I need todo in my guts. His stupid big cock decimating my insides. GRAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH 🥵🥵🥵

cherry baby i was just thinking about this. i need todo to take you in mating press.

because look he is soooo big and he knows it. he actually holds himself back usually to make sure he doesn't go too hard on his poor little baby. but sometimes he wants to lose control you know?? he needs the release. but he doesn't immediately start pounding in you. he starts off in missionary, peppering your face is kisses as you enjoy the girth in your pussy. but your eyes are closed and you're too slow to notice how he keeps on shifting himself, pushing his body weight more and more on you. suddenly everything feels heavy and you open your eyes to your knees pressed against your shoulders as todo pounds into you. the slap of his skin against yours is so loud, your guts feeling funny evertime he drills in. fat tears threaten to fall from your eye but licks them away. he mutters a few "i am sorry"s with every thrust, and you know he means it. which is why you let him have his way. something tells you that with the amount of apologies that is leaving his lips, he not only plans on ruining your pussy in mating press but he will also empty his load inside you.

[cupidlovesss]

Cozy Studies Long Hairstyle 030824 Conversion to The Sims 3

There is a little bit of a line on the forehead on this hair just to let you guys know, but if that doesn't bother you go ahead and read/download! Also this hair is by @sclub-privee so if they don't want me to put this up I'll gladly take it down!

•25k polys (!) I had to decimate the polycount because milkshape wouldn't read the file unless I did it •Custom thumbs •My texture & control •A little bit of clipping with the fat slider •Original Sims 4 hair

Download

@sssvitlanz @pis3update @eternalccfinds @wanderingsimsfinds @xto3conversionsfinds

[in-class-daydreams]

Dear Husband (Sebastian Sallow x Reader)

Pairing: Auror!Sebastian Sallow x Pregnant!Fem!Reader Synopsis: Pregnancy hormones have done something to your brain and you just can't get out of your husband's business. You're far past clingy at this point and your sweet husband is taking it like a champ. Alternatively: Preggy Brain Go Brrr TW: Slightly suggestive, but barely. Like on the spice scale, it's mayonnaise with a dash of paprika.

You have a big fat crush on your husband.

Yes, yes, he’s your husband, of course you have strong feelings for him, and you’d already developed a crush on him back at Hogwarts about three days into your fifth year. Obviously, that tingly feeling eventually developed into love, but this was different. You’ve long since fallen for him, but since he got you pregnant, you were just obsessed with the man.

Sebastian originally wanted to take more days off from the ministry due to you being with child, but you insisted that you were still three months out and didn’t need his constant presence just yet.. Though, you were beginning to regret that statement as you reclined on the couch, eating from the box of licorice spiders resting on your protruding stomach. If Baby Sallow was going to make you carry them, you figured you’re well within your rights to use them as a table. Licorice spiders were never your favorite, but your pregnancy made you crave the oddest of things, the licorice being one of them. And your sweet husband never complained about you decimating his stash of his favorite candy, not once.

Currently, your husband was busy in the kitchen cooking you breakfast before he went to work. His black dress shirt had the sleeves rolled up and his hair was only a bit more styled than he used to wear it as a student. You stuffed a handful of candy in your mouth and savored the chewy texture. Then you wondered to yourself if your child will look like him. They better not, if they’re going to make you round and make you push them out of your nethers. Then again, your husband is just so handsome you wouldn’t mind having a copy of him running around, but the problem is how you’d ever say no to either of them. It’s a dilemma to be sure.

“Are you comfortable, darling?” Sebastian asks. “I can bring more pillows from the bedroom if you’d like.”

You shake your head. He dotes on you plenty and while you’re quite sizable, you’d hardly consider yourself burdened with child just yet.

“Could you put the potatoes on the counter, please?” You rub your belly. “I don’t want to have to bend down for them later.”

“Of course.” Sebastian bends down and hoists the heavy bag onto the counter.

Confession time. You don’t have that problem at all. You are both a powerful witch and an ancient magic wielder, so you are more than capable of levitating as much as your entire house above your head. But if you did that, how could you watch your husband’s shirt tighten around his biceps?

You bite your lip watching him play both roles. Dressed as a breadwinner but doing domestic tasks. Cooking for you, making your shared bed, massaging your legs after dinner. You’d never admit this, but it’s empowering to have one of the most talented Aurors the ministry has ever seen at your beck and call.

That last thought is the final straw. You can’t take it any more. While his back is turned, you heft yourself up and approach him from behind, wrapping your arms around his midsection. You bury your face in his back and nuzzle him like a cat.

“Hello to you, too,” Sebastian chuckles, moving to turn to face you, but you hold him still.

His scent is intoxicating, a mix of your laundry detergent, a little woodsmoke, and something else uniquely him. You used to wear his Slytherin jumper back in the day for his quidditch matches, and you’d bury your face in the sleeves when no one was looking.

Speaking of quidditch, Sebastian is a few years removed from the sport considering his busy career since graduation, but Imelda’s rigorous training regimen withstood the test of time in the form of your husband’s thick forearms and broad shoulders.

You run your hands from his toned stomach, up his sides, and over his pecs before retracing your pattern down to thick thighs in tight slacks. His line of work made it necessary for him to keep in shape and you thanked every being in existence for that.

Sebastian puts a hand over yours when you start tugging his tucked shirt out of his waistband.

“Keep that up and you’ll be having burnt toast for breakfast,” he warns.

You whine, shaking off his hand and digging your fingers under his shirt to trace the warm skin across his hips.

“What if I have a different meal in mind this morning?” You press yourself against him, to which his breath hitches and he shuts off the stove. He spins around in your arms and tries to say something only for you to plant kisses up and down his jaw and down the slope of his neck. Sebastian’s head tips back and he groans under your touch and you smile against his neck. He’s been weak to you for as long as you’ve known him, give or take a few days.

But when you undo a button of his waistcoat, he makes a strangled sound and stops you, breathing quickly.

“Believe me, I want this desperately, but I can’t be late today,” he says like it physically pains him.

You rest your head on his chest and look up at him with the trained doe eyes you use to get your way. What are you supposed to do? Let him leave the house looking like that without you getting your fill of him? Preposterous.

Sebastian looks towards the ceiling as if he was asking a deity for strength to deny you. Granted, that’s what it would take at this point, but when he looks back down at you with resolve, you wonder if it really is divine intervention or if you’re just losing your touch.

“Please, love, I need to compare notes with my temporary partner. She won’t like it if I’m late,” he reasons.

You pout. “Ominis would understand.”

“Yes, but only because he’s fond of you. If I was married to anyone else, he’d give me an earful for being late. Besides, he won’t be back for another few weeks.” Sebastian turns back to the stove and plates your food before handing it to you.

You take it reluctantly and grumble. “Stupid Ominis. Stupid Turkish dark wizard.”

Sebastian smiles and gives you a gentle kiss on the lips. Then he bends at the waist and gives your bump a kiss as well.

“He’ll be back soon and then you can distract me before work as you please.” The thought is enough to placate you for the moment.

“Will you be in the office around noon? I’ll make you lunch,” you offer.

He confirms with another kiss. “I’ll see you then.”

Sebastian shrugs on his coat while you marvel at his delicious shoulder to hip ratio. If he wasn’t so prodigal with Auror work, he’d have made a fantastic model, you think. That would be a disaster in its own right, though, because the last thing you need is even more people oogling your husband.

On his way out the door, Sebastian looks at you over his shoulder and says, “But if you come by, we can’t shag in my office.”

Your jaw drops to the floor and you gasp in indignation.

“What! Why not?” you demand.

Sebastian sighs. “Because Baby Sallow makes it hard for me to bend you over the desk and, frankly, you’re not exactly quiet.”

“I’ll be quiet! I promise!” The thought of not getting your hands all over your husband until after his workday ended was turning your brain into mush. How on Earth could you survive that long? You nearly tear up at the idea. Ah, this must be the phase of pregnancy where your emotions are all over the place.

Sebastian closes the distance between you, laughing. “Wait a bit longer, and you won’t have to be quiet.” He whispers in your ear, “When I get home, I’ll make sure you can't be quiet if you try.”

At that, you shove him up against the door and kiss him senseless until he’s flushed and has to adjust himself in his pants before finally leaving for work.

~~

The next time Sebastian works from home, he’s at the dining table pouring over several thick files of documents. This was the type of work he was amazing at. Growing up with professors for parents and a natural love for reading (even if that love caused some issues back in the day) made him an excellent investigator and you so loved watching him work.

You dip a slice of green apple into your cup of molasses and take a bite. It was certainly? A flavor? But your pregnant body demanded it and so apples and molasses it would be.

“But the bank account was clean…” Sebastian mutters to himself.

You lean against the counter, head resting in your free hand like a blushing schoolgirl. You bite the tip of your thumbnail as you admire the man who mastered the Dark Arts by the end of sixth year. Sure, he was an Auror now and used his expertise for good, but it was even more impressive that he was so close to the point of no return and was able to pull himself back from the brink. He liked to say it was your love for him that brought him back, but you always replied that you only helped him find the strength he had all along.

“You’re staring.” 

You hum in pleasure at the sound of his deep voice. He has the same accent as most of the people around you, but his just makes you want to kick your feet and squeal.

“You’re so handsome,” you say dreamily.

Sebastian’s ears turn slightly pink. “Oh, well, I’m glad you think so. Thank you.”

You bite your lip. “I want to marry you.”

He barks out a surprised laugh, glancing at the gold band on his left ring finger. “I have good news for you.”

“I’d marry you a second time.”

Sebastian puts down the document he’s holding and eyes you.

“And a third.” You get up and make your way over to him to wrap your arms around his neck. Sebastian takes you in his arms as you continue. “Look at this face.” You trace constellations in his freckles with your eyes. “So handsome. Do you have any idea,” you gripe, “how many of our classmates would have done anything to have a chance with you?”

Swaying you both from side to side, Sebastian says, “Can’t say I recall. I was quite busy during my fifth year and on. Someone decided they wanted all my attention to themselves.” He kisses your nose.

“When quidditch season started back up in sixth year, it was impossible. You were walking around, getting bulkier by the day, wearing that damned uniform.” Tracing a finger up his chest, you continue to complain. “And I was just supposed to go on with my day and focus on lessons while the other girls were talking about how big and strong you’d gotten over the summer? Completely unfair.”

Sebastian grew several inches over the course of a few months and his development was not gradual. No, he went from boy to man almost overnight, and that, combined with his charming nature and sharp wit, made him a hot commodity sixth year and on.

Since being married to him, you’ve realized that what you saw at Hogwarts was nothing compared to what he would become. He was a cutie when you met him, and grew frustratingly attractive over the next few years, but Auror Sebastian? Your husband? He was outright handsome.

“Can I sit with you while you work?” you ask sweetly, to which Sebastian immediately agrees. He’s never really been able to say no to you, has he?

“But it’s just a paper trail. Terribly dull without context,” he warns.

You nod your head in understanding. All you want is to be near him. When you move to the other side of the table to pull over a chair, he stops you and pulls out his wand. From there he shifts around the furniture so that the sofa is right next to the table so you can lounge near him.

“I love you, Seb.”

“And I, you.”

[ameriko-steelie]

NitroPanic - 4t3 Suspender Dress w/ Tee (Version 2)

Here's something quick before I resume my teen conversions :)

For Teen and Adult Females Everyday, Formal, Career Polycount: 13k Valid for Maternity (Both TF and AF) 2 Channels

Looks weird in CAS! I had to get the poly and vert count down, so I actually did decimate it quite a bit... and it's still high. Unfortunately, I can see some verts split in the back during animations, but it's minor and not seen in the front. The fat morph is also dreadful.

The skirt's UV is also a circle, which you can see in the first preview with the pattern. I also lengthened the skirt because the original had the Sim's... behind sticking out, but it's still sort of short. I tried closing the gap... and I couldn't because of the weird topology; I recommend accessory underwear when sitting down.

Download - SFS

or

Download - Simblr.CC

@sssvitlanz @pis3update @xto3conversionsfinds @wanderingsimsfinds @simblrcc-site

Before anyone asks, here are the hairs used: adult (left) / teen (right)

[murfeelee]

BG3 Umberlee INSP CAS Set

This set includes 8 fully recolorable CAS items inspired by Allandra Grey, the Wavemistress of Umberlee, for your Y/A - AF sims:

Converted from BG3:

Wavemistress Allandra Hair (HIGH POLY) - has no crown

Wavemistress Allandra Hat Hair (HIGH POLY) - has crown

Wavemistress Allandra Crown - found under Earrings, hat slider compatible IIRC

Wavemistress Allandra Crown + Bling ACC (HIGH POLY) - found under Earrings, hat slider compatible IIRC

Wavemistress Allandra Shoulders + Extras ACC (HIGH POLY) - found under Necklaces

TS3 mesh edits:

EliavahVoidwatcherDressShinyLeather2 REDONE (Strapless & Recolorable) - Everyday - Outerwear, fit/fat morphs

Luxy Body Scales as BODY TATT (FULL) - CmarNYC's tattoo mod REQUIRED

Luxy Body Scales as ACC - found under Socks

Enjoy! And Happy Black History Month!

Download set (packages) : Mediafire | SimFileShare

Descriptions & preview pics under the cut:

FLAWS: Nothing too crazy--I just wanted to point a few things:

Crown, Shoulders/Necklace, Hair

The ACCs in this set have an annoying tendency to BLUR when stacking. Which a serious problem if you use them with a Mermaid sim, cuz they all come with mermaid scale leg ACCs that inevitably cause blurring. Even if you use the "No Scales" mod at MTS (like I did), it just makes them invisible, it doesn't actually remove/unequip the scales. AFAIK there isn't a mod that lets us unequip the scales from CAS like we can with the Plantsim leaves or Vampire neck tattoo. So that sucks, sorry.

The hair was sooooo high poly it was crazy--I Decimated the mesh A LOT, which is why it looks pretty crappy TBH. The plain/regular Hair version is slightly higher poly than the Hat Hair, cuz I had to allow enough free polys for the crown and TSR was just NOT having it.

(This was hands down the most annoying set I've ever made; the blurring and the polys were just effing impossible to deal with.)

Eliavah Dress

Ain't no way I was gonna sit around converting some high poly BG3 dress when there was a darn-near-perfect one already made for TS3. 😅 So I just adios'ed all the extra chest straps, made the leather texture recolorable, and called it a dang day; I'm tired.

Luxy Scales

I made the Scales as ACC a billion years ago but never did anything with them. Then I realized how dang bad the blurring was with too many ACCs, so I quickly remade them as Full Body tatts--as always, CmarNYC's tattoo mod REQUIRED. (Luxysims removed all their TS3 CC when they migrated to TS4, so you can get the original Scales as Outfit here if you want).

And that's that!

___________________________________________________________

Enjoy! And Happy Black History Month!

Download set (packages) : Mediafire | SimFileShare

[cream-stew]

cw: size kink, hand kink, horny rambling, body type headcanon for thoma, gn! reader alluded to as being shorter.

i can't stop thinking about big boyfie thoma + size differences. like he's so… tall ❤️ i've always kinda headcanon him as having a bit of a chubby/beefy body type. no defined muscles exactly, like the type of muscles you develop naturally when doing hard labor.

practically towering almost everyone, he's got those big, strong arms and hands, his fingers thick with callouses (i want them around my neck)

with how often he has to carry heavy luggages during work, no doubt he can easily manhandle you with those big paws 😍 pushing and pulling you into all kinds of different positions. what other things you got that's big, bb boy—

he'd be so reluctant to have sex with you at first, because what if he hurts you!! :(( cue sad golden retriever eyes.

but in actuality, the dork has been fantasizing about your first time with him ever since he first laid eyes on you. secretly having a size kink and goes wild whenever he gets reminded of how tiny you are compared to him.

sitting on his lap, all with a coy smile on your face? how dare you 🤨 internally, he'd be fighting for his life. even with something as innocent as holding hands, he'll end up a blushing mess.

i also just love the thought of sweet, innocent-looking guys going absolutely feral on their partners. it's just so 👋👋👋 you know??? (a,, are you seeing the vision, reader. im holding you by the collar of your shirt, im shaking you. can you see it—)

ahsjsks i'd let him decimate my 150cm ass. i have a few more ideas for big boye! thoma and they got me salivating, foaming at the mouth, shaking like a chihuahua. forgive me, cream-stew. expect me to go feral in your inbox a few more times.

also!! how's your health going? hope you're faring well 🥺 —🐾

🔞minors dni

warnings: afab reader, size kink, rough sex, vaginal fingering

// note: bestie I love these asks you are more than encouraged to keep going feral in here (no matter how long it takes me to reply... that's on me bc I'm lazy lol) this is so valid tho I'm kinda short too and size kink is so...🥰🥰

he starts out so soft and slow, stretching your wet pussy with one (1) single fingers, his hands shaking with the effort of restraining himself, not helped at all by the way you desperately beg him to fuck you already... but noooo you're so much smaller than him, the top of your head barely reaches his collarbones, his hands are so big he can completely encircle your ankles, and he thinks there's just no way his huge cock is gonna fit inside you :((

no matter how much you insist he still holds you down on your stomach, one big hand against the small of your back while the other one slowly pumps more fingers past your entrance, leaving so much of your juices gushing out and staining the bedsheets.

he scissors his two fingers before adding a third one, and you whine in frustration: you could already be bouncing on his fat cock but nope, he wants to be gentle :((

you're crying in equal parts pleasure and crumbling self restraint by the time he's done stretching you with four thick fingers and he's trying to replace them with his cock, gripping your hips with both hands and slowly pushing it inside your loose pussy. it's true that it's an incredible stretch but it feels so good!! you start begging again, this time for him to move and fuck you like he means it, and you're lucky this time: he seems unable to keep holding himself back, so yep, he starts pumping in and out of you at a ruthless pace, your poor pussy struggling to let him back in every time he pulls out completely before slamming right back inside. you just know your tummy is bulging out whenever the tip of his cock hits your cervix🥰

at some point, when he pulls out he doesn't push back inside so quickly: he rolls you on your back, manhandling you so easily it makes butterflies flutter in your belly, and hooks your legs on his shoulders, folding you in half. the position feels a lot better already, his cock hitting even deeper, but it's so embarrassing to be reminded of how short you are compared to him, you can't even see his flushed face as he fucks your brains out :((

[callahanisms]

jealousy jealousy

a request: "hey! I wanted to make a request for a Tashi Duncan fanfic <3 a headcanon, about Tashi and reader being friends and playing tennis together, but reader is chubby and insecure a about her body, she feels a little jealous of Tashi and the other girls that play tennis and feels guilty about it. Tashi is secretly in love with her, at first reader can't really accept because she can't believe someone would be in love with her. Can you do female reader?"

this is going to be one of those rare occasions where i will be more specific about a reader's appearance and gender. something i also think is important is that i tend to imagine my reader as not white. so this does bleed into these head canons. if that's too serious for you, you're better off not following me.

pairing: tashi duncan x chubby! fem! reader

for vibes: "jealousy jealousy" by olivia rodrigo

context: stanford 2007

word count: 1.8k words

Love cannot exist without Envy.

When you love someone, to some extent you envy that person. There's something they have that you envy. That is what you grew up believing and that is the worldview of love that you were left with. On top of your mother telling you that girls like you do not receive the flowers, guitars, and romantic rescues that all the rom-com heroines you watched had.

Your favorite romantic comedies were My Big Fat Greek Wedding, 10 Things I Hate About You, and Love Actually–the third being more of a guilty pleasure. The only movie that came close to representing a girl like you, with your body type, was My Big Fat Greek Wedding. That was the right kind of rom-com, the one where the woman didn't need to change herself. She just developed confidence and scored the guy of her dreams.

Unfortunately, real life was not as kind as the movies.

"You can't quit tennis!"

"What makes you say that?" You play with your food, poking the fettuccine alfredo with chicken recipe you cooked up for the both of you. You were craving something creamy this time of night. And Tashi was too.

"You just can't. You're amazing. Why would you quit? With talent like yours, it seems like such a waste to just quit." Tashi had already finished her plate.

"It was fun while it lasted. But I don't see myself doing it."

"Bullshit (Y/N)." You could never look at her when you lied.

Tashi recalls the first time she saw you play. It was the day after her own match. And you were pure fire. Your strokes were quick, most of your serves unreturnable. She felt bad for your opponent because you never gave her a chance. Instead, you decimated her. In short, you were a phenomenon. Someone like herself.

You two played the next day. Tashi won, but she never felt such a thrill, such a surge of adrenaline. You were the only opponent she's played so far to have her respect and friendship. You were great. And she wished the world could see what she saw.

Your passion for tennis rivaled Tashi's. It was your purpose in life. It was the perfect sport for you to destress yourself to, hitting balls and rallying yourself against the walls in the public park. You wanted to achieve that envious Grand Slam career title. You wanted to continue in tennis. You didn't want to quit.

"Is it those assholes again?"

You look up at Tashi. You both dealt with your share of racism. But you had an extra pile of shit thrown on top of you. People say all the time that chubby people can't play tennis. And it didn't help that among the players of your generation, you were the only one with a body size bigger than a 14. Being both non-white and chubby only made the vitriol worse and the interpersonal competition harsher.

"Come on. You can't listen to them." Tashi sets down the pasta bowl. You painted it for her that one time you guys decided to try pottery painting. She takes a sip of water from the mug you gifted her. And the cherry on top was that she was wearing one of your shirts. You left it at her house when you slept over.

"That's easy for you to say." You set your plate down.

A frown forms on her face. You don't like it when Tashi frowns. "(Y/N)..."

"It's all they talk about." Your eyes rake over her figure. Thin arms. A limber, slender body. Athletic with the right muscle balance so she didn't seem like too much of an athlete. She was model material, Tashi Duncan. And that's why all the offers came rolling in for her. All the brand deals, all the money. And you were instead left with scraps, still wrapping duct tape around the handle of your dad's Wilson racket. Relying on the graciousness of Tashi Duncan when you were in a tough spot. She bought you new shoes in time for the U.S. Open this year because your old ones had holes and were worn down. You hated relying on her. You hated that she always insisted you didn't need to pay her back. Your company was enough.

Your love was enough.

"What's the point in playing tennis if no one is going to talk about me playing tennis!" You raise your voice out of frustration. You were so angry that you could throw the plate at the wall and break it. "All everyone wants to talk about is how fat I am and that fat girls don't belong in tennis! It's not going anywhere! No one but you sees my potential. And my family and I have been losing money! It's too costly. Stanford didn't even take me for tennis." You were accepted for your brains. Not for your true passion. It wasn't worth investing in tennis when you were getting nothing in return. Nothing but racist, fatphobic vitriol that continued to wear you down every day.

"And that's why you should continue to play. You need to prove them wrong!" Tashi keeps her voice steady. "You prove them wrong, then they can't say shit."

You wanted to believe her. But you knew the truth. You weren't Tashi Duncan. You could never be Tashi Duncan. Only girls like Tashi Duncan and Irina Petrovska got the brand deals, got the fame, got the money.

Only girls like them got to continue their passion and turn it into a career.

"Proving them wrong won't do them anything. At this point I'm just...a circus pig." Your voice drops, but Tashi can hear what you said.

"You're not a circus pig."

"That's easy for you to say! You're...You're fucking perfect! You're the face of tennis! You're who people think of when someone brings up the term tennis player. Not me! You. I'm not meant to be on the court."

"Don't say that. Don't. Say. That." Desperation bleeds into Tashi's voice as she looks at you. "Do you remember what we agreed on during that after party? After our match?"

Your lack of a response tells her that you do. "We're going up there. Together. Next year. Doubles. Me and you. We're going to take over the world." Her fingers tap against the table. "You can't quit! You promised you would play with me! You promised you would. And we always keep our promises."

"Well maybe I'm fed up. Maybe I'm just done with it all." You sip your water. "Proving them wrong only seems to enhance the insults I get! It only makes things worse for me! And it only hurts you!"

"Why would it hurt me?" Tashi is in disbelief.

"Because I'm someone you shouldn't associate with. I shouldn't be playing with you! I don't deserve to! I'm a terrible friend!" Your voice cracks. "I am so jealous of you Tashi. All the time. There's always this sick twisting in my stomach. And you deserve everything that you've gotten but I can't help but feel that some of it should go to me! But it doesn't because I'm the fat one! And no one wants to see a fat girl in an Adidas ad. And it's not fair to you because you didn't do anything! And I don't deserve to be friends with you or even play against your because I'm a terrible person!"

She doesn't respond. She's too busy looking at you, watching the way your face contorts with emotion, the way your tears fall from your eyes. It was like you were unloading everything.

Tashi hated seeing you cry.

"You can't quit tennis."

You look at her with shock. Is that all she could say after everything you dumped on her?

You expected her to fume, to lash out. Or maybe to tell you to go kill yourself. She's done her fair share of that to people. And yet, all she can tell you is that you can't quit tennis.

"You still somehow managed to make this about tennis."

Tashi leans forward, her hand taking yours. She enjoys the feeling of your soft skin. You always took great care of your skin, moisturizing constantly. If she needed some cream to moisturize her dried out hands, she could always ask you. You had so much in your purse. She could smell that lavender cream you used. Some said it was the scent only old people picked. But she found herself craving that lavender smell late at night in her bed.

"I understand...everything...you're saying. Remember that time we were talking? About how we both envy white girls and their opportunities and their easy life and their ability to get away with everything on the court." She remembers the thinly veiled racist remarks fired at the both of you when you were playing against white opponents. The rage she felt but couldn't exercise because letting her emotions run free would only make her the angry Black woman and they would instead penalize her.

"Tashi-"

"I don't hold it against you. That's...the way the game is right now." The both of you were playing a white man's sport. Unfortunately, this was the reality.

"It's...stupid. And ridiculous. You shouldn't even be friends with me!"

"(Y/N), I love you."

Your breath hitches in your throat. You couldn't believe what you were hearing. Tashi Duncan...loves you? Even after everything you confessed? You wanted to say so many things, wanted to tell her that she was wrong to love you. She couldn't love you and shouldn't love you.

"Why?" is all you managed to muster out.

Her eyes soften. "I..." There were so many reasons why. Your laugh. Your determination. The way you ran your fingers through her hair when she laid her head on your lap. How soft you were. Your hugs. Your lips. Those unreturnable serves of yours. The way your skirts would hike up those thick thighs of yours. That serving tick of yours where you would tap the ball against the edge of your racket three times.

Her heart sinks when you pull your hand out of hers and stand up from your seat. You needed to take a walk. You needed to think for a minute.

"(Y/N)..." Tashi stands up to follow after you. She grabs your wrist and you turn around to look at her.

"Tashi...I don't...I don't deserve you-"

She leans forward, pressing her lips against yours harshly. You're shocked by the sudden feeling, taking a step backwards into the wall. Tashi cups your face with both of her hands, keeping you there. She pulls away, watching your face to see if you would react in any way. "(Y/N)..."

You close the gap between you two once more and place your hands on her waist, slowly guiding her to the bed as she gets lost in the smell of lavender.

[heartsofminds]

and at every table, i’ll save you a seat -  part i

“Well, apparently Baby Goose’s been losing his mind ‘round the base about how this really smart and sweet girl invited him to a wedding and won’t text him about it.” or you invite Bradley to a wedding but your big fat crush on him won’t let you actually. . .invite him. 

“and at every table, i’ll save you a seat” - tunes of the gossipy Hard Deck patrons and liking someone so much you feel like you can’t breathe 

A/N: hey guys!!! so in the midst of writing this, i realized how long it actually is and how many dividers i had on my google doc? anyway, i thought it would probably work out so much better if it was released in parts rather than just one, big, fat, HUGEEEE piece that would probs crash on mobile. listen along to the playlist (that will be updated with each writing update) and relish in overly flirtatious bradley with me! which btw, he’s the lover album personified with a dash of red and a hint of fearless! 

“I’m not asking him.” 

Phoenix rolls her eyes before she takes a sip from her Ultra. The thought of it tasting revolting because of its lukewarmness crosses her mind despite her head pounding unceremoniously. She almost speaks up to answer you, but closes her mouth. 

She softly places the bottle back down on the counter instead. 

She can’t quite tell if the pain in her temples is from the sound of excited chatter all around her, the sound of Mickey, Javy, and Bob shittily singing Go Your Own Way on the karaoke machine in the corner, or the sound of your blue glitter gel pen scratching away at the scrap paper you have by the register; frantically carrying decimals for tip calculation and pathetically adding and subtracting since Penny’s “older than dirt” cash register bit the dust an hour prior. 

She almost concludes that the pounding ache working its way to the forefront of her brain is because of your absolute and utter refusal to do the simple and the obvious. But wait. 

I haven’t eaten at all today. Yeah, that’s it. 

A deep breath fills her lungs before she exhales. Her elbows find themselves on the lip of the bar top and her forearms come up to rest her head on her hands. She notices that the scribbling stops from what she assumes is you looking at her. 

An uncomfortable beat passes which is unusual for you two. There’s always some sly remark made or interminable giggling filling the gaps of silence. 

You pop your hip on the corner of the table. Your magenta tank top was far too bright of a pink to be welcome in the warm-hued bar. Your bracelet screams “graduation gift” and you can feel the oil on your face contorting your makeup as your time in the muggy air passes. 

Out of place is always in your thoughts but doesn’t become an insecurity until you’re left alone with them. The absence of Phoenix’s voice makes this fact more obvious to you. 

“You good? Not gonna hurl all over the place?” you cautiously ask, “Because it’s fine if you gotta puke, but I’ll murder you if you make me clean it up.” 

Natasha lets out something short of a laugh but too informal to be considered a huff. “I’m fine,” she says, leaning her head into her hand and adjusting herself in her seat. 

You nod, returning to your scribbling when the man sitting next to her hands his card to you. “You know, if you write any harder, you might permanently etch,” she pauses, leaning over to get a peek at what you had just written, “ten dollars and eighty-three cents into the counter.” 

“Maybe it’ll convince Penny that a new cash register is a need and not a luxury.” 

Natasha scoffs. “Could say the same about your plus one, but hey, if you don’t want my advice, then certainly don’t take it.” 

You hand the gentleman back his card with a smile and a small “thank you” before returning your attention back to Natasha. She digs her teeth subtly into the plush of her bottom lip. 

“I already told you. I’m not asking him.” 

She groans, pushing herself to stand up from her seat. Even dressed in civilian clothes, she looks like she belongs. Her aura demands respect; even in a lacy wine-colored top that Hangman had tried to tease her about earlier when the brood of rowdy pilots had first arrived. 

“Well, you said no to Jake.” 

“You say it like he would be willing to say yes.” 

“You said no to Rueben.” 

“He’s in a situationship with that girl from my spin class. Going with me to a wedding and her seeing the pics on Instagram would just make shit weird,” you start scrubbing at the permanent water stain near the beer taps anxiously, “Especially when I set them up.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes again. She swears that by the end of the night, she’ll know exactly what the inside of her eyelids look like. 

“Whatever,” she huffs, “You said no to Javy and Bob.” 

“Javy would rub the fact that I asked in Jake’s face and they’ll start a pissing contest on how to woo me…and Bob,” you look around to make sure no one who knows you all is within earshot, “He’s sweet. Like, sooo sweet.” 

Natasha tries not to crack a smile before you get your words out, but she certainly knows where the tail end of your sentence is going. “But it’s definitely not believable that we would be together and my aunt is one hell of an FBI agent and I’m sure he’d crack and rat us out and I’d have to sit there and eat my weight in tiramisu to drown my embarrassment.” 

Business is painfully slow for a Thursday evening despite the upcoming weekend. Your eyes dart around the room to look for anyone to come and rescue you from this conversation (and even volunteer to be your date to your bitchy cousin’s wedding next weekend without you asking, but you know to only hope for one miracle at a time). And when your eyes turn up empty for an ample opportunity, your shoulders droop while Natasha snickers at you. 

“Cut your losses and just ask him. I know he won’t say no,” she says, coy smirk at home on her face. 

“No. Absolutely not.” 

“What is so wrong with him that you don’t wanna do it? Huh?” 

You ponder on her statement before shaking your head. You’d rather be shot in the foot with a nail gun eight times than expose your silly little schoolgirl crush in the middle of the Hard Deck in front of his best friend turned your best friend since moving to the area five months ago. 

“Why not Neil or Brigham? Or hell, even Mickey? I know he’s like, engaged, but Mariella is so freakin’ sweet and I know she’d understand so like-” 

“Mmm-mmm. No, no, and hell no.” Your frown plasters itself on your lips faster than you can comprehend at her words. “Rooster or bust.” 

Your spine straightens as you begin to engage in protest before you’re cut off by the man himself. 

“Rooster or bust, what?” he asks, lips coming out to lick the dryness of the San Diego sun away. Your knees start to buckle and you can hear Natasha stifle a laugh as you try to conceal your lack of balance. 

He stands in front of you, hand on his hips and sunglasses tucked on the tight, white tank top underneath his button-down shirt. Today’s print was red with cream-colored hibiscus flowers and you wonder how he could pull them off so well. If it were anyone else, you would have had to try your hardest to keep it together with Natasha in front of you; the jokes about touristy dads and low-budget porn actors in the works. 

You realize he’s waiting for an answer as you see Natasha getting called away to sing karaoke with Javy and the gang out of the corner of your eye. 

Great. Just fucking great. 

“Taking bets on who the best pilot is or?” Bradley speaks, trying to get to the bottom of the small fragment of the conversation he had walked into. 

“I-,” you stammer.

Fuck. Can someone just come to the bar and order so I can avoid this? 

“You?” he looks at you through his eyebrows comically. Everything he does makes you nervous. 

“I-,” the lines in his forehead raise with the infliction of your voice, “I need a favor. Like a big one.” 

“Okay,” he laughs, “How big are we talking?” 

“Umm-” 

“Like ‘giving you my other kidney’ big or letting you borrow my car big?” he interrupts. 

“Well-” 

“Or do you need me to house sit? Dogsit? Babysit?” 

You inhale as you place your hands on the countertop. Your eyes find his honeyed-colored ones and you almost drown in them before your pride kicks in. 

I cannot embarrass myself in front of him. 

“I need you to come to a wedding,” you speak gently. You can see the wheels turning in his head without him having to say anything. Bradley’s face always gave his thoughts away. 

“If you don’t have plans, of course.” 

The realization of what you had just said starts to kick you upside the head the longer you look at him. He doesn’t say anything. His face doesn’t move at all. You’re pretty sure he hasn’t even blinked yet.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! 

“And if you’re comfortable! Obviously!” you start to ramble before you can convince yourself to shut the hell up, “It’s next Saturday in Long Beach near the seaside. You don’t have to say yes or anything but I just thought I’d ask because I had a plus one when I had a boyfriend eight months ago and now-” 

“I’ll go.” 

“-we’re not together anymore and my bitchy cousin is the one getting married who, by the way, makes everything a competition but that’s beside the point. But I know my mom is gonna be pissed if I don’t bring someone because my aunt is her sister and she’ll bitch about how they wasted money and how my mom is running out of time to become a grandma because I’m not married yet and that’s totally not true because I’m not even thirty so my biological clock hasn’t even started ticking yet but -”

“Hey!” he raises his voice slightly, amusement hidden in his tone, “I said I’d go with ya, kid.” He steps forward to put his hands on your bare shoulders. You try not to melt into his touch. 

“S’all good. I love weddings and the beach. Promise it’s not a hassle.” 

You’re dumbfounded by his response and how collected he is about your word vomit, not to mention being invited to a wedding where he’ll meet not only your parents, but your entire extended family in a little over a week. You know for certain you wouldn’t have handled the situation as calmly as he had. 

“You - you’ll…go?” The sound of Britney Spears’s “Toxic” and Jake absolutely murdering the high notes in the back of the bar is the only thing keeping you from spiraling into another dimension. 

“Well, I’m not a liar,” he sits down on the seat Phoenix was previously occupying, “I don’t just say things I don’t mean.” 

Your head nods solemnly in silent understanding, your hands grabbing a glass to pour him a whiskey on the rocks. He raises his eyebrows in suspicion at you knowing what his usual drink is, but throws away the thought to comment on it before it can even develop all the way. The subtle pang in his chest of you taking that much notice of him makes itself known. He would be lying if he was to say he didn’t hold a brightly lit candle for you.

You’re a regular, Bradshaw. Get your head out of your ass. 

“To be honest,” you start, placing the chilled glass in front of him, “that sounds a lot like something a liar would say.” 

He gives you a soft smile as he reaches into his back pocket to grab his wallet. “Well good thing that I’m not one then, right?” 

Your heart flutters in nervousness and with about as much grace as a stampede of elephants. You’re positive that Bradley can see the outline of it beating out of your chest. 

“No, no, no. Your drink is on the house.” 

He shakes his head, forcing the twenty dollar bill that lays in between his fingers next to the scrap paper you have laying near the register. “No, I insist.” 

“No, I insist. It’s on me, Bradley.” 

He cracks a soft smile as he forces the money into your hand. His fingers wrap yours around the beat-up bill that has definitely seen better days. “That just won’t do ma’am.” 

“I”m awaiting Bar results, not living in a shoebox on I-405. I assure you that two dollars and sixty cents won’t break the bank.” 

The loud scrapping of a bar stool against the hardwood floor (which will probably leave a noticeable scratch in the hardwood flooring that Penny will pretend not be upset about) interrupts the cocoon of the world that existed with just you and him. Just you and Bradley…and Jake Seresin’s loud ass mouth yelling, “Bradshaw! What the hell, man? Get your ass over here and sing some Journey with me!” across the bar. 

He shakes his head in disbelief and if you didn’t know any better (didn’t feed into your delusions, is more like it) you would almost think that he was…disappointed? That he didn’t want to leave you and that he was almost as desperate as you to give each other attention; eyes fully and ears solely attuned to the other. 

Hoots and hollers and the sound of his call sign being screamed from his rowdy group of friends make the delusion hard to manage, and the reality finally kicks in that he’s not here for you. He’s here for them. 

You wish you weren’t so good at hurting your own feelings sometimes. 

“Your spotlight awaits you,” you sigh, trying not to show how dejected you felt to him. 

A beat of silence passes before he slides his palms on the front of his jeans. 

“Here.” He snatches your blue glitter gel pen off the table, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he begins to write. “Text me the details?” 

He offers a slight smile that makes your words catch in your throat; the butterflies dinging around in your stomach begging you to reach out and touch him. To lean forward. To say something. To do something. Anything. 

But before you can he’s zipped across the bar and the sound of Call Me by Blondie inflates the room. You look down at the cerulean ink with specks of shimmer in it. 

xxx-xxx-xxxx  Call me, kid!  Bradley B 

You’re definitely not gonna call him anytime soon…

“Sweetheart, I love you, but if you dry those glasses one more time I think I’ll have a brain aneurysm.” 

Penny snatches the dish towel from your hands as your mouth gapes in silent protest. She throws it lazily on the countertop and snags the crate of beer glasses that you were going to town on away from you. The clinging sound of the dishes makes your head droop with disappointment. 

“I wasn’t done yet! They still feel slippery! ”you complain and she just teasingly shakes her head. 

“So?” 

She winks at you and you have to find it in your heart not to be a little annoyed at her for cutting your task off mid-attempt. 

Perfectionism fuels your life and she knows this. She knows that you’re using the glasses to stress clean. She knows that your cousin’s wedding weekend starts on Friday and you’re fighting the urge to tear your hair out. She also knows that you have Bradley’s phone number on a slip of paper that’s burning a hole through your nightstand because you still haven’t called him. 

“So?” you ask, lightly mimicking Penny’s statement, “Someone’s gonna drop the glass because they’ve never learned how to hold it the right way and then there’s gonna be glass shards everywhere and they’ll get hurt and-” 

“You are such a worry wart, my dear. Reeelaaax,” she interrupts, placing her warm, nimble fingers on your shoulders. 

The subtle sunburn you had gotten this past weekend is slowly starting to calm down, but the initial sting still startles you. She can see the small happenings of a frown starting to form on your lips and she decides to frown along with you. She spins you to face her and holds your forearms in her hands, offering them a gentle squeeze of encouragement. 

It’s not a secret that Penny Benjamin takes pride in knowing her staff well and loving them even better. In the five months she’s gotten to know you, she’s taken you in as one of her own without making her love for you about her. That was kind of her thing; knowing all without having to be told and giving so selflessly without having to ask if you were in need. 

Penny just got it, and it’s hard to find people like that nowadays; people who love you genuinely and truly expecting nothing in return. 

The thought of her warmness makes you sniffle, and you’re sure that if the jukebox wasn’t turned on and playing some Beach Boys tune, the tears would’ve made their way down your face at a speed that Formula One drivers would envy. 

“I know what it feels like to have your every movement judged and not being able to say anything to defend yourself,” she starts, “But you’re smart. You’re kind. You’re so important. And you’re nothing less than amazing, so don’t let anyone treat you like you aren’t.”

You can’t muster up the words to keep the conversation alive. You’re sure that all that would come out of your mouth is a blubbering mess you don’t feel like trying to force out in between choked sobs. Besides, the car doors closing in the parking lot alert you both to the Wednesday night crowd making their way in. 

You settle for a small “thank you” before she cracks another smile at you; lips quirked up in amusement. She saunters off to the back to grab the bucket of prepped lime wedges. 

“You never have to thank me for the words you deserve, sweetheart. Those are on the house.” 

You snort before wiping your nose with the back of your hand. Only she could manage to subdue the mini meltdown brewing in the depths of your chest. But Penny was just like that. 

Always calm, cool, and collected. 

The night moves slowly in a frame-by-frame manner (one that emulates the night you asked Bradley to be your date, but you shake the thought whenever it tries to enter your head because you think you may actually puke). It’s nothing too out of the ordinary for a Wednesday night. 

Mickey and Mariella pop in for mango margaritas after their weekly date night. Mickey gives you a small “hello” before flashing you a knowing smirk. You try to ignore Mariella swatting at his chest, but the imagery eats you up inside. You know that he knows and that she knows, and not taking the steps to actually ask Bradley to a wedding you invited him to makes you feel guilty. 

He picks up on your guilt when his eyes catch you twisting your ring around your pointer finger. His eyes soften and he almost considers apologizing to you before he thinks about it. Bringing more attention to it would embarrass you more, he figures. The apology sitting on his tongue is swallowed down with a sip of his drink and Mariella’s kick to his shin. 

“Well, we’re about to head out. We’ll see you Friday?” Mickey declares as Mariella narrows her dark eyes at him. 

Your heart stops and your fingers feel numb. 

Fuck. He wants to bring up Bradley. What do I say? Fuck. Shit. Wait. How does he even know? Has Bradley brought me up? Fuck, wait. He wouldn’t do that. Why would he even be talking about me? He probably told them that I’m obsessed with him and he was cornered and couldn’t say no and- 

“Uh? Are you good?” Mickey looks at you with soft eyes and waves his hand in front of your face. 

Mariella slaps it down from in front of you. “Don’t do that. She’s not a fucking dog, Mick.” 

He rolls his eyes playfully. “Duh. I know that. I just wanted to make sure she wasn’t having a seizure or anything like that.” 

“A seizure?” 

“They’re called absence seizures. Went down a whole YouTube rabbit hole about them a couple of nights ago.” 

You chuckle at their antics and can’t wait for the day they finally have their wedding. At least when the time comes you know you won’t have to forge a story about having a boyfriend. And it’ll be a wedding filled with people you actually like; ones that don’t make you order water out of feeling insecure about how many calories you’re consuming or ones that gossip about the shade of blush you wore making you look too “flushed” behind your back. 

“I go down rabbit holes all the time,” you chide, “I watched this documentary about the Pentagon Papers and the atomic bomb from World War II the other day, and now I’m confident I could get my Ph.D. in like, Historical American Screw-Ups.” 

Mickey and Mariella let out chortles at your statement before starting to head toward the exit. 

“Well, we’ll see you later then. Tell us about that wedding on Monday?” 

Your mouth hangs open as they stride out the front doors of Hard Deck. The shock of what just happened makes your heart beat erratically. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! He told. 

Mike Metcalf sits at the corner of the bar top on his regular stool with his sweating glass housing a whiskey neat. He sends you a teasing smirk as you move near him to wipe the countertop down. 

“Still haven’t texted him?” he asks. 

The shock continues to run through your body. You have to place your hands on the edge of the table to keep yourself from stumbling over. 

Why does everyone in this bar know what’s going on? 

Admiral Metcalf was friendly with you - one of those regulars who offer you engaging conversation, tidbits of grandfatherly affection, and generous tips. 

You would tell him not to tip you so much for a single drink, but he would always insist; quoting something along the lines of you reminding him of his granddaughter and that you treated everyone with such kindness and respect that you deserved it back tenfold. 

You take a deep breath, arms pushing you up slowly to stand upright. “I’m scared to ask how you know.” 

He chuckles, a real belly laugh, and you struggle to find out why you can’t piece together a logical explanation for how he would know. 

“Well, apparently Baby Goose’s been losing his mind ‘round the base about how this really smart and sweet girl invited him to a wedding and won’t text him about it.” He shrugs before taking a long drink from his glass. “Thought it sounded like you. I meant to ask about it the other night, but once you turn eighty you forget things at the drop of a hat.” 

“Smart and sweet?” you want to ask, but you know that it would confirm rather than get you the answers that you want. You shake your head to dislodge the thought before furrowing your eyebrows. 

“. . . Baby Goose?” 

The older man plays with the paper coaster underneath his drink. A soft smile blooms on his lips. “We’re talking about Bradley Bradshaw. Correct?” 

You start to drum your fingers against the lip of the bar top. The thought of lying briefly crosses your mind until the sound of James Brown’s shriek at the beginning of “I Got You (I Feel Good)” startles you.  

“Uhh, hello? You still there, kiddo?” 

I have got to get better at answering quicker. 

You straighten your spine and pop your hand on your hip. “Wouldn’t the correct terminology be ‘gosling’?” 

He raises his brows, “Rooster. Baby Goose. Bradshaw. Gosling,” he rattles off, counting the phrases on his fingers, “Does any of this ring a bell?” 

You chew on your lip. The toe of your sneaker slides underneath the sole of your other one. The fidgeting tells Admiral Metcalf all he needs to know. 

“Maybe,” you say under your breath. 

“Maybe?” he questions. He leans forward to investigate your expression with his eyes. 

Another sigh exits your lips. “Okay, well, maybe a little.” 

You sound defeated, he thinks. He decides to investigate even though he can hear his wife’s voice in his head telling him not to. If he turns his head just a little bit to the right, his hearing aid catches the sound of the jukebox. He can’t focus on you talking and his wife’s voice if he also hears the jukebox. 

Sorry, Carrie. 

His chair swivels a little bit and he wipes his hands on his jeans. “It’s certainly more than a little, kiddo. Especially if you asked him to a wedding.” 

You scoff, annoyance painting the inside of your brain. Nosiness is one thing you absolutely cannot stand, and it’s the reason why you insisted on not moving back in with your mom after law school. Working yourself to the bone to study for the Bar during the day while mixing drinks and popping caps off of beer bottles at night seemed worlds better than having your privacy invaded constantly. Tired or private. From where you stand currently, it’s safe to say you picked the latter. 

Or so you thought. 

“So is this just a thing?” You can feel your heart rate speed up as you start to become defensive. “Like, a trend where all you Hard Deck patrons like to gossip and spread rumors?” 

“It’s not a rumor if it’s true.” 

You almost roll your eyes but the politeness you were raised with paired with your people-pleasing won’t let you. 

“Yeah, but it’s technically gossip if you didn’t hear it from me,” you state directly, “How do you even talk to all these people on the base? Aren’t you retired?” 

Admiral Metcalf chuckles. “I may be in bed by 8 every night but it doesn’t mean I’m not social, my dear.” 

“Okay, but why would your connections be talking to you about Gosling?” You lean on your forearms and glance at the cash register to make sure someone isn’t waiting to be served. Your eyes glance back to the older gentleman sat in front of you. “Aren’t you guys like. . .fifteen generations removed from each other?” 

He gently pats your arm with his calloused palm. “You’re a funny girl.” 

“You’re dodging my question,” you frown, sitting up straight and grabbing him his usual glass of water he drinks before he decides to go home. 

He mouths a quick “thank you” before taking a sip. “Did it ever occur to you that I was a pilot?” 

The wheels in your brain start turning to decipher why he would say that and how it would mean that he and Bradley know each other. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” 

“And a Top Gun instructor.” 

“Okay. . .?”  You’re starting to get the hint now, but it still just seems like a lot of abstract events put together. 

“I taught Maverick and Goose.” 

Penny’s “boyfriend, not-boyfriend” who comes in to pick her up or hang out on days when the crowd is as dead as a cemetery. Maverick. 

But who’s - 

“Goose?” you ask, finishing your question out loud.  

“Bradley’s father.” 

And shit. Oh shit. Fucking shit! 

“I- You- Wait-” you stammer. He simply sips on his water, amusement painted on his features at the signs of your internal panic. 

“So that’s how I know. I keep in touch with Maverick and he just happened to mention the absolute mess Rooster’s been the past couple days about this wedding,” he declares, “Which, by the way, is kind of rude to invite someone and then not go into detail about it. Don’t you think?” 

Your mouth opens and closes in shock, the magnitude of your recent revelation being endorsed by the silence coming from you. 

Your brain can’t even begin to wrap around all the degrees of separation and acquaintances and friendships Bradley has from the bombshell of information that was just dropped on you. This place is just littered with people who probably knew him before he was Rooster; all puppy fat and awkward haircuts. You bet there’s probably a series of his prom and high school graduation photos that circulated from eye to eye. 

But this also means that if you go through with it, that if you actually bring him with you to Long Beach this weekend, you’ll become part of that essence of knowing - everyone knowing what Bradley told them and your entire weekend spent with him being a topic of discussion. 

You try to get over the dehumanizing feeling that will come with being called “Hard Deck Girl” after this weekend when he inevitably tells Maverick about his weekend who will then tell Iceman who will probably tell Admiral Metcalf. You can’t bear to think about all the snickers and teasing that will come from Bradley’s group of friends. 

Hangman loves to tease you already. You don’t think you’ll survive more “pigtail pulling” if word gets out about Bradley having to hold your hand and awkwardly slow dance with you on Saturday. 

Admiral Metcalf lets out an impressive-sounding whistle that catches your attention and brings you back to Earth.

“That’s one gorgeous Bronco,” he comments, head turned to look outside the windows of the bar. “Used to have one just like it years ago.” 

Your eyes follow his gaze to see the cobalt blue vehicle parked in one of the empty spaces of the parking lot. The headlights fade as the owner steps out of the vehicle and - 

Fuck! 

He has a soft bounce in his strut. His Raybans are tucked into the collar of his white t-shirt. The light-wash denim of his jeans hugs his legs just the right way. His slightly rosy cheeks and tanned forearms bulging from his shirt make him unmistakable. 

Bradley Bradshaw is about to walk into the bar. On a Wednesday night. While the crowd is drier than the Mojave. 

And there’s nowhere for you to run. 

He has a slightly faster pace set to his walk than he usually does. . . Not like you spend your time watching him walk (even though you do, and you’d rather roll over and die than admit that to anyone). 

“Good luck getting him back on that perch,” Admiral Metcalf speaks up. He opens his worn leather wallet and fishes out a fifty-dollar bill. “He won’t fly back up there once he gets off.” 

You follow him to the cash register to ring him up. The drawer is opened and the bills counted for his change before he stops you. 

“Keep it. Part of your tip,” he says, “Least I can do for all the trouble I’ve caused you tonight.” 

You begin to thank him before the saloon-style doors open and Bradley stands dead in the center, hands on his hips and eyes grazing the surroundings. 

“Good luck, kiddo. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it,” Admiral Metcalf says before turning on his heel. He claps Bradley on the shoulder as a brief greeting and continues his stride outside to the parking lot. 

Your heart starts beating in your chest erratically; a tell-tale sign of white hot panic that makes your knees buckle and heat grow on your scalp. 

And you’re. . . starting to sweat? 

Fuck, fuck, fuck! 

Bradley spots you while you stand paralyzed at the cash register. Your fingers are shaky and a lump in your throat starts to form. You feel like a deer in headlights when he begins to stalk forward to approach you. 

“I’ve gotta bone to pick with you, missy,” his voice booms, his steps coming to a halt. 

His hands spread and turn as he leans on the table; eyes locked on your face. 

Your adrenaline kicks in and your feet start to move faster than your brain. A harsh swallow plagues your throat before you book it to the kitchen; french braid slinging heavy on your back and the bucket of lime wedges on your mind. 

Bradley zips around the oval-shaped bar top and grabs your waist before you make it out of the opening. His hands squeeze your sides softly. If you were in your right frame of mind, your cheeks would have flushed.  

“Uh-uh,” he says, whipping you around to face him. His grip falls to your forearms; holding you firmly but not enough to hurt. “What’s your deal, kid?” 

His breaths are exasperated. When he left work today, he had no idea that he would be chasing you around the bar like a goddamn dog who had gotten off its leash. Despite being in good shape (which he takes pride in, given the number of shirtless runs he does in his neighborhood) he still finds himself a little winded. 

Your eyes are almost bulging out of your head. His touch feels electric and you feign the ability to even think about opening your mouth to respond. Bradley Bradshaw is here, right in front of you, and almost holding you hostage. 

Hostage is dramatic, you think. But so is chasing me. 

“I-” you start. Another harsh swallow forces its way down your throat. At this point, you think that swallowing your spit is the only way you can remind your body to breathe. 

Bradley’s eyes soften at your frazzled state. He takes his hands off of you and drops them back to his sides. 

“I- I need to get the lime wedge bucket,” you rush out, the entire sentence sounding like one phrase. 

“Let me come with you,” he says. 

Your eyes widen in surprise. “You’re not allowed back there.” 

“Yeah well, you’re not allowed to ghost me about a wedding you invited me to, but look where we are,” he counters back. His legs start toward the kitchen hidden behind gray steel doors near the back. 

You stand frozen; trying to catch your breath and looking around to still see an empty bar with no signs of life. 

“Are you coming or not?” he calls out, a smile on his face juxtaposed to the annoyed expression he wore a few minutes ago when he caught you. 

And if it were anyone else, you would be utterly annoyed. You would refuse and start rattling off how it’s a health code violation for patrons to be in the back serving area or how it was inappropriate or how you didn’t want anyone to come in and clean out the Hard Deck while you were distracted. 

But because it’s Bradley and because you have this stupid big fat school girl crush on him, you don’t say anything even though you so badly want to. 

He’s already a little annoyed with me, you think. He doesn’t want to hear me ramble on top of that. 

Your sneakered feet follow him into the terracotta quarry-tiled kitchen in the back. He moves to the side to allow you to step in front of him in pursuit of the infamous lime wedge bucket you had your heart set on. 

The silence between the two of you is deafening, but you can’t even rub two of your brain cells together to form a coherent sentence that won’t leave you hunched over in embarrassment. Having a crush as an adult is downright embarrassing. But having a crush as an adult on an older, more refined adult is absolutely humiliating. 

The industrial refrigerator stands sleek and tall. The door weighs as heavy as it looks and you damn near pull your shoulder out of socket every time you attempt to open it. More than often, Penny has to come save you and open it because you can never seem to get the resistance of the rubber door gasket to give way. 

Thankfully, the door opens with a heavy tug and the bucket of limes was left on a shelf you could reach. You pop the fridge door closed with your hip before you start a fast-paced walk back to the bar; leaving Bradley behind to scramble up to you once again. 

In hindsight, your body language and lack of talking makes you seem furious and annoyed. And maybe you are, but it’s mostly frustration and annoyance pointed at yourself because you can’t just be fucking normal. 

No, because you have to be the odd one out of your family. You have to be the one cousin who got dumped by her “perfect” dentist boyfriend (who treated you terribly, but you never complained aloud to your family for your fear of being called ungrateful and unbecoming). You have to be awkward and sensitive and young with a silly-ass schoolgirl crush on a gorgeous man who David of Michelangelo envies.  

The bucket of lime wedges is slammed on the counter before you realize what your hands are doing. 

Bradley rounds in front of the cash register, a sheepish look on his face. “Hey, kid,” he whispers, “I’m sorry for barging in on you like that. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

A wave of guilt breaks the tide in your brain. He’s apologizing, and it’s sincere. It’s certainly not anything you’re used to. Usually, everything is your fault and you find yourself pushing your feelings aside to accept a half-assed apology. 

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have invited you to something that’s such a big deal and then refused the details,” you say. 

And you should stop there, you know, but you do that stupid thing you do about having to over-explain everything and keep going. Word vomit to the maximum. 

“I mean, I think I kind of bombarded you about it? I know you said that you would go and that you didn’t mind, but it’s really a lot to ask of someone to come with you and fill in for your ex in front of your shitty family who has a cow because you didn’t get married right after undergrad.” 

You rock back and forth on your heels and you pinch your fingers together to help soothe yourself. The anxiousness exuding off of you is obvious and Bradley can’t help but feel extremely guilty for making you feel horrible on top of what feelings you were already dealing with. 

“You can really say no, Bradley. My feelings won’t be hurt if you do. Honest,” you whisper, finishing your statement. 

Feeling small isn’t foreign to you in the slightest. 

His eyes soften even more. He recognizes the doubt written all over you. He’s felt that way so many times before. 

“I said what I meant, and I really wanna go to that wedding with you. Honest to God, I mean it,” he says, taking a seat on a stool nearby. “I just need to know what the plan is so I can pick you up and everything. Don’t want my suit to clash with your dress now, do we?” 

A small giggle leaves your lips. “Alright, Casanova. You’ve convinced me.” 

He extends his hand out to you. “Deal?” The large palm looks inviting, but you’re sure the adrenaline coursing through your veins has made your hands clammy. 

Your brows knit together and your lips pull themselves into a straight line. “What the hell are you doing?” Suddenly, you’re self-conscious about the potential armpit stains that may have soaked your tank top. 

Goddamn nerves. 

He contorts his expression into one of faux offense. “Making you shake on it. What the fuck does it look like?” 

You let out a breath through your nose. “I mean, exactly that, but don’t you think that’s too. . .” 

“Sophisticated? Formal?” He grins as if he had just won the lottery. 

“Little Rascals -esque.”  

Bradley kisses his teeth before laughing. “You’re never too old to relish in the magic that’s The Little Rascals.” 

“What happens if I don’t shake?” you question, fingers drawing circles on the surface near the cash register, “Will I be a target of the He-Man Woman Haters Club?” 

“Unfortunately, I can’t confirm but I can deny only if you shake on it and promise me a dance.” 

You shake your head before he finishes his sentence. 

“I’m a terrible dancer.” 

“Then I’ll make sure my dress shoes are steel-toe,” he reasons, shrugging his broad shoulders. His biceps subtly flex and you almost bite your lip but the fact that he’s so close and can see your expression makes you withhold. 

“You really wanna go still?” 

“How many times do I have to say yes, kid? I want to go with you and I promise you that we’ll have the best time ever. Is that clear enough?” 

Penny waltzes back in before you can answer. Her eyes hold a mischievous glint as they look at the interaction going on between you and Bradley. She sends you a soft wink before she joins you behind the bar. 

“Bradley!” she greets with a grin, coming to come rest next to you and in front of his seat. 

“Hey, Pen. Mav taking you out on the bike today?” 

She subtly bumps your hip with hers. She’s about to stir up some trouble. 

“No, no,” she sighs, “I have to close up here tonight so we’re going this weekend.” 

Bradley nods as you stand frozen next to her. 

“Speaking of weekends,” she chirps, “What are your plans, Bradley?” 

I love Penny. I love Penny. I love Penny. If I say it enough, I won’t wanna kill her. 

“Oh, the kid and I were planning on going to her cousin’s wedding in Long Beach. We were actually just talking about it,” he answers as Penny lets out a dramatic sigh. 

“Oh thank God. The suspense of if she was actually gonna talk to you about it was killing us.”

“Us?” you ask, voice filled with irritation and concern. 

“Me, Pete, Tom, Mike,” Penny lists, “Jake and Rueben started a money pool. Guess Hangman’s a hundred and twenty dollars richer now.”  

You groan and pinch your nose between your fingers as Penny takes your shoulders into her palms and rubs them. She picks up a crate of shot glasses before turning to leave. 

“Bradley?” she calls, and his ears perk up. 

“Yes, ma’am?” 

“Stay out of my kitchen,” her eyes narrow playfully, “That’s a health code violation.” 

He holds his hands up with a grin. “You got it.” 

“You kids have fun this weekend. Gonna have to take tons of pictures and show them to me!” she exclaims before disappearing behind the same steel doors Bradley had followed you into earlier. 

A beat of silence passes; partly because you’re so stunned by what had just occurred. 

“So,” he clears his throat, “Now that I know you’re old enough to have watched The Little Rascals, what’s the plan? Like is this an overnight thing or a reception thing or?” 

You perk up at his question. 

“Oh, umm.” You subconsciously pick at your cuticles before forcing yourself to stop. Your mom and aunt would be disappointed to see them ripped to shreds. “So I kinda - well, it’s an overnight thing but we definitely don’t have to stay overnight.” 

He nods his head, ears intently listening to what you’re saying. You think he’s nodding his head to queue up a firm decline to your plans despite his insistence on going with you. 

“I mean, you don’t have to! You can like, drive home and come back the next day? Or not go to the rehearsal dinner and just meet me at the wedding? I just know that sleeping in the same room is gonna be weird and I think my room reservation only has one bed because like I said, I had a boyfriend whenever they booked it and I never changed it after we broke up and-” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he interrupts your word vomit, “Breathe, kid. Breathe.” 

You take a deep inhale in and you want to kick yourself for doing it at his request. 

Are you just gonna do whatever Bradley tells you to do, or do we actually have a fucking mind of our own? 

“Why would I leave you hanging like that? Huh?” He licks his lips subtly and you have to keep from drooling. “You asked me to come with you and I’m gonna go the whole time and have a blast.” 

You nod your head. Your thoughts and emotions have been bouncing off the wall in a vapid fashion from the two hours you’ve been clocked in. 

“Okay,” you whisper shakily. 

“Okay,” a laugh jumps from his throat and he leans in closer. “Can I get your number, at least? So I can call you instead and make it easier?” 

You’re reaching beneath the bar and grabbing aimlessly at the mason jar full of random gel pens and a roll of open receipt paper that was too short to be put inside the machine but too long to be thrown away. 

Lime green glitter ink spells out your phone number on the stark white paper before you wordlessly slide it over to rest near Bradley’s fingertips. 

He sends you a smile before pulling out his phone and typing the number into the keypad. You have to look away because if you don’t, you’re sure you’ll start hyperventilating. 

Your cell phone buzzes in your back pocket once, twice, thrice. 

“Are you…calling me?” you ask, head tilting to the side to meet his mischievous glint. 

“Context clues, kid. C’mon,” he replies. He holds his phone to his ear as he listens to the dial tone. 

You stand in disbelief in front of him. 

He shoos you with his hands. “Go on! Answer!” he urges. 

You sigh and playfully roll your eyes before slinging your phone out of your back pocket. You click the green phone icon on your screen before bringing it to your ear. 

“Hello?” 

“Alright, missy. What’s the address I’m picking you up from Friday afternoon?” 

Bradley Bradshaw may not be your boyfriend and probably will never be, but he sure knows how to play the part well enough to fool your family. He may even have you fooled too.

“Shit!” you yelp. Your upper body tenses up and you slam your curling iron on the countertop of your bathroom sink. 

The strong vibrations of your phone ringing move your device closer to the edge. You scramble to pick it up and bring it to your ear. You didn’t bother looking at the caller ID before answering. Odds are, it’s either your mother or your only cousin that you can actually stand, Hallie.

“Fuck,” you whisper before clearing your throat, “Hello?” 

You flash your neck in the mirror, fingers dancing around the irritated baby pink skin surrounding the already darkening magenta wound. The skin feels hot to the touch and you know that its placement makes it look more like a hickey than anything. Your mind starts to wonder if putting makeup on it would be a bad decision. 

“Hey, kid.” 

Fuck. Bradley. It’s Bradley. I forgot about Bradley! 

“I’m outside.” You take a deep swallow that you pray he can’t hear over the phone. “You said the house with the purple hydrangeas near the front steps. Right?” 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Am I this fucking stupid that I can’t even think of another word to use right now? 

The long pause doesn’t make Bradley hang up. 

“Kid? You okay in there?” The sound of a car door slamming can be heard through the receiver. You listen to the Carlsons down the street mowing their lawn. A few dogs are barking and the sound of Bradley’s shoes hitting the pavement plays a symphony with the bliss of what is a Friday afternoon at 2 PM encapsulates. 

His knuckles rap against your front door and you audibly gasp. Your finger hangs up the phone before sprinting to let him in. The flutters in your stomach make you feel like you might projectile vomit any second.  No amount of pep talks you had given yourself in the past two days can prepare you for the events of this weekend; not to mention Bradley and your big fat crush on him being the cherry on top. 

You swing the door open; a shocked Bradley staring at you and a frenzied heart damn near beating out of your chest. 

“I’m not ready yet!” you exclaim, turning your back and rushing back into your bathroom. You move so swiftly that you don’t even notice the bouquet of flowers clutched in his right hand. 

Fuck! The curling iron is still on. 

Bradley lets out a laugh. “Well, hello to you too.” 

You pick the iron back up and finish curling the piece of hair you had started on before being interrupted. 

“Sorry!” you shout back, “Give me five and I’ll be ready to go.” 

Bradley lets out a puff of air he didn’t know he had been holding in. If someone had asked him a month ago where he thought he would be spending a Friday afternoon in mid-March, he probably said he wouldn’t know for sure. 

Which is true. 

He’s worked out a schedule where he’s able to leave work by 11 AM on Fridays and what he does is often a wild card; his Fridays range anywhere from mundane errands to impromptu skydiving endeavors with Coyote and Phoenix. He might even go for a quick afternoon surf session if he feels up to it. 

He’ll admit, sometimes he imagines spending his Friday afternoons with you. In one timeline, he convinces you to ride down the coast with him at sunset. Another has you laying on your stomach at the beach with your nose shoved in a book pretending not to be ogling him while he surfs. 

Bradley even lets his mind wander to the possible tan lines on your hips and how he would graze his thumbs just beneath your bikini bottoms to feel the fullness of the skin there, but then he realizes how inappropriate that may be, and he lets the thought sit in the back of his brain unwatered and underdeveloped.

Besides, he was raised better than imagining women naked. . .Even though he thinks you’re absolutely stunning both clothed and naked. . .And would love the opportunity to see you na-

That’s beside the point. Get it together, man. 

His eyes survey the surroundings of your living room. Throw pillows and blankets. Candles on the coffee table. Books everywhere. Open windows create sunspots on the carpet. A vintage record player on the shelf of your bookcase and your Tango in the Night vinyl playing softly. 

He likes to think that in another life (he’s hopeful for this one, but he’s learned what having too much hope does to a person) your blue fuzzy blanket has a home on his cream-colored couch or that your Fleetwood Mac vinyl finds solace next to his Otis Redding and James Brown records. 

Bradley takes a seat on your couch. The brown butcher paper holding together the peony floral arrangement he had picked up crunches in his hand. The other pats along to the soft rhythm arrangement in time with “Mystified.” He can smell the faint scent of your perfume and the sounds of life you make, the small gasps and soft humming and whispered curse words, fill him with endearment. 

He’s so wrapped up in melting into your aura that he doesn’t even realize that you had left the bathroom until you stood dead in front of him; curled hair, makeup on, and an electric blue dress laying flawlessly on the silhouette of your body.

You make his mouth dry and any words that he wants to say disintegrate with how amazing he thinks you look. Him not saying anything makes you panic and you wonder if you forgot to blend the bronzer near your neck or if your blush was too pink or if there was a piece of hair you had forgotten or if the dress you had on actually made you look like a frumpy version of Aquamarine (a lot of or, or, ors). 

Bradley, please say something. 

He sits up straighter upon seeing you. The navy blue dress pants on his long legs bring out the green in his hazel eyes. Your heart feels warm at the thought of him matching you; especially after offhandedly mentioning that you were thinking of wearing a blue dress to the dinner rehearsal. 

Your eyes glance to his non-dominate hand and spot the pink peonies wrapped in butcher paper. The simple notion of him getting you flowers makes your knees weak, and the fact that he didn’t get them from the grocery store - that it was an arrangement that he had gotten from a florist - makes you wish you were a better woman and weren’t thinking of dropping to your knees right there in front of him and thanking him with a blowj- 

He doesn’t even think you look pretty enough to say something. Don’t get too ahead of yourself. 

“Oh,” he wipes his empty hand on the fabric of his pants, “These are for you.” He pushes the bouquet forward for your observation. 

A smile is center stage on your lips as you grab them from his grasp. “Thank you. This is really kind of you, Bradley.” You turn to head into your kitchen to grab a vase. 

She didn’t say they were pretty. Does she even like peonies? 

The silence surrounding you both is deafening. If you could ignore the slightly prickly feeling of heat eating away at the hairline on the back of your neck, you can almost forget that Bradley is even here. 

But the thing is, Bradley is here. He’s here and so present and you’re gonna have to give your poor heart a break from beating so fast if you want to survive this weekend without having a stroke. 

All the thought does is make you even more nervous (as if that’s even fucking possible at this point). 

“Okay, kid. If we’re gonna be together all weekend, this,” he points his finger between you and him, “Ain’t fucking happening. We need to tallllkkkk.” 

You swallow. “I -We are talking.” 

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” 

“Okay,” you whisper sheepishly, your bare toe grinding into the carpet. The friction sends a wave of heat to your otherwise numb toes. It’s unconventional, but at least it’s helping you feel something other than anxiety. 

He nods his head before standing up. His eyes glance at the gold watch on his left hand. “Well, it’s 2:30 and the rehearsal dinner is at 5. We need to get going if we wanna beat traffic.” 

“Okay.” 

He sighs, watched wrist coming down to lay his hand flat across his stomach. “Talking means more than just saying ‘okay.’ That’s not a conversation.” 

You pause for a moment. The flowers he had brought still rest in between the crease of your inner elbow. More silence ensues. You just don’t know what to say. 

He starts heading down your small hallway. The whiff of his cologne kickstarts your reaction. 

“Hey!” you say, starting to stalk after him, “What the hell are you doing?” 

He snickers. “Grabbing your bags? I was serious about getting a move on. Don’t want your folks to think your boyfriend is a slacker now, do ya?” 

Bradley grabs the two bags you had struggled to set outside your bedroom door with ease. You never forget how strong he looks (oggling at a guy three days out of the six you work will do that to you) but you always seem to forget how strong he actually is. 

You close your mouth before you begin to drool. Bradley will for sure be talking about this weekend with his friends and uncle. You don’t want to add any more embarrassing details to the story. Besides, your awkward preteen pictures from your mom’s Facebook hadn’t even been brought up yet. Some room needs to be saved for your utter humiliation. 

Your feet slide into the pair of heels you had set aside before you scramble to grab your keys and purse. How Bradley can move so quickly is beyond your thinking capacity as you haphazardly take the needle off of your record. Your eyes do a quick sweep over your living room to make sure that everything is turned off so you won’t magically come home to a fire safety example at the conclusion of your weekend. 

Now, if you can just make yourself stop feeling so jittery, you might be able to actually manage to fit your key into the lock of your front door. 

After what feels like three years (and the embarrassment of knowing Bradley probably watched you struggle), the keys are stuffed back into your purse before you pause on your porch. 

A black Ford F-150 sits curbside to your driveway. It doesn’t fit in with the SUVs and small sedans that make up the neighborhood you live in. You had never seen a car like this where you lived at all. Come to think of it, you had never seen this truck ever. 

Doesn’t Bradley drive a Bronco? 

Your eyebrows remain wrinkled with your puzzled expression as he rounds the back of the car; the resounding noise of the back door shutting makes his entrance known. He opens the passenger door for you and stands next to it. 

He squints as he looks up at you. The sun is blazing and he forgot to grab his sunglasses from his side of the door. 

“Cold feet?” he calls. 

You start to head down the stairs and onto the pavement. “It’s seventy-six degrees. I think cold feet is kinda ill worded.” 

“It’s a saying.” 

The crossed arms over your chest signal your apprehension. Bradley stands before you, leaning against the truck and his arm slung on the top of the cab. He raises his brows at you and does a gentle motion of his head to the seat, inviting you to climb in. Even next to the large vehicle, he still looks. . .huge. 

In a good way! In a good way. He’s actually really fit and I’m shaking inside and I’m sure I’m sweating and I have got to stop wearing light colors in front of him because he can probably see the sweat and - Oh God. Oh God, the seats are leather. What if I sweat all over them? 

The lump in your throat is swallowed as you stand before him. “This isn’t your car,” you say lamely. 

He scoffs. “Spying on me? Do you have my license plates memorized too?” 

You know he’s teasing and that he doesn’t mean it literally, but you almost answer, “yes” because you do. Thankfully, you’re in the stage of your anxiousness where you clam up instead of puking your words out. 

You cock your head to the side, eyes narrowed because of the bright sun. 

“How do I know it’s not stolen? What if we get pulled over because it’s stolen?” you wonder, and then the word vomit picks up and - “ I can’t go to jail! I had nothing to do with it and the ABA is gonna pull my Bar application if we get arrested and I spent too much damn money and worked too damn hard to let an F-150 ruin it for-” 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters into a small laugh, “I know you love the Bronco,” he gives you a teasing look, “But the Bronco has no air and I figured that since we’re driving two hours on the highway, you would appreciate not having to ride with the windows down the entire time.” 

“You still haven’t confirmed that it’s your car.” 

“You know, for someone so smart, you are extremely bad at picking up on obvious context clues. Why the hell would I steal a pickup truck and then drive you to a wedding in it?” 

You scrounge your brain for a reply. “. . .For the plot?” 

He whistles and crosses his arms over his chest, mimicking your current stance. “Wow. I have a comedian for a date.” 

“I’m serious. It could be a possibility!” 

“Well I don’t think “felon” looks good next to “painstakingly handsome,” so I’ll pass.” 

You remain standing in front of him. Stubbornness was a quality that your mother both loved and loathed and you know it, but Bradley has yet to see this side of you yet. Your arms wrap around your torso tighter and your eyebrows are raised every so slightly. 

Bradley knows what you’re doing. He used to do it to Maverick all the time when he was growing up. You’re digging your heels in. 

“C’mon. Don’t start poutin’ on me before I even get to disappoint you with my dancing,” he quips. He brings his face closer to yours before flashing you a toothy smile. 

You sigh dramatically before letting him help you into the seat. The gentle “Atta girl,” he gives you pinkens your cheeks. You pray he won’t notice your flushed face when he sits on the driver's side of the car. Every interaction you’ve had with him has kept you tossing and turning at night because of your nervousness. 

So many things you wish you could take back and so many ways you wish you could act normal; a never-ending cycle of “could’ve, would’ve, should’ve,” and the thought leaves a small seed of sadness in your stomach.