#it will not ever be a fic i am sorry

[arsenicflame]

currently riding a post con high which is... really nice actually! probably a sappy post to come but for now, heres my june plans that for once, dont involve sewing !!!! (except the one that does)

scenario out some of the ideas in my notes, including finally pt 2 to the edizzy amnesia post. the list is getting way too long now, its time to type some out

the uncharted steddyhands au gets her own bullet point- ive already put so many words into a draft just trying to explain my motivations behind picking characters, shes gonna be a whole project in her own right (not that i actually know what im doing with her)

podficcing!!!!! i recorded a couple drafts at the end of last year for some friends and they went down pretty well & i had a lot of fun so i want to get more into that now i have time! ill polish up those ones first & then maybe.... record some new ones?

more edits!!! ive got two lyric ones and i think one chat one off the top of my head that ive saved to make one day!!!!

some write ups about anne maybe! i actually did not get greattttt anne content this weekend sadly but. i can at least write about the making side of it? i think i have some things i wanna talk about anyway (thisll be on the sewing blog)

& last but certainly not least, a folding foraging pouch for my dear beloved sage <3 this started as just (sends video) (i want one) (i could probably make it) and now its a wholeeee project that i am very excited to figure out the details of!!!!! i think i have some good ideas for improvements to the design we first saw, but we will have to see as i actually prototype it!

gonna be a busy month but hopefully fulfilling!! the start of this year has been a complete mess for me but i think maybe its finally time to start living <3

[hoshiina]

— a guy asks for your number ft. hoshina, narumi, reno

warnings: mentions dick and profanities in hoshina's

[sunnymainecoonx]

How many people witnessed softie food addict horror who needed something in his mouth or he would actively kill and turn to cannibalism 🧍‍♀️ or was that just me.... anyways honestly it was silly.. he'd maybe get along with cook horror... I just like fanon crossovers guys*sadge

Anyways canon horror is also silly(really silly. What an asshole, man)(no seriously he's actually such an asshole.. I might love him for that but-) I don't think he would get along with the others(loser)

[faeriekit]

Health and Hybrids (XXVII)👽👻💚

[I can't remember the original prompt posters  for the life of me but here's a mashup between a cryptid!Danny, presumed-alien!Danny, dp x dc, and the prompt made the one body horror meat grinder fic.]

🖤Chapter navigation can be found here🖤 Click to browse previous updates.

💚 Ao3 Is here for all parts 💚 (now featuring mediocre mouseover translations, only available on a computer)

Where we last left off... Danny has another hashtag breakdown! Diana helps mediate. Stinky Dad and the Alien Guy observe.

Trigger warnings for this story:  body horror | gore | post-dissection fic | dehumanization (probably) |  my nonexistent attempts at following DC canon. On with the show.

💚👻👽👻💚

Danny’s space-watching time is very important to him. He’s pretty sure it’s on his schedule, even.

Every few days—and even more days in a week, now that people are relatively certain that he’s not going to start hitting the medical staff—Danny gets wheeled over to the big window to stare out at the moon.

The moon hasn’t changed all that much since his first few visits, since. You know. It’s in space. Still, the stars shift in their positions, and sometimes they face Earth, and sometimes they do not, and a couple times Danny sees people flying out there, which is super neat.

Sometimes Danny sees maintenance workers out doing repairs on their buildings, too. They wave back at him when they’re not busy or carrying something, which makes Danny’s core bubble and spark with joy.

So, Danny is watching the stars twinkle in the sky with all the meditative calm his Obsession requires when something plops onto his head. It doesn’t hurt, but it does put pressure onto his neck. Ow.

Danny hisses automatically, but he already knows who it is—the quick-fast-kid-who-hasn’t-introduced-himself practically vibrates against Danny’s skin, all excited by omg/omg/misch/iefomg.

Typical. Danny wants to feign a bite, but his neck kind of hurts. He settles for grumbling. “What?”

“Dude,” the teenager says, or, uh, Danny approximates he says something kind of like dude, anyway— “Want to come see a feoht?”

Uh. “A what?” Danny asks, ignoring how the guy’s chin keeps digging into his scalp. It might be the most non-medical physical contact Danny’s had since he broke down with Diana. Maybe.

The teen backs up, and models some very quick punches into the air, making his own sound effects to match. It’s all very impressive, or whatever. Danny’s not going to applaud, though; his arms are tired.

“…Sure.” It’s not like Danny has anything better to do.

“Berstan!” the kid chirps, and—

Danny clamps down on his wheelchair wheels because holycraptheyaremoVINGFAST. His wheels aren’t on the ground—the teen is carrying him, chair and all—!

He’s going to be in so much trouble for running. Danny’s wheels touch the ground, and he drops straight to the floor. His hands shake all the way up to his elbows as he grips his wheels. He is going to be in so much trouble when the nurses look for him and he’s not there.

Oh no. Oh no.

“Here we are!” the quickfast teenager announces, grinning. They’re in a room with a big, rubberized floor. It’s basketball orange. The rest of the room is virtually indistinguishable from the cloth folding walls Casper High uses to divide the gym into smaller gyms—giant cloth panels line every surface that isn’t the floor. Walls. Ceiling.

Well. It’s certainly…sound dampening. There’s vents, though. So. At least they can breathe.

The other teenagers Danny recognizes yell out to them, cheerful as ever. One waves—the kid behind him waves back, and then they’re all clustered together, pleased and breathing heavy and slightly sweaty.

“Feel alright?” one teen asks—Danny recognizes him after a second; he usually has a leather jacket on over his brightly colored shirt. He isn’t sure what the huge S is for, but hey, it’s a cool emblem or whatever. Danny used to have his initial on his…

…Danny doesn’t want to think about that, actually. He doesn’t want to think about anything about home at all.

Oh. Someone asked him a question, and now they’re all looking at him for answers. Danny nods jerkily—something sloshes inside his skull, though, which. Ew. He scrunches his face up when everyone else starts to look worried about his expression, though; it’s no big deal! It’s just! Gross!

The boy who is very fast pats his hand before sliding to the other side of the room. There are buttons there, which he presses; the room shifts, just a little, to make a piece of the floor turn away in favor of a rack of weapons. The teenager who’s always masked, but is now in an exercise shirt, whistles approvingly, and two of the teens—whoah—start flying off to grab at the equipment available.

…There’s some cool stuff there. Danny. Danny might…

He doesn’t want to fight, per se, but. Um. Weaponry is intrinsically cool. There’s no doubt about it. Half the reason he liked to play Doomed was collecting the newest and coolest weapon to blast at all his enemies with! And Tuc—

—and—

—Tucker—

Something clicks right up in front of Danny’s face.

He flinches.

“You good?” the teenager asks, big blue eyes on him as Danny struggles to breathe. “Do you want hweorfan?”

Danny gasps around three uneasy breaths before his ears catch up. Or. Well, his ears work, but his brain doesn’t know what the teen is saying?? Danny shakes his head anyway—he doesn’t want more to happen. He wants less.

The teenager frowns. Danny immediately worries that he did something wrong. “Okay, but tell me if you change your mod.”

As soon as Danny figures out what that is? Sure. He’ll tell him.

In the meantime, the kids split up into groups; one set of two goes to one side of the gym and the other goes in the air, floating on the other si— wait, they can float??

…Danny stares, and two ostensibly human-looking teenagers take to the air, loudly teasing the two left on the ground, and, yeah. They’re flying. Danny watches as the one on the ground starts counting, ready to start their match, only to interrupt his own countdown for a sneak-attack at the start and a PIFF of a smoke bomb going off. Danny can’t see the buzzing kid disappear from sight as the air begins to thicken, but there’s a distinct taste of JOY/games/VICIOUS that flutters through him that tells Danny that, wherever he is in that smoke cloud, he’s living his best life.

 And. Well.

The fighting is—there isn’t a better word for it, it’s just so damn cool. There’s kicking and punching and throwing and tossing and—sure, Danny can take a few hits and deal out some surprise punches when he has to, but these kids know what they’re doing, which is so cool, because once Danny lost the benefit of gravity mid-fight basically everything Mom had trained in him had been thrown out the window. The physics were just never right.

(And— Mom—)

Like, all the punches are happening at speeds that Danny can only kind of follow. His neck starts hurting from trying to follow them—but he can’t stop watching, and the kids are really having a blast. They’re laughing. They’re teasing. They show off, even, stopping to pose and flex and be admired by their sole observer, which Danny obliges with some gentle claps. The others are quick to jump on any distraction, though, and are more than willing to have Danny be the center of attention while they sneak up on showstoppers, stick or lasso in hand.

On one hand, Danny should probably be more alarmed by the sight of kids acting as literal child soldiers training to be combat ready. He…he’s pretty sure he’s meant to be one of them as soon as he’s recovered enough to get trained.

And…it is scary. It is kind of a scary thought that Danny might have to go back to…go back to fighting and getting hit and hitting and everything that fighting means.

On the other hand, there’s no one here. All the kids here are Danny’s age, and they’re not fighting because someone is making them; they’re having fun, and their job is to help people.

…Danny puts his legs higher up on his wheelchair, until he can wrap his arms around his knees. They’re supposed to beat up threats, but they don’t think that Danny’s a threat. They’re letting him sleep in a bed and get medical care and making sure he gets medication and everything. They let him hang out with their children and he has toys and fidgets to pass the time, and maybe he’ll have to pay them back later, but… isn’t helping out because he got helped only fair?

And they let non-humans live on Earth! That one teen’s stinky dad said that they could help Danny stay on Earth, he thinks. Or, uh, it’s what he thinks the green guy translated that as? So as long as he doesn’t leave, they could even protect him from the— all the bad stuff on Earth! So really, all Danny has to do is work on getting better. He’s safe here. Diana is here, the stinky dad is here, and there’s a whole team of super-people with super powers ready to help people.

Danny’s safe. He’s calm. He’s fine. He’s…worried that Diana doesn’t know where he is, but she’s smart and there’s probably cameras.

He watches the teens play around with various weaponry like they’re his model rocket. There’re thrown projectiles and giant hammers and dodgeballs and sticks, staves, and lassos; someone pulls out a shield, of all things, glittering gold and gleaming with something that itches at the back of Danny’s eyeball, and there’s a gun that sh—

Danny only breaks out of the memory of RUNNINGRUNNINGRUNNING when he realizes that someone is holding him. He’s choking. He doesn’t know who’s holding him, but they’re not hurting him right now and he can see a crowd of other colorful figures around him, which means he’s not with the Guys in White.

He’s hyperventilating. He can’t help it. He can’t stop it! His lungs hurt and there’s no end to the stress pressing out of his chest. Someone is holding him; where’s his chair? Did he lose it?? That’s really expensive medical equipment—they’re going to be so mad at him—!

Someone lifts him out of the stranger’s arms. It’s one of the older quick-buzzing humans. Not the teenager, and not the oldest one, he thinks. Danny can’t tell. He can’t breathe, and it’s hard to focus.

He’s shushing Danny like he’s a kid. Danny would be insulted, except he can’t breathe, and he really wants someone to help him, and his eyes are all weird and he can’t see and he doesn’t know where he is and his core hurts and his chair is gone—

Oh. The guy puts Danny’s hand on his chest and models breathing in with one big, visible breath.

Danny breathes in.

The guy models breathing out. It’s a long, slow breath.

…Danny struggles through the follow-through, but he manages. Well. He chokes hard enough to cough, twice, but…close enough.

The colorful forms milling about slowly disperse, until it’s largely just Danny, and the fast guy radiating very measured levels of calm, and his friend in black and blue, who is eating a sandwich. They breathe in, and they breathe out. That one guy eats his sandwich.

Danny looks around. He’s…the room he’s in is really big. Tables. Benches. Little stands of foo… Oh. He’s in a cafeteria. Cool.

…He squints through the new haze of green in his eyes. He’s probably strained something, but there are more important things at stake here: can he get some real food here?

“Where is here?” Danny asks. Rasps. He’s mostly horizontal, so manipulating his head around to glance at his surroundings is kind of a strain on his neck. Is that a hot dog cart?

“Wistheall,” the two say simultaneously—the guy in black and blue and a bird on his chest swallows his sandwich. “…Want a snakka?”

You know what? Danny’s going to assume that this means a snack. Sure! Why not. Nodding his head so quickly hurts, but he’s also not walking anywhere, so it’s not like it’s a full-body pain. The buzzing-quick guy sort of just…carries him around and asks Danny what he wants, and the bird guy gets it for him.

The little vibrations the guy is giving off are tinged a little with wor/ryworry/worry, but the guy’s mostly…at peace? Forcibly shoved it all down? Danny and the guy are practically chest to chest at this point, so it’s probably just that Danny’s close enough to feel even really quiet things.

His suit is super smooth, by the way. It’s not, like, skintight—there’s a little armor underneath, Danny can feel—but the fabric itself is like super slick. It’s cool. Texturally.

Also, he gives Danny a tube of something that are clearly off-brand Prongles, so Danny’s mostly just enjoying that instead of wondering what’s up with this guy and his friend.

“Are you okay?” the guy finally asks, his chatter mostly winding down into a question Danny can recognize. Danny swallows his bite of chips with a swig from his water bottle, and nods. He’s…unsettled, but he’s fine. He doesn’t know where he is, but he didn’t know where the teenagers had left him either, so this is about what he expected.

Even under his red hood-and-mask, the guy’s eyes are kind. Kinda worried. Not mean. “Something bad happened?”

…Danny looks back at his chips. Something bad happened, but it didn’t happen recently. “No,” Danny muttered around the crumbs in his mouth. He swallowed dryly. “Not…not now.”

The vibrations slow, and dim, melancholy lacing through the air. The sensation makes Danny itch. “Before?”

Danny nods. He thinks about his body melting from the outside in, his face dripping off in chunks of wet matter, his throat torn open still screaming.

“It was a—“ Danny tries, but he doesn’t actually know their word for gun or blaster. He just forces his fingers to make a familiar symbol, holding his own middle and end fingers back, leaving a shaking, uncomfortable thumb and pointer.

The quiet pew pew sound effects probably aren’t necessary, but the more detail, the better, or something like that.

Danny remembers how hot it got. Just…all the heat and light, and he could smell smoke right up until he couldn’t. And his face…everything hurt—everything still hurts, even—but the scary point had been when suddenly his face hadn’t hurt, and there was nothing left to feel.

…The guy holding him pulls Danny’s fingers away from his face. Oh. Danny was pulling at his still-green, still-healing wound. He. Uh. He doesn’t remember starting to do that anymore.

“Sorry,” Danny whispers. He swallows something wet from his sinuses to his stomach, and has to fight back the memory of a blood-and-ecto-and-flesh slurry taking its place in his esophagus as he tried to crawl away to die. Again.

The man sends out pulses of sorrysorrysorry through his skin. “Me too,” he murmurs back.

Then Danny gets hitched up—Danny squawks—and gets thrown into a better position over one shoulder, so Danny has better height to see from and a better perch in the guy’s arms. Danny drops half his prongles on the floor in the process. “Want to go find your chair?” the guy asks, body vibrating just a touch outside of Danny’s conscious awareness. Still, even without seeing the guy’s face, his whole body radiates sympathy/curiOSITy/Hungry.

…Didn’t they just eat?

Either way, Danny’s not torn between staring sadly at the ground where his prongles lay cold and bared to the cruelty of the world or getting up to go find his chair. “Yes,” he agrees, and uses the flat of his forearms to haul himself up higher onto the guy’s shoulders. Kindly, the guy in red doesn’t even budge. “Thank you.”

“Na geswincan,” the guy reports back easily, which Danny is pretty sure is a less-formal you’re welcome. Too bad there’s a whole language’s worth of context Danny’s missing out on here. His friend even snags Danny an extra can of prongles, and is kind enough to rips open the seal for him.

Nothing beats recovering from a crying jag like chips. Danny takes them earnestly.

The quick-fast guy hooks his arm onto his friend’s, and the world starts to stretch and blend into the in-between planes of reality, slices of world layered atop each other. The guy smashes through each one and pulls them both along for the ride.

It’s not quite like dunking his head in the portal, but it’s not not like sticking his head in a homemade portal either. Danny shakily pulls out a chip and starts chewing. He’ll just take the ride as it comes.

*

“Superboy.”

Kon winces.

“Robin.” Wonder Woman’s eyes turn to the more remorseful end of the bunch. “Wonder Girl. Impulse.”

“Wedidn’tmeanto!” Bart wails into a pillow, which. Fair. Cassie is sweating from possibly every pore she’s ever had (and maybe even a few she doesn’t??), and Tim is doing that stoic-faced thing that means he’s flipping the hell out too much to even tell his face to make expressions about it.

Kon just looks…miserable. Just absolutely miserable.

“…Triggered by firearms, maybe…?” Tim mutters under his breath, which means that he’s theorizing about their guest’s symptoms rather than coming up with solutions-oriented paths out of this confrontation and Cassie wants to shake him because this is NOT the time, Timothy Jackson Drake, except he’s kind of made of mortal human flesh and if she actually shakes him too hard he might die.

“I hope you understand how deeply irresponsible it was to take our patient out of his rooms without any form of supervision from either myself, his medical team, or an adult up to speed with our patient’s medical and psychological needs.” Wonder Woman’s voice is sharp—and her eyes are on Timmy Wonder Boy, who’s barely paying attention, making it clear that the majority of her ire is currently on him. “All four of you are being taken off of mission rosters for the next month in favor of remedial training. I hope that you are all satisfied with the decisions you made.”

“Fiiiine,” Cassie groans. Kon slumps in place. Tim nods without really looking.

Bart, still wailing at lightning speed into his pillow, continues doing…that.

[dawnofiight]

Now Presenting: The Talbot Siblings

This is an excuse for me to draw Madelyn.

Her and Amanda are BFFs that's why both of them have dyed pink tips.

Amanda adopted Talbot

Tag list:

@sunsickcrab

@professionallyyappin

@themeridian

@ashertickler

@plaqying

@puffin-smoke

@pandoraroid

@infinitelovewiithoutfulfilmentt

@starlogician

@zimix-whispers

@aurorialwolf

@porters-fangs

@skunkox

[lillazyboithings]

Hey y'all! This is my first time participating in the @hatchetfield-bang! This is my art work for @ratsarecute4's fic called Ziria! (Link) Please go and check it out once it's released and make sure to check out the rest of the pieces that will be posted on the official hatchetfield bang account

[doomsdaybby]

a little sneaky peaky at the bestfriend!eddie x touch starved!reader smutty sweet goodness coming in the next couple days 🤭

[astrobei]

insp.

[honeyywoods]

what do we think about Jack Kelly with heterochromia? either partial or total but just some form of it. we have seen Jack swooning over Davey’s eyes but what about the reverse? what about Davey who didn’t even notice Jack’s eyes when they first met because there’s a lot going on and he’s not big on eye contact and he’s only just met this guy, but then once they’re in the theatre he decides to sneak a peek while Jack is watching the show and oh. he’s stricken by not only the different hues in Jack’s eyes but by the sheer difference between him outside - confident, self-assured, if not a little arrogant - and him in the theatre. He spends the rest of the show musing about this, only to come to the very unfortunate realization that he cannot, in fact, hate Jack Kelly.

[yeyinde]

more john price please. maybe reader is tongue pierced giving him sloppy head? 👀

"Haven't worn one in a while," you wink, cheeky and a little tipsy. Filled with liquid confidence in shades of amber malt that remind you of the taste on his tongue. You lean in close, agarwood tickling your nose. Eyes flash in a mockery of something demure, staid: lashes cresting, babydoll coy and saccharine sweet, over your glossy eyes in the way you know he likes. Your countenance might have been twee, virginal, but the words that seep from your lips are drenched in hedonism: sultry and sybaritic.  "Do you like it, baby?"

⇾warnings: unfettered filth; gendered reader, gendered terminology, female!reader; oral—m!receiving; dom!Price; this is basically just price fucking your throat; reader has a tongue piercing ⇾notes: i am so sorry this took so long. no excuses—but life got away from me for a moment. this has the flavour of sugar daddy Price, and maybe kinda sorta might be a small drabble piece to my sugar!daddy Price fic(s). —i listened to a very specific set of lana songs for this.

"Oh, fuck, love—," his hips lift from the seat of the armchair, forcing more of his spit-slicked cock into your mouth, nearly gagging you. "That's it—just like that—"

You sputter, nose burning at the way he plugs your throat with the blunt, fleshy head of his cock. It bludgeons into the soft lining in the back, pressing taut against the gummy walls that flutter, flexing, around him. His hand is ironclad against your skull, keeping you pliant, open for him. Just for him—

It borders on too much, riding that hazy line between what you can take and what you can't. Your mettle is tested by each inch he forces inside of your esophagus, delicate flesh coloured a mosaic of blue and black as he splits you apart. Your eyes are drenched in tears running down your cheeks as his cock spears your throat, a brackish sea loch, turning you into nothing but a conduit for his pleasure. A receptacle for him.

Really, though: you have no one to blame but yourself.

When you first flicked your tongue out at him, a pretty titanium barbell catching in the soft light of the pub, you thought you broke him. 

Knuckles blanched on the glass tucked inside his palm. The calm lake of his eyes rippled when you rolled the ball across your upper lip, frothing, gyre-intense, and arsenic white.

(It tasted like victory, then. Now it tastes of firth and sea spray.)

His voice was low when he spoke, a brassy rumble that barely fit through the grit of his teeth. "You didn't tell me about this, love."

"Haven't worn one in a while," you winked, cheeky and a little tipsy. Filled with liquid confidence in shades of amber malt that remind you of the taste on his tongue.

You lean in close, agarwood tickling your nose. Eyes flash in a mockery of something demure, staid: lashes cresting, babydoll coy and saccharine sweet, over your glossy eyes in the way you know he likes. Your countenance might have been twee, virginal, but the words that seep from your lips are drenched in hedonism: sultry and sybaritic. 

"Do you like it, baby?"

His knee hits the underside of the table, the noise only just drowning out the groan that drags, crumpled and ruined, out of his throat. Heady chamois chokes the giggle from your chest when he looms over you, hand white-hot on the skin of your thigh, pushing up the hem of the pretty lace dress.

(The one he bought for you.)

You glance up, and the air is smothered out of your lungs. Intense, bonfire-bright.

"We're going home."

Fullstop. A command. No room for arguments. Not that you could make any with the heavy way he stares at you, eyes drifting to your gaping mouth where the metal surprise catches in the glow.

There is a click in your throat when you swallow, heart lurching in your chest. Your belly burns with the smoke from his cigar, and amber malt from his glass. 

His thumb notches inside of your thigh. Danger close, as they say. You wonder if he can feel the dewiness staining your skin. 

Price hums low in his throat–a rasping trill that makes you feel like you're a stripped wire. Flayed. Open. Raw. 

His eyes are storm clouds over the sea: a thunderclap in the granite distance. He speaks, a rucked husk over smouldering sandalwood, and your spine tingles with the way his slurred accent curls over the words. 

"And when we get there, love, I want you on your knees," his fingers press into the dampening gusset of your panties, eyes sapphire grey. "And we'll see how much I like it."

Which, of course, turned out to be a lot. 

You pull back, gasping, and wrap your hand around the base of him where he pulses like a heartbeat in your palm. Teary eyes flicker up to him, lashes clumped together, watery from when he'd fisted your hair in his hand and pushed you down to the base. Yeah, take all of me, love. 

His eyes glide to you, lidded and heavy. Price gazes down at you, lips pulled up in a wry smile as he watches you fall to pieces with just his cock buried deep in your throat.

In petulant retaliation, you drag the metal ball across his frenulum; a slow roll that makes his eyelids drop, head falling back with a grunt of liquid sin. 

Suede fills your nose when his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking the skin below your wet, glossy lip. You lap at his sensitive, flushed tip, eyes fluttering. 

You can't get enough of the way he tastes—clean pine, wet skin, salt. You drink it down like you're parched for him. And you are. His taste rides the line of nicotine and power. It's stupid, really, but think you could stay on your knees for his man as long as he'll have you. Desperate in a selfless way: one that makes you want to hear his smoky growls, the grunts of pleasure, and bask in the briny tang of him in your mouth. 

You pull back, dragging your hand up his aching flesh. Precum beads at the tip. Your mouth waters. 

It's a feast: the way his thick, fat cock glistens from your spit, flushed vermillion; long veins throbbing under your fingers, pulsing through the velvet flesh. The flared, wet mushroom head. The bulge an inch below, a swollen slope that stretches you unexpectedly when he has you on your back, your knees; fat head shoved inside. Then the stretch, the burn, as he pushes the rest of his girth into you. Unending, all the way to the base. Price is stocky. Thick. 

Your jaw aches already. 

His stare burns when you meet it over the leaking tip of him, chin falling on his hairy thigh. Lachrymose eyes wide and wanting. An innocent whore. 

(Just for him. Just the way he likes it.)

He groans when your tongue flicks out, lapping at the base of him, tongue ring rolling over his baby blue vein. 

You breathe in the smell of him—musky, manly: weathered wood, wet earth; loam, humus—and feel your core pulse at the heady scent burning your nose, clotting in your lungs. Your eyes flutter, dimming at the intoxicating miasma of him making your head swim. Your head rolls, cheek flattening on his thigh. The coarse hair tickles your nose. You rub your skin against his, the warmth bleeding into your smarting cheeks. 

His hand falls to your head, thumb brushing over your temple as you lick around the base of him, trailing just the tips of your fingers up and down his hard, twitching length. It's lazy compared to earlier, but you need a moment to breathe. To dilute the hypoxia in your head.

His hand is warm on your skin, like the thigh beneath your cheek. They smell of tobacco, smoke. Your eyes flicker up, catching his sapphire gaze. 

It's a small lull: a moment when you just take him in, feeling the pulse of him under your hands. Gentle, despite the burn in your jaw from how wide you had to stretch it to fit him. The scratchy ache in your throat. It's hushed. His hips flex in your hands, cock bobbing and dribbling prespend as your whispered graze only just barely touches the velvet skin. 

His fingers curl in your hair, eyes shaded in desire. He rasps low, a small breathless rumble spilling from his lips. "Better stop teasing me, love." 

You roll the ring over your bruised lips. "What are you going to do about it?" 

His eyes crease, tight around the corner. A little rumbling breath spilled from his lips. His chest sinks with his exhale. "You won't like to find out." 

It's not a threat. Not really. It's a promise.

There is a slight pressure against your jaw. Your mouth parts, falls open under his wordless command. 

"Good girl—," it's almost a snarl: ashy and brittle. "Keep your mouth open for me, yeah?"

He knocks your hand away from his cock, and curls his long, thick fingers over the girth. 

You soak him in, breathing deeply so as to keep the tang of him inside of your lungs. A whimper falls when he grips himself tight, head blooming vermillion and spilling more milky precum. He holds it there, letting you watch the way his prespend dribbles down the hard length, gathering at the seal of his hand. 

A huff leaves him when he sees your thighs rub together, eyes—dewy and lachrymose—fixed on the fat swell of him. The ticking veins running down the sides. Your saliva and his cum pool at the base, covering his heavy balls in the combined slick. 

It's intense. Blisteringly hot. You want him inside of you, splitting you open, and making you take him all the way to the root. Deep, hard thrusts until you can feel them slap against the seal of your cunt pulled taut around the girth of him. You want him to fill you up until you can taste him in your throat, until your belly bulges with the heft, ballooning from the cum he pours into your womb. 

You want him to use you. Fuck you stupid until you're swollen and full to near bursting—

The breath pops in your throat, sticking to your larynx when he pulls his cock down, the slick head dragging over your cheek. The noise he makes is caustic. It burns through you until you're gasping from the blue heat of him. 

He drags his palm up his length until the head disappears through the seal of his hand. The sound it makes is slick, tacky. Your thighs press together, tighter, desperate, to stem the ache, teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue until the metal ball scrapes across your gums. 

Price looks at you for a moment, gaze softening in the flushed light of the lamp, and it's there you feel the throb in your belly start to thunder. You shift your knees, searching for friction, a little whimper spills out, quivering with longing. 

Sprawled on the chair, trousers barely pushed down his thick thighs, and with his flushed, wet cock sitting fat and heavy in his palm, he looks like he was carved from smoke, and made just for you. 

His beard twitches. The hand on your jaw tightens just a little. Just enough to bring you back into focus. Your eyes drop again. Obedient. Docile.

"Fuck," the word falls like the crack of a whip. He lifts the fat head of his cock from your tongue, and pushes it against the metal peaking through your flesh. Prespend drenches your upper lip as he rubs his cock over the piercing. "You suck my cock so good, love. You want it bad, don't you?"

You can't speak. Can't think— 

The wet, heavy thud of his cock dropping over your mouth makes your eyes squeeze shut. A whimper drags out of your throat when he does it again, and again. His cock slaps over your panting mouth, stinging your flesh, and making your cunt ache.

"Please—," it's slurred around the weight of him pressing against your mouth. Your eyes open, find his. Pleading. Begging. The words tumble out, broken and needy, from your blistered lips. "Please, baby. I wanna choke on your cock—"

"Fucking hell, love—"

His cock slips over your lips, your ring, and he pushes it down your throat, until the head of his cock hits the gummy, slick wall at the back. You gag. Tears blur your eyes, leaking down the corners. It's not enough to choke you, but it makes your chest tighten, and your head swim. Black dots moult across your vision. Your hands grasp his knees, fingers digging into the rumbled fabric of his trousers. Ground yourself. Breathe through it. Easy, and steady.

Hypoxia isn't enough to stop you from getting his cock as deep into your throat as you can. 

A briny purl slips out from his mouth when you gasp, tears soaking your cheeks. 

His thumb brushes across your cheekbones, smearing the tears that steam down, and catching them on his rough skin. The touch is softer than it has any right to be with him drowning you in the precum that weeps from the tip, spilling down your throat. It's gentle, reverent. The starchy, warm pads of his fingers ask if you're okay if you can take more. Always so considerate.

Your eyes lift, bleary and gritty, and you find him through the haze of smoke billowing out from the end of his cigar. 

There is a burn in the back of your neck, your jaw, but you breathe through the pain that licks at you, and hold his molten gaze, drenched in pleasure at the warm, wet give of your flesh. The pinch between his brow is full of euphoria, but it oscillates now with unease, with that cosseting veneer that makes his hands ease off your body, giving you distance. The very thing you don't want. 

The sight of him—dressed in shades of smoke and tobacco—pools inside of you like a sickness, a fever. He's a rough cut of a man: guttural snarls and resonant growls of displeasure, of anger brimming in the furrow of his brow, but you'd never been touched with such reverent adoration before. The smeared sheen under your eyes, the deep rubescent flush to your cheeks, and the lost haze in your eyes, all make him shudder with barely constrained desire.

He's greedy for you. Hands always on your skin like an addict; desperate for one more pull. One more hit. 

And yet—

Price doesn't take. 

He gives you what you want, always: the searing heat of his hands, the bulk of his body, the brutal snap of his hips sending you into the throes of nirvana, his teeth digging into your neck when you offer it up so prettily for him. But rarely, rarely, does he give into that rapacious hunger that curls like fine smoke in the pits of his eyes. 

You want him to break. Shatter. You want this man to fall apart in your arms, so you can reassemble him again. You want to be crushed under the weight of it with him until the end of him and the beginning of you is a blurry line. A pulverised puddle of sex and sin and the feel of your atoms stripped bare and congeal into one. To feel his flesh moulding to yours. 

The softness in his alder eyes makes you melt, makes you mewl, unable to keep the gale from spilling out. 

You want this. Want him. Want the hickory-scented ashes of his resolve in your hands. Calcined and charred. You want to tuck the smouldering husk of his propriety between your teeth until the charcoaled remains are ground out, and masticated with your effort. You'll see this gruff man shatter. Break. 

Leaning forward, you flash him a look—that pretty one he likes with your lashes fanned over your eyes, half-mast and full of lust, desire for him—and flick your tongue out again, barbell catching in the ochre glow. His hand trembles when you seal your mouth around the thick of him, hollowing your cheeks as you slurp up the mess of prespend and saliva that covers his throbbing length. 

He jerks in your hold, head falling back with a husk of pleasure. Ruin me, you think, molten tongue worshipping him. Wreck me.

He tastes of amber and salt when you swallow him down: heady and musky. You can't get enough of the way he wrenches you open like this, leaving you feeling like a raw wound, a livewire, with just his fat cock sliding down your throat. 

Fingers dig into the back of your head as he cants his hips up, thrusting inside the warm, wet cavern of your mouth. Your nose is stuffed, the scent of him clogs the air around you. You can't breathe, but despite the black dots in your vision, you stay put, gasping for air when he allows it. 

It edges into discomfort, but you fight through the strain in your jaw, and take him deeper, and deeper. You don't stop until his knuckles press against your nose, until you can feel his hand slipping away from the base, giving you more room. The coarse, auburn hair tickles your lip. You slide down further, tongue flat against the underside of him, and the blunt nudge of his weeping cock battering against the soft walls of your throat makes you gag, makes you choke. 

You sputter, tears running down your aching cheeks in an unstoppable deluge. Your nose burns, stings, when you breathe in. You cough around him, and he grunts at the way your muscles spasm, squeezing him tight. 

You pull back off the length of him, swallowing thickly. The ragged gasps you take do little to abate the burn in your lungs. 

Tears blur your vision, but you force yourself to open your bleary eyes, staring up at him through damp, clumped lashes. As your sight slowly focuses, the image of him leaning back on the chair, teeth grinding together is enough to make you dizzy.

It's the expression of euphoria that etches itself into the furrow of his brow, the curl of his lips—bared, snarling at the feel of your mouth—and the dangerous narrowing of his eyes that makes you whimper, makes you shake. White-hot pleasure spumes inside of you. 

You want more. Everything.

Your fingers curl around the base of him, little finger nestled in the wry bed of hair. He throbs in your clutch; a glob of prespend breaks free from the puddle pooling on his engorged, mushroomed head, and slides down the length of him. 

It makes your mouth water. It feels a little bit like battling the ferocity of a Chinook. Chafed cheeks, stinging lips all covered with the slickness of your efforts.

You must wear it on your expression, then. Price looks down, and groans, his cock jerking in your hold. His mouth falls open a touch, a huff of pleasure slipping through the seam. 

You shuffle forward, knees aching, and place your tongue against the swell of his cock beneath the slow glide of his prespend trailing down. It drips down, and you catch it, smearing the pearlescent bead over the soft, fleshy tip. The muscles in his thighs twitch when you lift your chin, showing him the droplet gathered there.

"Bloody fucking hell—"

You don't wait for him to continue. You want him broken.

He groans as the gluey, wet walls of your mouth surround him, slurping up the excess saliva that pools in your throat, spilling down your chin. You nearly choke on him, then, when his hips jerk as you lave your tongue across the head of his cock, pressing the bead of your tongue ring into his frenulum again.

His smell envelopes you. Heady and rich. A potent cocktail of salt, smoke, and cured wood that liquefies your self-control. 

Price's hips lift, more of his cock slips down your throat. You tremble when his hand threads through the loose strands of your hair, fingers curling around the locks until he has a fistful gathered at the base of your skull. You know what's coming. Know, even before his hand tightens, and the lash of pain makes your cunt throb. 

It's when you look up at him through misty eyes, lidded and sticky, that he finally crumbles. 

The sound he lets out makes you shiver. A moan cut by the jagged end of a broken bottle; husky and molasses heavy. 

You moan around him again, unabashed, and taken by the sensation of having him fuck your face in shallow, pointed thrusts. His hand tightens in your hair, pilling your pliant mouth closer. 

You love it. The taste, the smell. The inexorable feeling of him using you however he pleases, unleashing something dark and primal that curls around you, wrenched up from the hypoxia of having his cock spear through your esophagus.

There is barely time to brace yourself before his hips buck into you, forcing his cock deeper. The force of his brutal, shallow thrust makes his balls slap across your chin. The forceful gait of his hips increases until he's pounding your throat, groaning deep in his chest.

The noises he makes barely sound human. They drip molten sin, and burn your flesh when he leans over you, eyes sparkling embers in the soft light of the room. 

He stops when you gag around him, hands pressed flat against his thighs. 

"It's good, isn't it?" he husks, eyes tightening when your throat spasms around him, fluttering. Another grunt when you moan, a weak whimper that vibrates over him. He pulls you back, head tipping back with another rasp of pleasure. You squeeze your thighs together to stem the ache. 

Misty-eyed, you stare, transfixed, at the strain in his pale neck: skin pulled taut, veins bulging through his flesh. His Adam's apple rises and falls like a buoy in the middle of a turbulent ocean with each harsh swallow. His cock grinds against your gummy flesh, and you wonder, distantly, if you'd even be able to speak tomorrow. 

"Gonna cum—," it's rucked out of him, hissed low: the sizzle of a cigar on dry flesh. Your cunt throbs, jaw twinges with pain. Spit runs down your chin in rivets, pooling over your bare breasts. You feel battered, and bruised: throat raw and aching. But there is something intense about it, about the way he looks at you, now. The way he handles you. This, you think—thoughts a wisp in the static of your pounding head—and seeped in delirium, is him taking. 

His eyes lift. Sapphire shatters; a crack, a crevasse, a fissure split down the middle. Black pools, desire-thick, and covetous.

Price's mouth drops: the breath that spills from his lips is drenched in bliss. The hand in your hair tightens, fingers knotting through your locks until your skull stings, and tears leak from your babydoll eyes. A torrent down roseate cheeks. 

Broken cerulean falls, catches the cascade of them dripping on the swell of your flushed chest. His feet shift, thighs tensing under your hands, and then he lifts his hips again, sinking his cock all the way to the back of your throat. It's controlled, measured. Inch by inch until he's smothering your nose in the wry bed of auburn that scratches your wet nose. The heady scent of him is intoxicating. Your head swims, dizzy and burning at the sun-warmed moss and rain-soaked granite that clots, congeals around you.

"That's it," he slurs, eyes fixed on you. They tighten around the edges, eclipsed blue: the ocean at night, but his stare doesn't waver from the mess of you over his lap. Pleading, begging. Your gaze turns desperate. "Take it all." 

Liquid pleasure blooms in your core. Your cunt aches at his timbre: a cauterised wound; the hiss of a raging fire doused in water. The muffled whimper you let out makes him twitch against your larynx; a hushed groan falls from his lips. 

He pulses like a heartbeat when he cums; molten liquid spurting down your throat with each rumbling groan he lets out. He holds you there for a moment before slowly, deliberately, pulling your head back until the tip of his cock rests on your tongue, the slit perched against the barbell. He drenches the piercing in the last mouthful that spits out, eyes sharpening at the sight of it covered in his milky cum. 

You know better than to swallow it. Not until you're told. You hold it on your tongue, tastebuds overwhelmed by the salty, ozonic thunderhead tang. You keep it there, in your mouth, like a good girl. Like his good girl, and wait for him to catch his breath. For his eyes to clear from the sea mist that clouds them. It's liquid bliss in shades of blue and sea foam.

His eyes crease, heavy and lidded in pleasure. Pride rears in his languid expression. Good girl lingers in the crevasse you wrought. You shiver, spilling a dollop of his briny release down your chin. 

Price cocks his head, eyes hooded. His thumb catches the drop, staining his skin milky pearlescent.

His voice is a smoky purr when he speaks. It makes tremble, flesh fever-hot, at the stormcloud grey in his gaze.

"Any more secrets you'd like to share, love?" 

[bo0tleg]

Maverick and Rooster aren't going to be able to immediately fall back to what they were. They care for each other deeply, and saved each others life on the mission, but this sort of shit needs time. One conversation isn't going to cut it with those two.

Look: I like the idea of them falling back into what they were before just as much as the next person, but that's.... not what realistically would happen. And that's ok! It makes sense for them not to know what to do with each other at the start.

For the record: I'm also not blaming anyone for writing fics about them immediately going back to the father-son or uncle-nephew dynamic because, because come on. It's cute as HECK! I'd just like to think about how to explore their feelings and hang-ups about each other in dept!

They're both stubborn fucks and this has been simmering for far too long for anything to be resolved instantly with a single conversation. Bradley un-learned how to talk honestly to people the day he left, and Mav's scared about what honesty can bring. They've sat on this pot for so long they no longer feel it burning their asses, and forgot what they put in the damn thing in the first place, so they stay there. On top of it. Still burning their asses.

Bradley holds onto grudges like it's a lifeline, and one mission isn't going to change that. He listened to Mav in the canyon because he rescinded what he had said with his actions. Mav said that he 'wasn't ready' but then chose Rooster as his wingman, communicating that he is ready and that he trusts him with his life. But that was a life or death situation that Rooster was both present in and could interfere in if he so chose. He saved Mav because he didn't want him to die, and they seem more inclined to deal with it back on the boat, but it's still a long road ahead.

What happened was they rekindled their care for each other, because neither had ever truly given up on it in the first place. Mav never stopped caring and knew it, Bradley did the same without knowing. This just so happens to be the first time they're forced to deal with each other since the fallout.

Just because they care about each other doesn't erase the history that's separated them for all of this time. In fact, it probably makes it worse.

Bradley thought highly of Mav, and he didn't live up to it. Mav wanted the best for Bradley, and did what he thought would be best. Their problems came from the root of care. And it's more bittersweet because of it.

Because of it, resentment and guilt have settled over their shoulders, respectively, and it refused to go away.

They talk, and they try, but it's still not great.

Mav is inclined to just sweep it all under a rug and ignore the lump it forms on the floor. Because of his guilt, he takes all of the blame and sugarcoats Bradley's part in said blame to try and make up for it. Bradley is just as fault as Mav is, but Mav doesn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

So instead of fixing things, they look slightly less crooked, but not entirely right. It's a 'their problem' not 'his problem'. They're both at fault, and they both need to deal with it.

Maverick refuses to give up any of the blame, and Bradley is going to refuse to take any of it.

Sure, Mav fucked up, but Bradley blew it out of proportions. Storming off and refusing to talk is a normal response, but not for fifteen years. He barely let Mav explain himself.

Everything "wrong" about himself he blames on Mav. He thinks that Mav fucked him up by breaking his trust as his father figure, so he doesn't trust anybody anymore. He thinks that him being completely emotionally stunted and sensitive to critique is Mav's fault because of the 'your not ready' comment.

Thing is, it's his own fault. It's his fault that he's been fucked up for so long because he never tried to fix what was broken. It's not Bradley's fault that Mav pulled his papers, but he threw away everything, everyone he had before because of a single (justifiable!) mistake. And he doesn't recognize it for what it is, and refuses the blame. Carting it all off to Mav instead of dealing with his own shortcomings.

Mav is aware of this (that Rooster refuses to take the blame), but agreed with Rooster in his analysis of the situation, and takes it all on himself, which is not a healthy mechanism for either of them. It pats Rooster on the head for somewhere he fucked up on, and overloads Mav with guilt that shouldn't be that intense and deep.

But they don't know this. So Mav isn't angry at Rooster, because he's blindsighted by his care.

Thing is, I want someone to be angry. I want someone to be offended on Mav's behalf because he himself won't do it. I don't know who it would be, could be a good number of people, maybe even a child OC.

For fifteen years Bradley left without looking back. He left, and Mav suffered. Someone saw that. Someone was there with him all or most of those years, sitting right beside him as his guilt grew with every holiday that went by, with every letter or call left unanswered.

The obvious option is Ice. However, I want to pull away from that option, because if Ice is dead (stay with me now) it only creates more conflict, more nuance to what's going on.

Bradley cut Mav out of his life, and it's implied that he cut out any association with him too. That includes Ice.

What if he never spoke to Ice either for those fifteen years? Ice died. Bradley went to his funeral. Bradley went to his funeral as a fellow aviator, as an underling obeying orders.

Bradley's face in that funeral was blank.

That is the face of a man watching the burial of someone he once could potentially have considered a father figure that he hadn't spoken with for fifteen years. And he's never going to be able to speak to him again.

At that funeral, I don't think he regretted it. Sad, maybe, but no regret.

The regret only hit later.

He got to mend things with Mav after the Uranium Mission and beyond, but that is no longer possible with Ice.

Bradley regretted what he did, how he neglected them for years, but he regretted it too late for one of them.

I think Brad probably ended up at Ice's grave at some point, and owned up to everything he didn't– couldn't– own up to at the funeral. And he fucking sobbed. Begged. Apologized, over and over.

This is the reason I suggested maybe a child OC, because if the child is Icemav's or just Ice's, Bradley's gonna have a warped perception of them. (Note: When I say "child" I mean that it was their child as in gender neutral for son/daughter, it doesn't necessarily mean the person in question should be an actual kid.)

Bradley's gonna see that kid as penance.

And they're gonna fucking hate him for it.

Bradley is going to look at them and see Ice, and they're gonna hate him for it. Their father is dead, and for the last fifteen years of his life he'd never been truly happy because this prick never bothered to own up to his mistakes. Not even at the funeral Bradley owned up to his shortcomings, and now all of a sudden he waltzes right back like he never left? What the fuck!

Bradley could have done this, idk like a week sooner? But he only came to his senses after Ice died. Their father died and Bradley barely looked like he cared is what they're going to think. But all of a sudden, he goes on a suicide mission and almost died and he's suddenly back? Because when his own life is in danger he changes his mind, but when Ice died he couldn't care less? What the fuck!

That man went to that funeral as a subordinate, not as the son he was.

The kid doesn't have the tinted lenses Mav has on about Bradley. All the resentment Mav doesn't feel, this kid is going to feel for him.

Bradley is going to understand their resentment because of Ice, and is going to focus on fixing that part with them, without noticing that the resentment isn't just because of Ice, it's about Mav too.

The kid is going to be pissed because they are not Ice. Bradley is going to be too worried about making it up to a dead man through his child that he's going to neglect the very much still alive man he ALSO has to make amends with.

But Ice didn't have a direct hand in pulling his papers, so Bradley understands his mistake with him (he shouldn't have cut him out over someone else's mistake). Mav, however, did have a direct hand and he's still bitter about it. And the kid sees it. They see him doing exactly that.

Bradley is focusing on the wrong thing, because he's trying to redeem himself in an impossible way, trying to answer to someone who no longer demands it.

He goes after it because the silence is a more comfortable answer than the conflict he's bound to face from someone who's still alive.

In the process, he's going to hurt Mav.

Bradley's gonna be so caught up in making it up to Ice (the one he can no longer make up to) that he doesn't think to properly make it up to Mav (the one he can still make it up to) because he thinks he has to.

Ice is gone. Ice is gone and there's nothing he can do about it. And If he'd just changed his mind earlier maybe there could have been. Admittedly, Ice still would have died, but maybe he'd have died more settled than he did. He'd have died with the knowledge that his son came back. That his son still cared. But he didn't, and Bradley hates himself for it.

So, he veers to the kid. He doesn't outright apologize other than the first time, but he's gonna treat them like either a piece of glass or a carbon copy of his father figure. Regardless, they're going to hate him for it.

It's not them he cares for, it's what he sees them as. They can see straight through his bullshit because there's no deep emotional connection there to blind them.

They could try to care and love for him for Mav's sake, but it'd be much better if it were on their own terms, that Bradley would care for them as them and not as Ice's child.

On top of that, the neglect Bradley has for Mav is humongous. And he himself doesn't see it because the resentment he feels is still there. Mav was the one who pulled his papers. He blames Mav for his own decisions.

He's alone, and he blames Mav. He doesn't let anyone in or near, and he blames Mav. But it wasn't Mav that made him shut everyone out, he did that on his own.

He hasn't thought about why Mav did what he did, choosing to believe what Mav claimed to be the reason. It's blatantly obvious that Pete 'Maverick' Mitchell of all people would never stop someone from going to the Academy because he thought they aren't capable. That's what they did to him, he's not going to do that to someone who is virtually his son.

Bradley was irrational and stuck to that irrationality for fifteen years. He used the emotional stuntedness he himself created as a guise to not actually process what happened. He refused to think about it, and still does.

He and Mav reconnected after the mission, but it's a frail margin. Bradley was more inclined to listen because he's confused that Mav cares at all. In his rage, he didn't notice that he did it out of love, and doesn't know what to do with it. The entire training, he's confused, pissed and uncertain all the while.

He still doesn't know the real reason Mav did what he did, and doesn't understand the love he still sees in his eyes. Rooster thought that he shattered everything he had with Mav when he felt, most of all cemented it with all the time spent in that state.

By the end of the movie, he knows for certain that Mav loves him, and understands that he, himself, never stopped loving Mav either, despite what he claimed.

Bradley wanted to be a pilot because of his dad. Goose wasn't a pilot. Maverick was.

The betrayal hit him harder because he wasn't running after Goose, he was looking up to Mav. He wanted to be like Mav.

And he became a pilot, even when Mav pulled his papers, even after having the person he did it all for ripped him into shreds. He still did it.

He still wanted to be like Mav. Deep down, he still saw him as a role model even through all of the repression.

But he still doesn't know why. He doesn't know why Mav did what he did, because Maverick himself refused to say why.

Mav isn't going to be doing great either. He fucked up, and he fucked up big time. He shouldn't have pulled Bradley's papers, period. I know about Carole, but still. He should have communicated with Brad about it, and they'd fight about it, but Bradley wouldn't have walked out to never return then.

To worsen matters, Maverick has a horrendous martyr complex that makes him take the brunt of Bradley's resentment instead of Carole, the actual perpetrator.

Over the years, he's blamed himself more and more every year that passed, but I don't believe he ever regretted it.

He fulfilled Carole's last wish. It didn't stop Rooster from becoming a pilot. He gave both of them what they wanted.

But he's trying to protect the Carole Bradley has in his head because he doesn't want to stain his memory of her as he did with himself. This has been discussed a hundred times over, so I will try to be brief.

Mav is scared that instead of him, Bradley's gonna resent his mother. His dying, cripple mother that said that in her death bed. His widow mother who saw her husband die in the skies and didn't want her baby boy to have the same fate. His sorrowful mother that had to watch her friend, someone she considered a little brother, keep going up into those same skies and hear all the whispers the people on the ground flung upon him because of it.

So he took it all on himself. Because he sees himself as expendable in favor of her.

So, safe to say he's not going to be the one to tell Bradley the truth. Because of it, Bradley's resentment is going to continue to fester.

After the mission, Bradley knows that Mav's not telling him everything, but he refuses to talk about it so what the hell is he going to do?

They fix things well enough for them to talk to each other, but don't make it too deep in fear of opening up more wounds instead of stitching the old ones back together.

Mav thinks this is as good as he can get. Bradley is annoyed at Mav's hesitance.

Despite mending things, Bradley is still going to think all of his problems are Mav's fault. And he's a petty bitch, so he won't let it slide.

He hasn't properly processed it due to the lack of information, and can't let go because of it.

He's going to slip in dry comments about how Mav affected his mental health and life because of what he did. He's going to be cagey about everything that happened in the in between. He's not going to know basic shit about Mavericks life because he refuses to acknowledge that he was wrong in more than one way.

And Mav's gonna fucking take it.

He's not gonna say anything, not gonna even defend himself because he thinks he deserves it.

Bradley is a stubborn fuck whose pride has been hurt once, and refuses to acknowledge that it could be hurt again. He's just like Mav when he was younger, but ten times worse in the emotional department (I have no fucking idea how he managed that, but he did).

So yeah, soon enough they're going to be balls deep in miscommunication with grudges held close to their chest.

Maverick wants to communicate but doesn't want to communicate a very important piece of information that could potentially make things better and Bradley straight up doesn't want to if he doesn't have to.

Which means they're going to come to a stand-still. And someone is gonna have to interfere.

If I were to guess, it'd either be Slider or Sarah (Kazansky). Regardless if Sarah is Ice's sister or wife (up to interpretation), she knew how important Mav was to Ice and obviously cares about him too from the few scenes we got of her. Slider also knows, and it's obvious he also genuinely cares about Mav too despite claiming otherwise.

I'd honestly vote for Slider to be the one to do it, simply because he'd also see the Ice favoritism and the Mav neglect, and would pull Bradley's ear about it to hell and back. Because he also knew Goose, and this... entire thing is not something Goose would be happy about, at all. Slider has a much more subdued connection to Bradley, so he'd have no qualms about calling him out on everything.

Especially if he ever found out that Bradley said 'My dad trusted you, I'm not going to make the same mistake.' I sorely believe Slider would end up in jail if he ever heard about that one.

If Sarah were the one to do it, she'd probably be more understanding and much less violent than Slider, but she'd be blunt. That's still someone she cares deeply for they're talking about, and she also saw all of it. She wouldn't sugar coat what needs to be said, but she'd be understanding too. Not you did nothing wrong kind of understanding, but a you had your reasons to be upset kind of understanding.

Either of them would probably do this without Maverick's consent, because that's the only way to get it done.

When Bradley finally comes to know exactly why Mav did what he did, he's gonna be in shambles. Not only for Mav, but for himself.

His entire life has been built around that single happenstance and now it's gone, he was wrong. He was so wrong. He can't go back to being the way he was, he doesn't remember how he was.

He's gonna have to start over, rebuild himself from the ground up to be someone better and spare everyone in his life the suffering. Everyone in his life has suffered the consequences of his resentment. He doesn't know if he can make up for it.

To start over, step number one is apologize.

This right here is were he finally lets his ego drop, and fully apologizes to Mav. Finally owns up to his mistakes to the person that deserves it most. He's not gonna leave Mav be, he's definitely going to demand a full explanation from him and then is going to scold him for it, but he's gonna finally fully let go of the grudge he held this entire time.

That's to say, everything isn't a sea of roses.

Maverick isn't the only person he needs to apologize to, and on top of it, Maverick is probably the only one who is going to let him down easy.

Bradley is going to be on a tight leash with everybody else for a while, and they don't have any hold ups about calling him out on his bullshit. He's going to need to learn how to take critique to improve himself rather than read it as a straight up insult that he's going to get mad about.

Maverick is going to need to learn that Bradley isn't going to up and leave, and that he shouldn't hold himself to such low standards. Not only that, he's also going to need to learn that Bradley is bound to make mistakes just like any other human.

Bradley is still gonna fuck up in some places, but he's gonna be better at recognizing it. Mav's also gonna fuck up sometimes, but he's going to get better at accepting it and moving on.

With time, Mav is going to call Bradley out on his bullshit too, and Bradley is going to do the same when Mav starts doing his 'I'm less important than other people' shit.

They're going to be sad about it because they think that the reason the other does some of the things they do is because of themselves, but that's a story for another time.

They try. That's what matters.

[queenie-ofthe-void]

A Desperate Fool - Part 7

Part 6

Last time: Eddie learns why everyone quit calling

~~~

He runs a hand through his tangled hair, bringing him back to the present as he looks across at Nancy. She’s leaned into the back of the couch, feet still perched in his lap. Eddie’s almost forgotten what the force of Nancy’s gaze feels like, full of heavy emotions weighing him down. He’s lost so much time with his family, missed so much. Nancy hands him a box of tissues as he dries his eyes on his sleeve.

A look of regret crosses her face. “We can take a break, you know. We don’t have to go over it all right now.”

“No, Nance. I need to hear this. I want to hear this.”

She looks at him for a long moment. Eddie’s not entirely sure what face he’s making, but Nancy must sense his resolve, so she continues with her story.

While living with Nancy, Robin was able to get them both a job working as servers at a cafe around the corner. Between making a decent amount in tips and scheduling his own hours, Steve was able to finish his teaching degree.

“Robin quit her job?” Eddie asks, surprised. “I thought she made good money as a private language tutor.”

Nancy chuckles, like he’s missing out on the joke. “Really? You don’t think Robin wouldn’t quit her job in a heartbeat if it meant getting to work with Steve? Especially when he needed it most.”

He smiles. Yeah, of course she would. Even when Eddie and Steve were at their best, he’s still not sure he could ever love Steve as much as Robin, but fuck if he didn’t try every day to prove otherwise. 

Why did he ever stop trying?

A happier occasion than the last move, the two found a bigger place closer to Steve's new job. By October, Steve had charmed the Principal into hiring Robin to teach Spanish and French. They were doing well– and still are, Nancy adds on with a smile.

Eddie doesn’t deserve to feel proud of Steve, knowing he’s the reason Steve had to put his life on hold, but he smiles regardless. Nancy squeezes his ankle, still propped in her lap, like she can read his thoughts. It’s encouraging to know that after everything, she’s still here with him. He doesn’t deserve her either.

“He loves his job, Eddie. You know he’s always been good with kids.”

“I know,” he says, tipping his head back to keep the tears pooled in his eyes. “Elementary, right?”

Nancy sighs, a small laugh escaping on the exhale, “Kindergarten Phys. Ed., to be exact.”

And god, Eddie can’t help but laugh. He can imagine Steve in his favorite blue track pants, white t-shirt, with a whistle around his neck, teaching the kids how to play parachute and tag. Running around and building obstacle courses with them, consoling them when they stumble. 

The tears fall anyway, but Eddie’s smile is still bright and shiny. He can’t remember the last time he’s laughed, true happiness fizzing like tiny bubbles in his chest.

It’s a little bittersweet to hear Steve's doing well, but that's just the small, selfish part of him wallowing in the fact that he's not the person making him happy. Still, Steve's doing well, and that means everything in the world to Eddie.

~~~

Part 8

Tag List!!!

@sadisticaltarts @5ammi90 @blacklegsanji21 @jaytriesstrangerthings @thewickedkat

@stripey82

[omaano]

"Cassian's face is a brittle thing, no person's eyes should shine as painfully tearful as his. Kino offers his hand and Cassian - bright as the sun, steady as a roc, fluid as water Cassian - accepts it with shaking fingers. He tells Kino everything."

Art for we're spitting off the edge of the world by Xenomorphic for the 2024 Star Wars Big Bang @swbigbang. It is an amazing Canon Divergence Fix-it fic from one of the most memorable moments of Andor onwards, with beautiful prose that fits the mood of the show so so well and will make you feel just as deeply for these characters. Please give it a read and heap some love on my team's amazing and hardworking author, they were such a delight to work with!❤️

[lovesickeros]

lord its so dark in here the sahara desert of tsaritsa content you are like a shining oasis. your characterisation of her compels me & mihoyo would be hard pressed to top it imo.!! caaaaan i humbly request yr thoughts on her first meeting w a reader of any kind, or maybe even multiple kinds (sagau, sagau god au, isekai, etc) if you so desire...

it really is like a desert here. being the fan of a character we aren't getting until the last damn nation is driving me up a wall but i will persevere bc if nothing else i support morally bankrupt women in media. we r in a severe drought over here but i do my best. unfortunately nothing i say is ever coherent so pull out your translation notes its abt 2 be messy

also this got out of hand but thats bc first meetings w the tsaritsa are tricky to write + a LOT of her characterization lies in deeper exploration then just surface level yknow...NOT A DIG AT YOU this is just my excuse for rambling. gently pats the tsaritsa she can hold so much complexity i do not have the word count to delve into it completely :]

gonna talk cult au for a bit here though because that's 99% of my content. and honestly? she thrives in sub au's of the cult au like villain au + imposter au. it's basically made for her. i mean, early days, the imposter au had been going around for a little while but one of the first few ideas was the Fatui taking reader in so like. it kinda technically actually was. pretty sure cult au Tsaritsa popped up because of the imposter au. a lot of it's writers kinda left though which. man am i getting old or.

anyway.

there isn't much of a chance her first impression is all that positive. at best it's usually neutral, imo, but rarely if ever positive. specifically because i view the Tsaritsa as someone who isn't as fanatical as most of the acolytes typically are towards the creator. she's not exactly going to worship the ground you walk on unlike a certain geo lizard. which is partially why i think she thrives in the sub au's i mentioned.

imposter au, for example. she meets you at your lowest. there's no gaudy extravagance or pampering from the acolytes waiting for you because your own acolytes have turned on you. for all intents and purposes you aren't a "god" at all. which is why i don't think she meshes well with normal cult au reader. the Fatui are made up of outcasts, basically, and imposter au slots right in just perfectly. you're weak, at your lowest, when you meet the Fatui in the imposter au. and the Fatui can help you, too.

a mutual exchange, really. the Tsaritsa sees a tool she can use to one up the rest of the nations and especially Archons, and she has no qualms about you using her and the Fatui in turn. you both want something out of it, after all. whether you just want to be safe from the rest of the acolytes, or you want revenge, or whatever else..she'll give you the power to fulfill it, and she gains the strongest piece on the chessboard when all is said and done.

the best way i can describe the first meeting is "practical", i suppose. she sees an opportunity in you. the ultimate gamble. because if she "saves" you, and you dont trust anyone else because they tried to kill you, well..she holds all the cards, doesn't she?

but the Tsaritsa, imo, is just as capable of being just as fanatical towards you as anyone else. she just won't worship you as the creator. but as yourself? clawing your way back to your divine power and taking back what belongs to you? the Tsaritsa is, to me, a character who's character flourishes in long-term fics more because she changes a LOT between "just met reader" and after having been with reader for some time. she's practically apathetic at the beginning but a lot of her character, in my characterization, shines through LONG after the first meeting.

[llitchilitchi]

[didhewinkback]

Something Old: Part Three

word count: 13k (jesus); story page

warnings: smut, google translate italian

-----

Fingertips dragged up and down your spine as you were slowly roused from sleep. You blinked your eyes open, momentarily disoriented by the darkness of the unfamiliar bedroom until a tattooed arm wound around your waist, squeezing tight.

So it wasn’t a dream. You really were here, in Italy, with your best mate who feels the same way you do. You think. He hadn’t exactly said the same three words you said, but you really couldn’t be nitpicky when he did in fact call off his wedding for you. And spent all day kissing you like his life depended on it. And was now holding you, in his bed, so tight against his chest, planting kisses along your neck.

“Sorry for waking you up,” he said, mouth dragging against the skin of your neck, “Got bored.”

He plants his hand on your hip and squeezes, guiding you to turn over and face him. And his shirtless body. He was definitely wearing a shirt when you fell asleep.

He smirks when he notices you ogling him, puffy eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you say, burrowing your head a bit deeper into the pillows as you rest your fingertips against his chest.

His naked chest.

You can’t quite explain the breakdown of the boundaries between you. Why it’s happening so quickly, why it feels so natural. You’ve never touched him like this, never had the freedom to do so, and yet you don’t want to stop or question it as you splay your palm against his pecs, reveling in his sharp inhale. You’re at war with yourself, simultaneously desperate to apply logic to this, to stop and think it through, talk it out while also desperate to just lean in to what feels good and enjoy it, this magic between the two of you that you’ve dreamt of for most of your life.

“You always think this hard when you just wake up?”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head as you rub your thumb back and forth on his chest, his head dipping down to track the movement, “What happened to your shirt?”

“Got hot.” he shrugs, hand tightening on your hip.

“Mmmm. I’ll say.”

He snorts, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him, leaning his head in to rest against your neck, breathing in.

“What time is it?”, you ask.

“Bout half past 8.”

“We are fucked if we try to get any sleep tonight,” you groan.

“I dunno, love,” he says, planting a line of kisses up to your cheek, lips dragging against the skin as he says, “Can think of a couple of things that would tire us out.”

“Oh, great,” you say, breath hitching as he continues to kiss a line across your jaw, your nails scratching on his chest, “I always dreamt that our first time would put me right to sleep.”

He hums against your skin. “So you’ve dreamt about our first time?”

“No comment.” you say, a bit breathlessly as he huffs a laugh, littering soft kisses along your throat before pulling away.

He smiles at you, his eyes puffy from sleep as his hand falls to your cheek, brushing your hair away from your face.

“Realized I never fed you,” he says softly.

“Shit host.”

He laughs, his eyes crinkling as his fingers find their place along the back of your neck, squeezing gently. “One of my favorite places in town is still open this time of year. It’s about a fifteen minute walk if you want to go grab some dinner.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” you say teasingly, breath catching in your throat when he doesn’t take the bait. Instead he just stares at you, lips slightly quirking up as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

“Yeah,” he says, hand falling to where your hand rests on his chest, turning it over so you're are palm to palm. He squeezes once before bringing your hand to his lips, murmuring against it, “Will you go on a date with me?”

You squeeze his hand, his smile growing when your own grin matches his.

“Never thought I’d ever hear you ask me that,” you say softly, not trusting your voice at a louder volume, feeling overwhelmed by his words and warm gaze.

He squeezes your hand, taking a deep breath,“I never thought I'd ever get the courage to ask.”

“Harry,” your voice comes out as a whisper.

“I know, I know.” he says, leaning in. “C’mere.”

He presses his lips to yours, sucking lightly at your lower lip before pulling back, resting his forehead against yours.

“‘S that a yes?” he asks.

“Yes. Please.” He cuts you off with a kiss before you can even get the words out, pressing his lips to yours over and over, bringing his hand back up to rest at the back of your neck.

“Thank you,” he says, pulling back to whisper against your lips, “for saying yes.”

He’s looking at you so intently, with such reverence in his eyes that you have a feeling he’s not just thanking you for agreeing to dinner but for this trip, for all of it. You squeeze his hand.

“Thank you,” you whisper back, “for asking.”

His eyes study your features for a moment, hand squeezing your hand once more. He’s about to say something, his eyes clouding over before seemingly deciding against it, inhaling sharply as he shakes his head slightly and presses his lips to yours once more. He swipes his tongue along the seam of your lips, fingers tightening on your neck when you open your mouth, moaning when his tongue brushes across yours.

Heat flares through your body, you can’t stop to think about what he was about to say, too busy being distracted by how hard he is kissing you, every swipe of tongue full of intent, his hands pulling you impossibly closer.

Your hand falls back to his chest, sliding down towards his abs. You splay your palm on the butterfly tattoo, nails digging in when he groans. You can barely catch your breath as he overwhelms all of your senses at once. His taste, his touch, his smell. He’s everywhere. You’ve never needed anyone this badly in your life.

His hand slides down your body, pausing at your hip as he squeezes once and guides you towards him, shifting on the bed to lay back down and pull you on top of him. Yes, yes -

The sound of your stomach growling stops you both in your tracks. It’s honestly the loudest and longest growl your stomach has ever made in its life. It’s astonishing. It’s humiliating.

Oh god.

Harry laughs into your mouth before you pull away and instantly hide your head in your hands. You move to roll off of him but his arms come to wrap around you, holding you in place.

“Oh my god,” you groan, feeling him shake with laughter, “I’m sorry.”

“That was loud.”

“Shut up,” you say, giggling as you swat at him. “Haven’t eaten since like lunch yesterday. Was a bit busy.”

You tensed the seconds the words left your mouth, your attempt at a joke falling flat as the reminder of the real world sunk in. Yes, you were here, wrapped up in his arms in Italy. But somewhere else, was Erin. Dealing with the repercussions of a canceled wedding, having to explain to her family what happened, her dream weekend in shambles. All because of you.

“Hey. “ he said softly, snapping you back to reality. You looked down at him, his brow creased in concern.

“Sorry. I -” you exhaled through your lips, “Sorry.”

“Got nothing to be sorry for.”

“I didn’t mean to bring up or like … we haven’t really talked about -”

“I know.” He said, his hand coming up to brush your hair from your face. “I know I said I’d rather wait a bit before talking about it all but if you’d like to talk now, we can.”

You took a second to look at him underneath you. The way he was staring at you so openly, his hand still holding your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. This is what you want. It’s what you’ve always wanted. Does it make you an asshole to ignore the reality of the situation for a bit longer? Maybe. But you were hungry and groggy and wouldn’t be able to have a productive conversation right now anyway.

You shook your head slightly, leaning down over him until you were chest to chest, your arms bracketing his head as you take him in for a moment. His swollen lips, darkened eyes, the light flush of his cheeks.

“Not yet. I do want to talk but I’m really hungry,” you say, your hand coming up to play with the strands of hair at the top of his head, “And this really cute boy I’ve liked for ages just asked me on a date. So I’d like to do that first.”

He blinks up at you a few times before a grin splits his face open, your heart fluttering as you take in his expression.

“Let’s go eat, then.”

“Okay.”

You move to roll off of him but his arms tighten around you, still smiling at you when you look up at him in confusion.

“Give me a kiss first.”

You roll your eyes, grinning back at him before pressing your lips to his. It’s a bit awkward, teeth clacking at first as you can’t stop smiling to kiss each other, giggling as he presses his lips to your cheek, jawline, temple.

“If we don’t leave now,” you say as he drags his lips across your skin, “we will never leave this bed.”

“Won’t see me complaining.” he says as as he kisses your cheek, your nose, your temple. “Quite like you like this. On top of me.”

Heat sears through you, unable to formulate a witty response or any response for that matter, suddenly hyper focused on all the areas where your body is in contact with his bare skin. You can’t hold back the sound that escapes you as he kisses the spot right below your ear, sucking lightly on the skin.

“But you’re right.” he says, pulling back. “We should go. Can’t have your stomach screaming at me again.”

“You’re such a little shit!” you squawk. He barely dodges your arm swatting at him, bringing him arms up to protect his face.

“Not my fault your stomach could break a decibel barrier or summat.” he says, giggling.

“Decibel barrier,” you repeat, in a poor imitation of his deep voice, “Big vocabulary. Where’d you learn that one? Scrabble?”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” he says as you laugh. He wraps his arms around you, deftly flipping your positions, hovering over you on all fours as you lay flat with your back against the mattress. Your giggles slowly subsiding as you both become aware of the new position you’ve found yourselves in.

Your heart skips a beat, thinking about how often you’ve imagined him like this, hovering over you, his abs flexing, his thighs tense. It’s real, this time. You look up to find him already looking at you, pupils blown as he watches you ogle him. You take a deep breath, trying to slow down your racing heart but finding it impossible when he’s looking at you like that.

His nostrils flare as his searing gaze travels down your body before landing back on your face. Your mouth feels impossibly dry suddenly, licking your lips, stomach twisting when his eyes track the movement. You take a deep breath, reaching your hand up to thread through his hair, landing at the nape of his neck.

“Harry,” you whisper.

He hums in response, his eyes never once leaving your mouth.

“We should probably go.”

“Mhmm.”

“Decibel barriers and all that.”

“Mhmm.”

“Harry!”, you say with a laugh, lightly swatting him on the top of his head. He breaks his focus on your lips to look up at you, a light flush spreading across his cheeks as he smiles sheepishly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he sputters out a laugh, “you’re right. Let’s be responsible. You’re just…”

He cuts himself off with a deep breath, a murmured “bloody distracting” leaving his lips before he smacks a kiss to your cheek and hops off the bed.

“M’lady,” he says, extending a hand to you to help you off the bed as you take it with a snort. He does a little bow, dipping his head to press a kiss to your knuckles before popping up with a smirk at your expression.

“Right,” he says, starting to head around the bed towards the ensuite, “I’ve got a hot date to get ready for. Leave here in like 20ish minutes?”

“Ish.” you emphasize, staring at your mess of a suitcase. This should be interesting.

—

30(ish) minutes later, you were out in the warm spring night, heading up the road to the restaurant. You felt his eyes on you, turning your head to find him smirking.

“Looks good on you,” he said, pointing to your - well, his - sweater. Right.

In your defense, your suitcase was lacking only because you were in emotional distress while packing it. Trying to figure out what to wear while you watch the love of your life marry someone else is no easy task. You were never planning on staying long, so only packed the essentials. It wasn’t your fault that you apparently only packed pajamas and jeans.

“I can’t believe you still have this.” It had to be at least 5 years old, back in his days of chelsea boots and skinny jeans.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “you told me you liked how it looked on me. Wasn’t getting rid of it after that.”

You gape at him for a moment, still not used to how he can just casually say these sentences that knock the wind out of you. He smiles softly at you, reaching out for your hand and pulling you closer. He holds on to your hand, lacing your fingers together as you continue walking. The novelty of it, just simply holding his hand, makes your breath catch in your throat as he rubs his thumb against the back of your hand, content to just hold yours.

He points out some shops along the way, streets he got lost down when he went on his first morning run here. As you get further into town, you expect him to pull his hand away. There’s not a ton of people but it’s not deserted. And he is still one of the most famous men in the world, a fact he cannot run away from. Maybe he’s trying to not hurt your feelings, to not mess with this new thing between you. You go to pull your hand away but when he only tightens his hold on your hand, you look up at him in confusion.

“‘S not like that here,” he says, pulling you towards a cluster of trattorias to your right, “They don’t really care about any of it. ‘S why I wanted to stay here. Bring you here. So we could just be two people on a date. Just you and me - ”

“Il mio raggio di sole!!” A voice booms out from inside the restaurant.

“ - And Leonardo.” he says, affectionately rolling his eyes, squeezing your hand once before letting go as he extends his arms out wide towards the older Italian gentleman bustling out of the open doors of the trattoria.

“Amore mio!” Harry yells when he sees him. Leonardo laughs a big belly laugh before grabbing Harry’s face and kissing him on both cheeks. They laugh and hug each other, with a few slaps on the back for good measure.

“Perché non mi hai detto che stavi arrivando?” Leonardo asks Harry when he pulls away, a hand still affectionately resting on his shoulder.

“Volevo sorprenderti!” Harry says with a smile that widens when Leonardo grabs his face and pinches his cheek.

You’ve got no idea what they’re saying but you can’t deny that watching the way Italian words leave Harry’s mouth makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You stand there, watching the two old friends catch up, in awe once again of the effect he has on people wherever he goes.

It’s almost impossible to articulate, the way his warmth and kindness radiates off of him, how he makes the person he’s talking to feel like the only person that matters and they can’t help but fall in love with him. It’s why you felt so foolish about your feelings at times, feeling like just one in a million girls who fell under Harry Styles’ spell. You knew your relationship was different than the one he had with the world but it was hard to feel that way, especially when you saw him in action. But here, and now, the way he keeps sneaking glances over to you as he laughs with Leonardo, maybe you weren’t just one in a million. Maybe you were just the one.

After Harry’s eighth glance over to you, Leonardo looks over at you with a smile.

“Where are my manners? How could you let me be so rude?” he says to Harry before smacking him on the chest.

Harry laughs and introduces you, saying your name with a small smile.

“Buonasera, senora” Leonardo says, extending a hand out to you as he leans in to kiss your cheeks in greeting.

“Buonasera” you say back, in probably the worst Italian anyone has ever heard but in their kindness, neither of them make fun of you for it. “So nice to meet you.”

“How do you know our boy?” he asks affectionately.

“Oh, we go way back. We’ve been friends since we were kids.” you say with a smile.

“Ah, bellissimo.” Leonardo says, “I met this young man a few years back now. With that long hair of his and those tight, tight pants.”

Harry barks out a laugh at that, a light blush dusting his cheeks. “Hey, those pants were cool, then.”

“He stumbled upon our trattoria and charmed the hell out of everyone in the place. He’s made sure to stop by every time he’s in town. We love him here.”

“Yeah, he tends to have that effect on people,” you say.

“One of a kind, this boy.” Leonardo smiles and turns to Harry, “La tua amica è molto carina.”

“Mia ragazza,” he says back softly, “Lei è la mia ragazza”.

He looks over at you, fondness in his eyes, just as Leonardo smacks him upside the back of his head.

“Tua ragazza?!” He says, “Tua ragazza?! What are you talking to me for? Mio dio. Come, come.”

He leads you both through the trattoria, bustling with cozy energy, small tables and intimate lighting. He takes you through the kitchen, grabbing a carafe of wine before leading you to the back patio. Fairy lights string the awning, tables scattered throughout the space. There’s only one other older couple sitting in the far corner, paying you no mind as their heads stay ducked in conversation. Leonardo leads you to a table on the opposite end. You can see the water from here, how the moonlight shines against it. It’s lovely.

“Sit, sit.” Leonardo insists, not even bothering to put out menus as he pours the wine in your glasses. “We’ll take good care of you. Enjoy.”

He winks at you before heading back inside.

“Cheers,” Harry says, lifting his glass to yours as you reciprocate the message, each taking a sip of your wine.

“I didn’t know you spoke Italian that well,” you say.

“‘M not that good,” he says, “Still learning. Wanted to be able to spend more time here and actually speak the language.”

“Well, it sounds good to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s hot,” you say bluntly as he snorts out a laugh. “What did you say to him earlier? That made him smack you?”

“Ah.” he says, looking down at the table for a moment, a light blush dusting his cheeks. “He told me my friend was very pretty. And I corrected him, and said you were my date.”

“Oh. That’s sweet.” you say with a smile, warmth flooding you. Doesn’t seem worth blushing over, but you’re endeared nonetheless.

“I actually - I used a different word,” he says, sheepishly scratching at the side of his face before looking up at you.

“What do you mean?”

“In Italian, there’s a few words for date. There’s appuntomenta which is like a casual date with someone. If you were going on a first date, that’s what you would say. But I said ragazza, mio ragazza, which is what you say when you’re on a date with your girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

He stares at you for a moment, trying to gauge your reaction, his next words coming out in a rush.

“I know that’s a lot. And we haven’t talked about anything and that tonight was technically my wedding night but I -” he takes a deep breath, reaching for your hand before stopping himself, letting it rest right near yours on the table, looking at you with utter sincerity. “This isn’t casual, to me. You mean…this is…”

“Different,” you say.

“Yeah, but it's more than that,” he says, “This is…’s not something I’m trying out to see if it works. I’m in this, for real. I’ve never - ‘s not felt like this with anyone. ‘S like…

He pauses to collect his thoughts and when he looks back up at you, his eyes are glassy, emotion clear in his voice.

“‘S like I didn’t realize something was missing and then you told me you loved me and my whole world shifted. Like a missing piece of a puzzle finally clicked into place that I hadn’t realized was lost.”

“Harry,” you breathe out.

“I’m just…” he takes a deep breath, shakes his head. “This feels like a date with my girlfriend. Like someone I want to spend a lot of time with. For as long as I possibly can. And that’s why I said it. Is that okay?”

You’re silent for a moment, just staring at him in awe, blinking back the tears that rushed to your eyes.

“Yeah,” you say, with a laugh of disbelief, “that’s okay.”

“Good,” he says, gently taking your hand and lacing your fingers together.

“Good,” you repeat. “And uh, for me too. I mean, this feels that way for me, too. I would say you’re, uh… mio ragazzo?”

“You’re shit at Italian,” he says with a wide grin, sparking a laugh out of you as he chuckles.

“But yeah,” he says, fingers tightening around yours, “That’s what you would say. If you wanted to.”

“I wanted to,” you say, hooking your ankle around his under the table, heart skipping a beat as his smile goes to something softer, more private. Just for you.

“Good.”

“Good.”

You just sit there, grinning at each other like two kids with a school crush, before Leonardo bursts through the doors, gorgeous plates of food in his hand.

“Buckle up,” Harry mutters, “this is just the first course.”

The night flies from there. Leonardo brings out course after course of delicious food, always making sure your wine supply never runs low. Your conversation flows from childhood memories to the books you’re currently reading that you can’t put down. It feels like it always does when the two of you finally get to sit down and catch up for the first time in a while except this time, he squeezes your hand every so often and you brush your leg against his in a way that makes pupils go a bit wider.

At one point, Leonardo and his wife Isabella, a shorter woman with a fierce bob and whip smart wit, join you for a glass or two, reminiscing about Harry’s adventures in Italy when he was a few years younger. Tears fill your eyes as Leonardo recalls the story of how he first met and fell in love with Isabella twenty-three years ago, as she constantly interjects with corrections much to your amusement. The night draws to a close when you start to feel Harry’s eyes on you no matter who is talking in the conversation, something Isabella picks up on immediately, gently swatting Leonardo as he begins another story.

“Amore mio, we should let these two go. It’s their first night here and we’ve been talking their ears off.” she says.

“No!” you and Harry say at the same time, his attention snapping back to them as Isabella smirks at him.

“Really, it’s been so lovely,” you say, as Isabella takes your hand and squeezes it affectionately.

“We’ll see you soon, mio caro. I know it.”

After a bit of a battle over the bill, or lack thereof, that ends with Harry shoving a large wad of euros into Leonardo’s pocket and refusing to take them back and Isabella placing another bottle of wine into your hands for you to take home with vows to teach you some recipes the next time you come, you say your goodbyes with hugs and kisses, feeling like you’ve known this couple for far longer than just the past few hours.

As you’re leaving, Isabella takes Harry’s face in her hands, saying “Lei è speciale. Prenditi cura di lei” to which he nods and replies, “Sempre. Sempre.”

She gives him one final kiss on the cheek and you head back out into the night, the activity of the restaurant having simmered during the late hour. Harry wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Did you like it?”

“Think that was the best meal I’ve ever had. And they’re amazing. To have taken over the family business at such a young age and to have kept it going the way they have…and to still love each other the way they do. It’s incredible.”

“I know. It’s always great getting to see them. They’re really something else.”

“I also always love getting to see the effect you have on people.” you say softly after a few moments of silence. “The way they’re drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You just make everyone feel so singular and special.”

“What - you mean, tonight? No, that was all you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re very charming, you know. And smart. And funny. And a really great person to tell a story to.” he says, slowing your walk to a stop as he turns to face you. Taking a few moments to just look at you, his eyes grazing over your features, a small smile on lips.

“‘S what Isabella said to me as we were leaving. She said you were special and that I should take good care of you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, heartbeat thrumming at having him this close for the first time in hours. “And what did you say back?”

He cups your face in his hands, his thumb caressing your cheek. “Always. Sempre.” he says, leaning in. “Sempre. Amore mio.”

He says the last phrase against your mouth before capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. You can’t help the small noise that escapes you as you kiss him back. One hand falls to your hip to pull you closer, the bottle of wine getting smushed between you as he kisses you again.

He pulls away with a groan. “This bottle of wine is killing my vibe.”

He leans his forehead against yours as you huff a laugh, his thumb drawing circles on your hip. It feels quite familiar to about 30 hours ago, when he held you like this in the courtyard and yet it couldn’t be more different. He kisses you once more before pulling away.

“Had a lot of wine. Should probably keep walking around for a bit, if that’s cool with you. ‘S a nice night.”

“Yeah, I’m good with that.” you say as he takes your hand, lacing your fingers together as you resume your walk.

You walk along the cobblestone streets, well-lit despite the dark night sky. You don’t talk much, but you don’t have to, content to be in the silence and have each other close. As you get closer to the water, Harry slows down by the benches overlooking a pier.

“D’you wanna sit for a bit?”, he asks, looking at you while you nod. You sit down next to each other, placing the wine on the ground by your feet, looking out at the night sky that stretches above you, unable to see much else but the moon and stars. You can see the light from some boats and hear some music from the restaurants a bit up the way but other than that, it's quiet.

“Bit of a shit view at night,” you say, as he barks out a loud laugh.

A comfortable silence falls over the two of you as you sit there, looking out at the stars. You breathe in the warm spring air, feeling buzzed from the wine, and from him. Just happy. It’s hard to believe that this is real, that you’re sitting where you are.

You can feel him on the verge of saying something. Even out of the corner of your eye, you can spot his long held mannerisms and know better than to push it. He’s incredibly careful with his words, especially when it comes to public speaking, always opting to take the time to think the words through before saying them out loud. With you, he usually opts to just let them imperfectly flow, sure he’ll find his point along the way, no self-consciousness or public perception to hold him back. When you turn to face him, his brow furrowed as he pinches his bottom lip, you can tell that he wants to take his time with this. Wants to get the words exactly right, whatever the words may be.

“Y’ scare the shit out of me. Y’ always have.”

Or not.

“I - what?” you say, sputtering out a laugh. “That’s not true.”

“My palms are sweating,” he says, holding out his palms for you to see before laying them back in his lap. “Feel like I’m 12 years old, asking you to dance all over again.”

“Oh come on, H. You were not nervous for that.”

“Was bricking myself, love.” he says, turning to face you as your brows crease in confusion. You making him nervous? That can’t be true. “Had the biggest crush on you back then.”

“You WHAT?”

“Come on, you had to have known that.” he says, as you start to vehemently shake your head. “I wasn’t subtle at all.”

“I had no idea.”

“Asked you to dance, didn’t I?”

Your heart lurches as he repeats the words he said to you all those years ago, verbatim. The memory already taking on a different life with this new piece of information. The way he had clutched your wrist, how he wouldn’t look you in the eye, how sweaty his palms had been. Oh. These little moments in your life turning out to mean as much to him as they do to you makes your head spin.

“I made us all play spin the bottle at Katie’s 13th birthday trying to get you to kiss me.” he says, unable to stop the confessions once he’s started.

“What?” you say with a disbelieving laugh, “So you’re the reason my first kiss was with Conor Williams?”

“Trust me, I’m just as upset about it as you are.” he says as you laugh. “I couldn’t figure out the mechanics of how to make sure the bottle landed on you in time and then that bastard took the first turn.”

“It really wasn’t anything special,” you say with a laugh.

“Yeah, well, it was supposed to be.” he grumbles, shaking his head. “Can’t believe you didn’t know. Gem used to tease me mercilessly about it - the way I would always spend like 20 minutes making sure my curls fell the right way before going over to yours for Sunday roast.”

You giggle, helplessly endeared at the thought of little 13 year old Harry, in his big chinos and polo shirts, frantically fixing his curls in the mirror, just for them to fall the way they always did.

“Clearly it didn’t work,” he says, smiling over at you.

“Maybe not at the time,” you say, “But I promise those curls have really done a number on me over the years.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” you say emphatically as he raises his eyebrows, huffing out a laugh. “You don’t even know.”

“I’d like to,” he says, his voice rumbling out like gravel. The expression on his face makes your breath catch in your throat, still not used to the way he can so easily go from a regular conversation to making you feel like you’re on fire.

“Bloody narcissist,” you say, the waver in your voice being a dead giveaway as to how affected you are and it makes him smirk, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh, but you love it,” he teases.

“Yeah,” you say with a deep breath, “turns out I do.”

His face floods with emotion then, his eyes darting all over your face before he takes a deep breath, breaking eye contact to look down at his hands with a furrow in his brow.

“Maybe if I had just told you back then…”

“H.” you say gently, “We were kids. I’m not sure a relationship between two 13 year olds would have stood the test of time.”

“Yeah, I just -” he drags a hand down his face. “That 13 year old kid knew exactly what he wanted when it came to you. And for me - I…My entire world flipped upside down when I was 16. Everything changed, all at once, forever. The only things that were constant in my life were Mum, Gemma… and you.”

You inhale sharply at that, a sound louder than you meant it to be, as it makes his head snap up and reach for your hand, holding it between both of his own as he turns to face you.

“And I couldn’t mess with that. To be honest, I don’t know that I even wanted to, just assumed that how I felt about you was how someone feels about their closest friend. You were my best mate and I needed that, as much as a selfish prick as that makes me.”

“That makes sense to me,” you say, “H, I was never expecting you to -”

“But I -” he says, cutting you off, “I wish I had stopped to think about why it was different with you. Like why I wanted to deck that bloke you were seeing a few years back because he kept ordering you bloody pimms cups which you hate. Or why I couldn’t stop staring at you at mum’s birthday this past year because I…I thought you looked so beautiful.”

“You…what?” You must’ve heard him incorrectly, the sound of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

“Couldn’t get you off my mind for weeks, love.” he says. “But I was already engaged and –”

He makes a miserable noise at that, leaning his elbows on his thighs, his hands coming up to cover his face.

“I…I thought it was just me freaking out about getting married. Wasn’t lying when I said I was shit at relationships, I tend to flake out the moment ‘m supposed to commit. But… something felt off the second I proposed, if I’m honest. And I could never figure out why that was, we had a good relationship and it felt like the right thing to do…so I just ignored it. Thought it was just fear of being tied down.”

“When I called you on my birthday, I almost told you about it. About how I didn’t think I should go through with it. But I…”, he shakes his head, taking a deep breath, his voice thick with emotion, “I couldn’t figure out how to articulate it. And I got scared. Of what you might say. ‘Nd what it might mean. ‘Ve always done what people want me to do so going against that…I couldn’t – I was all over the place. Couldn’t figure out what I wanted or what I should do –”

He shakes his head, taking a moment to collect himself before looking over at you, tears in his eyes. He reaches out his hand to take yours, lacing your fingers together, looking you right in the eyes.

“But then… there you were. Standing in that courtyard, looking unbelievable. And telling me you loved me. And suddenly everything made sense. All the confusion I felt over the past year. All the questions I’ve had about us over the years. I …it all felt wrong because it wasn’t with you. And it’s always been you.”

You don’t think you’ve breathed in the last minute, unable to do anything but hold his hand tight, tears already falling down your cheeks as he reaches up to brush one away.

“Think I started loving you when I was 13 and a part of me never stopped. ‘Nd I’m so sorry it took me this long to realize it. But nothing in my life has ever made more sense to me than being here with you, right now. I – come closer to me,” he says, pulling at your hand and wrapping his arm around your waist, not letting go until you’re situated in his lap.

He looks up at you, a few tears in his eyes that you bring your hand up to wipe away as he smiles at you. Looking at you with adoration in his eyes. Bringing his hands up to cup your cheeks, he takes a deep breath before saying:

“I love you.”

You take a moment to take in his features, the love in his eyes, the smile so wide the dimple is showing, knowing your matching grin looks the same. He’s here. He’s yours.

You can’t explain the sound you make as you crash your lips to his, his hand coming up to the back of your neck, the other holding you at the hip to keep you in place. It’s a bit of a mess, with the tears from both of your cheeks, the way you can’t stop smiling to get a proper kiss in, the way he keeps mumbling “’m sorry, i love you” between kisses but… it’s perfect.

You pull back slightly, wary of moving too far away, wanting to keep as much of yourself touching him as possible, but wanting to get a good look at his face.

“Thank you for telling me all of that.”

“Was a lot, wasn’t it?” he says with a sheepish laugh.

“The most you’ve ever talked I think.” you say with a giggle as he pinches your hip.

“I really am sorry, you know” he says sincerely. “I wish I had been less of a coward —”

“Think you’re being too hard on yourself. There was a lot going on. I never said anything to you either. I was also trying to do the right thing, what was expected. And I was purposefully trying to detach myself to make things easier —”

“Yeah, don’t do that again.”, he says, arms tightening around you, pulling you in impossibly closer.

“I won’t,” you say with a giggle.

“Good.”

You take a moment to stare at him. At your boy. The only boy you’ve ever loved. “Harry?”

He hums in response, a soft smile on his lips.

“I love you, too.”

His eyes flutter shut at that, taking a deep breath as his smile grows wider, opening his eyes back up to look right at you.

“Can you say it again, please?”

“I love you, I love you, I love you I l–”

He cuts you off with a sweet kiss, holding you like you’re the most precious thing, thumb drawing circles on your hip. A sigh falls from your mouth as he leans in to kiss you once more, his lips pressing to yours over and over.

He slowly pulls away, burying his head into your neck, inhaling deeply as he tightens his arms around you. The two of you sit there, holding each other close, breathing each other in. Both reveling in the ability to finally have the person you love, the person you’ve always loved, in your arms.

Slowly, you start to feel his mouth on your neck, lips dragging against the skin, tongue slipping out between kisses to taste the skin in a way that has your toes curling. He kisses a slow line up your neck, pausing at that one spot behind your ear. He sucks a mark into the skin, making himself known, the sensation has you letting out a small moan.

His hands tighten on your hips at the sound, a soft groan leaving his mouth as he gently nips at your skin before he pulls back. His eyes graze all of your face before landing on your lips. The shift in energy is palpable, simmering between you two. His hand comes up to the back of your neck, tightening slightly when you lick your lips.

“Fuck.”

He dives back in, the kiss quickly descending into pure heat as his tongue swipes against your lips, groaning deeply in his chest when you lick into his mouth, your hand sliding up into his hair. His tongue passes over yours, not giving you a second to breathe as he bites down at your bottom lip before kissing you deeply once more.

When you pull away to catch your breath, he starts to kiss his way along your jaw, sucking at the skin when he gets to your neck.

“H?” You’re panting, desperately trying to hold it together but every second with his lips on your skin is one second closer to you just taking him right here on this bench.

He lets out a guttural groan, hand tightening on your hip, his hips rolling up into yours in a way that makes you feel all of him. Shit, had you said that last bit out loud?

“Harry,” you breathe out.

“Yeah, baby?” he says, lips moving against your skin. And well, fuck. He’s never called you that before, the pet name sending a jolt straight to your core as you tighten your fingers in his hair. You can feel him smiling against your neck, clearly loving the effect he’s having on you.

“Take me home.”

He groans quietly against your throat, pulling his head back to look at you as his arms tighten around your waist, his eyes dark, pupils blown.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in to kiss you firmly. “Yes, please. Yeah. Let’s - let’s go.”

He kisses you once more before leaning back, offering a hand up to help you off of his lap and standing once you’re all set. Smirking as he not so subtly adjusts himself. He bends down to pick up the bottle of wine and then takes your hand, pulling you close and wrapping his arm around your waist.

“Come on, baby.” he says. “Let’s go home.”

– - - -

The tension from earlier seems to have faded slightly on the walk back, as the two of you toe off your sneakers, swollen lips offering shy smiles, your heart thundering with nerves. You wanted him, you’ve always wanted him, there was no doubt about that. You’ve fantasized about it, dreamt about it and now that it was actually about to happen, you weren’t sure what to do. It would be one thing if he had grown up just looking like all the other guys your age, but no, he had to go and turn himself into walking sex on legs. You were losing it.

You look up to find him smiling softly at you, holding up the bottle of wine in his hand.

“Could pour us a glass, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” you say with a nod, watching as he walks over to the kitchen. You follow slowly behind, trying to make yourself snap out of it. You loved him and he just told you he loved you. He loved you. You wanted him and it seems like he wanted you just as badly, if his groans were any indication. You’ve spent so much of your life being afraid of what could happen between you two, what could go wrong and now, there was nothing to be afraid of. Not here. Not right now.

As you watched him reach up for two glasses, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin, his abs and laurel tattoos peeking out, you decided you didn’t want wine after all. You were thirsty for something else entirely. You cringe at yourself for that last one. No more thinking.

“Harry? I actually - I changed my mind.” you say, taking a few steps over to get closer to him. “I don’t want wine anymore.”

“Yeah?”, he says, turning around to lean against the counter and crossing his arms, his biceps suddenly bulging in a way you can’t take your eyes off of. He watches as your eyes drag down his body before locking eyes with him as he licks his lips. “What do you want?”

“You. I want you. It’s all I –” The words are barely out of your mouth when he hooks his fingers through the belt loop of your jeans, pulling you right into him as he captures your lips with his. The sweetness from earlier long forgotten as he hotly licks into your mouth, his tongue sweeping over yours in a way that makes your head spin. His hands drift down to your ass, squeezing once as he moans into your mouth, pulling you even closer to him.

He spins you suddenly, pinning you against the countertop and grinding his hips against yours as he drags his lips down your neck. You’re panting, dragging your hands down his biceps, the muscles flexing as he plants his hands on the countertop, caging you in. His lips drag along your cheekbone before they find their way to yours once again. He kisses you hard as you trail your hands up his arms and down his back, his unbelievable back muscles that you can’t help but knead your hands into as you roll your hips up into his. He groans in appreciation, pulling away to press kisses along your jaw, one of his hands sliding up your sweater, just resting possessively against your ribs, his thumb grazing the edge of your bra. The feeling of his hands on your skin making your core throb as he sucks at the skin of your neck, determined to leave a mark.

“Harry,” you moan out his name in a way that has him sucking harder, his hand gripping you tighter. “We should - bedroom.”

He pulls back to look at you, panting to catch his breath. His lips are swollen, eyes the darkest you’ve ever seen them as he drags his thumb across your bottom lip, almost growling when your tongue swipes out to taste it.

“C’mere.” He takes a step back and pulls you into him, pressing his lips to yours once again, looping his arms around your hips. “Jump.”

You don’t think about it, just do, as you jump up into his arms, looping your legs around his waist.

“This okay?”

“Yeah,” you say breathlessly, bending your head down to mouth at the skin of his neck. “Drop me and I’ll kill you.”

“Not gonna do that,” he says, making his way out of the kitchen before letting go for a millisecond, you drop down a centimeter as you squeal before his arms catch you once more, holding you tight.

“Oh, you absolute arsehole!”

You can feel his giggles as much as you can hear them which sets you off to the point where he has to stop walking, arms holding you tight as you both dissolve into laughter. You pull your head back to look at him, finding him smiling up at you.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Is your back okay?”

He rolls his eyes, tightening his arms around you.

“M’back’s fine.” he says, leaning in to nudge his nose against yours before claiming your lips in a sweet kiss. He leans back to smile up at you, his dimple making an appearance.

You wind your hand up into the hairs at the nape of his neck, taking a moment to survey him, your eyes immediately drawn to his arms, flexed with effort but showing no signs of strain or struggle. Fuck, he’s so strong.

“Your arms are driving me insane,” you whisper, mostly to yourself but he hears you, huffing out a laugh as he leans in to plant a line of kisses down your neck.

“Yeah? You like them?” he asks, flexing them intentionally, grinning when you squeeze them.

“Harry.” you all but whine. “Take me to bed.”

He moans at that, pressing his lips to yours and kissing you deeply before continuing to walk down the hallway, holding you tight against him. You drag your lips along the skin of his neck, sucking lightly as he kicks the bedroom door open, sliding his hands to your thighs to help you ease to the ground, every inch of your body sliding against his as you do.

You stand there, looking at each other, before he swallows heavily, bringing his slightly shaking hands up to cup your face, leaning in to kiss you once more. He presses his lips to yours once, twice before pulling away and resting his forehead against yours.

“You nervous?” he whispers against your lips.

You nod. “A bit. Are you?”

“A bit. ‘S a big deal. You’re a big deal.” His thumb rubs against your cheekbone as he pulls back to look you right in the eyes. “But I love you and you love me. And I want you. And you want me.”

“I do,” you say, your hands coming to rest at his hips. “I really do. Wanna show you how much.”

“I’m yours, darling.”

You lean up to capture his lips with yours, swiping your tongue over his as you slide your hands under his shirt, pushing the fabric up before he breaks away from your mouth to pull the shirt over his head.

And there he is. Shirtless in a bedroom with you. You’ve been in this position before, but never like this. Never with his hooded eyes burning into your face as you take him all in. He’s yours to love. To touch. To fuck.

You slide your hand down his chest, his head ducked to follow the movement, before you’re undoing the button on his trousers, sliding your hand inside to cup at his length, already half hard, through his briefs. His head tilts back on his neck, his breath coming in short bursts as he drags his hand down your back to grab a firm handful of your arse.

You spin yourselves around, walking him backward before pushing him down lightly on the foot of the bed. His hands propped up to hold himself up, his legs spread wide as he watches you walk over to him, reaching out to grab your wrist and pulling you onto his lap.

“Y’ wearing too many clothes.” he says, his hands already traveling up your sweater.

“I wasn’t done.” you huff out, which turns more into a pant as he leans in to kiss you on the neck.

“Just need you more naked, love. Won’t interrupt again, I just - ” he cuts himself off, grabbing the hem of your sweater and pulling it over your head, his eyes immediately roaming over your skin.

And this is…being naked, even half naked, in front of someone for the first time is always nerve-wracking, regardless of how you feel about your appearance (and you were hot and you knew it, okay?!) but this is a whole other level. You’re a bit frozen in place, desperate to know if he likes what he sees.

He must feel you stiffen, because his hands immediately come to rest at your hips.

“You okay?” he asks, his eyes never once straying from yours.

“Yeah,” you say, huffing out a nervous laugh. “Just got nervous about you seeing me naked. Wondering if you liked it”

“Y- what?! Y’can’t be serious.” he all but squawks.

“I didn’t say it was rational!” you say with a giggle. “Just - it’s a big deal.”

“For me, too. ‘S an honor. A privilege. Thanking m’lucky stars –

“Oh my god.” you say, rolling your eyes.

“‘M serious. Y’ dead sexy.” he says, leaning in to plant a scintillating kiss to your neck before pulling back, suddenly serious. “Did you want to stop?”

“No, no, no. Not at all,” you say, threading your hand through his hair. “I want this. Want you. Thought about it so many times.”

He moans at that, sucking a kiss behind your ear before pulling back to whisper, “Gonna tell me what you thought about?”

“Wanna show you.” you say as he groans, kissing your neck once more before pulling away.

“‘M not done yet” he says, eyes locking with yours before sweeping down your body again. “Fuck. So beautiful.”

He plants a line of kisses down your neck, stopping to suck a mark on your collarbone as reaches around to unclasp your bra, helping it slide off your shoulders. He stares for a moment before diving in, kisses roaming from your sternum down to your breasts, wrapping his lips around one nipple while his hand massages the other. You’re overwhelmed, moaning at the sensation. You could stay here forever, slowly becoming putty in his hands as he moves his mouth to your other breast. But that’s not what you want.

You lean back, stopping his head with a gentle hand in his hair when he tries to follow you. His blown pupils staring right back at you.

You slip off his thigh and kneel in between his legs, grabbing his trousers and briefs by the waistband and pulling them down as he lifts his hips off the bed to help, his chest already heaving at the sight of you on your knees in front of him. Once you get them off his legs, you can’t help but gape at him. Sitting in front of you, in all his naked glory. He’s fully hard now, his glorious cock standing proud, already rosy red at the tip. He’s big. You want him inside you. But you’ve got something else to do first.

You lean in, planting kisses along his inner thigh, occasionally sucking the skin into your mouth to leave a mark while your hand sweeps up his other leg, kneading the muscle every so often. He groans, threading his hand through your hair, a mumbled “fuck me” leaving his lips as you make your way up his legs. You kiss a line along his hip, leaning in to lick at the laurel tattoos before looking up at him as he stares right back with dark eyes and a light sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Y’ don’t have to -”

“I want to,” you say, wrapping a loose fist around his cock as you kiss along the prominent vein, reveling in the way his eyes roll back, eyes fluttering closed, a full body shudder going through him. “This okay?”

“Yes - fuck. Please.” he tightens his hand in your hair as you pump his cock once before darting your tongue out and sucking at the tip.

He immediately moans, deep and guttural, trying in vain to keep his hips still as work him into your throat. You close your eyes, reveling in the feel of him as you drag your tongue along the vein, tightening your mouth at the tip as his breathing becomes heavier. You bob your head, working your mouth open to meet your fist at the base.

“Jesus, ‘s good. ‘S so good - baby,” he groans, chest heaving as your dewy eyes open to meet his, moaning the second you make eye contact. You can feel arousal pooling at the center of your thighs, shifting on your heels to find some relief. You leave one hand on his cock, the other sliding up to rest on his butterfly tattoo, feeling it jump under your hand as you give a particularly hard suck.

You pull off with an undignified slurp, keeping your hand pumping on him as you kiss down his length. Between his sounds, his taste, the feel of his fingers against your scalp, you’re wetter than you’ve ever been. You need him.

“Doing so good for me, you look unbelievable - ” he says, groaning as you take him down once more. “Oh fuck -”

You only manage a few more bobs of your head before he’s pulling you off of him, closing his eyes to collect himself.

“Gotta - gotta stop.” he says as you unwrap your fist, dragging your hands along his thighs. “Gonna make me come - and I -”

He shakes his head, chest still heaving as he reaches for your hands, pulling you up to stand in between his thighs. He immediately presses his mouth to your belly, dragging slow, wet kisses down until he reaches the waistband of your trousers, bringing his hands up to meet his mouth.

“Can I?” You’re nodding before he can even get the words out, desperate to have his hands on you.

He unbuttons your jeans and pulls them down slowly. Once they’re at your ankles, you hastily and ungracefully kick them off. He huffs out a laugh before taking you all in, swallowing heavily before dragging his eyes to your face, resting his chin against your stomach as he looks up at you, utterly rapt. His hands knead your thighs, edging closer to where you need him most before he pulls them away again.

“Want you on my bed,” he says and you all but crawl over him to get there, snorting out a laugh when he smacks you on the bum before you settle down against the pillows.

“Was right there,” he says, giggling as he turns around to face you. “Had to do someth…”

The words die in his throat when he sees you, sitting back against his heels for a moment as his eyes roam all over you, his searing gaze making you throb. He crawls up to lay beside you, bringing two fingers under your chin to tilt your head towards him and capturing your lips with his, groaning when he can taste himself on your tongue.

“Need to touch you,” he whispers against your lips. “Can I?”

“Please.” you whisper back. He props himself up on his elbow, bringing his other hand to rest on your sternum. Your breath catches when he leans in to kiss your neck, dragging his fingertips from your collarbone down to the waistband of your underwear, pausing a moment before pushing his hand inside, his fingers teasing at your folds, at where you’re practically dripping for him.

He bites down on your neck, groaning when he feels your wetness. “‘S this all for me? Y’ got this wet from sucking my cock?”

“Shit,” you moan out, eyes rolling back as his fingers start to rub circles on your clit. Each touch sends sparks shooting down your spine.

“Y’ so wet,” he moans into your ear, kissing a line across your jaw before licking into your mouth. You thread your hand into his hair as you kiss back, or attempt to, moaning deeply when you feel his hard cock against your hip. “‘S this really all for me?”

You pull back, looking into his hooded eyes as you whisper “Sempre.”

A moan punches out of him as he closes his eyes, stilling his hand for a moment. “Don’t - don’t do that,” he says, shakily. “Gonna make me bust a nut.”

“Thought my Italian was shit.” you say, laughing, still determined to tease him despite feeling like you’re about to explode, wiggling your hips to get his fingers where you want them.

“Turns out it hits very differently when you’re naked in m’ bed….” he says, kissing you deeply once more, before slipping a finger inside you, groaning as he pulls away. “And you’re this tight -”

“H -” you gasp out, feeling like every inch of you is on fire, the coil in your stomach already tightening with each delicious curl of his finger. Fuck. You never imagined he’d feel this good.

“Y’ feel so good, baby.” he says, lips dragging against your skin. “Want you to come like this. Can y’ do that for me?”

“Yeah. Want another - .” He slides another finger inside of you, effectively cutting you off. “Yes.”

“That’s better, yeah? That’s what my girl needed.” he says, resting his forehead against your temple. You tighten your hand in his hair, unable to focus on anything but the feel of his breath against your skin, the feeling of his fingers fucking you. The coil tightening as you start to pant. Fuck.

“Harry -” you moan, opening your eyes to look at him, his pupils blown out wide, nostrils flared as his eyes roam across your face before locking with yours. He kisses you, tongue gliding over yours as he brings his thumb to rub against your clit. Heat sears through you, thighs tightening as you feel yourself hurtling closer to the edge. “‘I’m close - oh!”

“Y’ look so good. Want you to come.” he mumbles against your skin. All it takes is a few more pumps of his fingers, his thumb swiping in one more delicious circle, his lips brushing against yours and then you’re coming. Hard.

Wave after wave of pleasure rolls through you, as a symphony of indecipherable moans leave your mouth, your stomach pulled tight, your core throbbing. It’s never felt like this before. His fingers fucking you through the last wave before the overstimulation has you groaning. He gently pulls his fingers out and sucks them into his mouth while locking eyes with you. His eyes rolling back at your taste.

“Taste so good,” his voice grumbles out, deeper than ever before. “Could just lay here and eat y’ for hours, if y’ wanted. Make you come over and over -”

You pull his head to your mouth, kissing him while still trying to catch your breath. You bite his bottom lip as he pulls away to smatter kisses across your face, mumbling “fuck, baby. Looked so good. Did so good for me” between kisses. He pulls back to stare at your face, small smile on his lips as he brushes a strand of hair away from your sweaty brow.

“Jesus Christ.” you say as he smacks a kiss to your cheek.

“Y’ can just call me Harry, love.” he says, giggling when you smack him on the head.

“And here I was about to compliment you -” you say with a groan, making like you’re going to get up before his arm lays across your waist, holding you in place.

“No no no, none of that. Let me hear it.” he says as you shake your head. “Was it good for you?”

“No comment - ”

“No come on – tell me.”

“It was alright.”

“Alright?! Had you moaning like a banshee and you –”

“A banshee?! Oh my god –”

“A hot banshee.”

“Shut up.” you say with a laugh as he buries his head against your neck, laughing with you. Once you settle down, you feel him start to plant kisses along your neck, his hard cock more prominent than ever against your hip.

“I’ve never come that hard.” “Yeah?” “You made me feel so good.”

You use your grip in his hair to pull his head towards yours, licking at the seam of his lips until he opens his mouth, moaning into yours as you kiss him deeply. You swipe your tongue over his over and over, desperate to get lost in the sensation, to make him feel as good as you did. You needed him.

“Harry,” you mumble against your lips before he dives in once again, kissing you so deeply you have to pull away to catch your breath, looking him in the eyes as you rub your thumb against his bottom lip. “Fuck me.”

His eyes flutter shut as he groans, nipping at your thumb before kissing you firmly once more, your lips dragging down his neck when he pulls away.

“Have to - Baby. Fuck. Have to get stuff. Washroom.” he mumbles incoherently as you suck a mark into his skin, biting down to leave a bruise. Marking your territory. He dives in to kiss you deeply once more before you pull away again.

“Your cock is about to burn a hole through my leg,” you say as he sputters out a laugh.

“‘S your fault. You’ve got no idea how good you look when you come” he mumbles against your lips, licking into your mouth.

“Harry.” you whine.

“‘M going, ‘m going.” He kisses your cheek as he drags his hand down your body, snapping the waistband of your underwear. “Get these off.”

“You’re the one who left them on!” you complain to no avail, as he hops off the bed, doing an awkward shuffle run into the washroom. You pull your soaked underwear off and throw it to the floor, hearing him fumble around drawers. He’s about to fuck you. A shudder runs through you, and you bring your hand down to your clit, still swollen as you brush your fingers against the bud, letting out a loud moan of his name.

“Jesus - fuck.”

Ah, so he heard you.

You hear a large clattering noise, a few more mumbled curses before you look over to find him standing in the doorway, condoms in hand, dark eyes locked on you.

“What’re y’ doing?”

“Got impatient.”

“Fuck, baby.” He brings his hand down to his hard cock, pumping it a few times as his eyes travel up and down your body. “Y’ look so good.”

“Need you,” you moan and he all but scrambles up the foot of the bed, dropping the condoms unceremoniously as he crawls to rest in between your bent legs. You lift your fingers off your clit, moaning when he ducks down to suck them into his mouth. He kisses your fingertips before bending down to kiss along your inner thigh.

He kisses a line across your hip before licking a stripe up your core. A guttural moan bursts from your chest as you tangle your fingers in his hair. He kisses a line up your stomach, crawling up until he’s hovering over you on all fours. His cock right where you need him the most, grazing your core when he bends down to kiss you, the two of you moaning into each other’s mouths.

He pulls away to look at you, dark eyes brimming with lust and determination.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Really want to fuck you.”

“Really want you to.”

He groans, kissing you deeply once more before leaning back on his heels and ripping the condom package open with his teeth. You’re unable to do anything but watch as he rolls the condom over his cock, his biceps flexing as he pumps himself once.

“Want y’ like this, if that’s okay.” he says, coming to hover over you once more. “Want to see you.”

“Yes, please.”

He lines himself up with your center, “deep breath for me,” and pushes in, smattering kisses across your face.

“Oh fuck.”

“Is it - fuck - okay? Y’good?”

“You’re big.” you moan out, clenching around him as you try to adjust to his size. “Just - give me a minute.”

“Take your time,” he says as he kisses at the hinge of your jaw bone. He drags his mouth across your forehead, temple, cheekbone as you take another deep breath, feeling yourself relax around him and oh shit - yes.

“You can move.” “Y’sure?”

“Yes, please - fuck.” The expletive is dragged out of you as he pulls his hips back before thrusting forward slowly. It feels like every nerve ending is on fire, like you’re ignited from within. He’s barely begun and you already can��t catch your breath.

“Fuck. Y’ feel so good.” he mumbles against your skin, lowering his arms so every inch of his skin is touching yours, you both groan at the sensation as he drags his hips back once again.

“You can - faster.” you gasp out, dragging your hands down his back grabbing a handful of his ass. “Please. Wanna feel it.”

He growls at that, kissing you deeply as he starts to fuck you. Really fuck you. Smooth, deep thrusts filling you every time. And then - oh fuck. You let out a loud moan, your hands scrambling for hold on his sweaty back.

“That’s it, yeah? Right there?” he asks as you feverishly nod your head. “Fuck, baby - y’feel -”

He lets out a guttural groan, reaching down to pull your thighs further up against his hips, moaning at the new angle. You bury your hand into his hair again, pulling on a particularly deep thrust as he moans against your neck in appreciation. You start to move your hips up against his and it takes a minute but eventually you hit a rhythm that is indescribable. It’s hard to tell where he ends and you begin. The two of you moving in tandem, working hard to make the other feel as good as possible.

He’s vocal, more so than you ever expected him to be. When he’s not mumbling praises into your hair, he’s moaning or grunting, never wavering in his determination to give it all to you. His lips drag all over your skin as he plants a kiss right over your beating heart, then licking a stripe up your neck before sucking a mark behind your ear.

“Wanted you so bad. Never imagined - fuck,” he grunts out, his abs sliding against your stomach, tattoos glistening in exertion. “Y’ feel incredible.”

He was all consuming. Determined to stay as close to you as possible, occasionally propping himself on one elbow to drag his hand down your body, squeezing at your breasts, biting your lips. You couldn’t catch your breath, feeling like every inch of you was on fire. Every drag of his hips makes your toes curl, core clenching as you melt into the mattress.

You look up at the furrow in his brow, his hooded eyes staring back at you, pure concentration in hitting you just right. Fuck. You felt yourself careening towards your high once more, clenching around him as he groaned. You threaded your hand into his hair, pulling his mouth towards you. You kissed him deeply, clenching when he thrust just right, pulling away with a gasp.

“Fuck, H. I -”

“Y’close?” he asked, moaning when you nod. “Gonna come on my cock?”

“Yeah. Fuck -” you moan, sliding your hand between your bodies to rub at your clit. Sparks fly the second your fingers make contact, he mouths along your jaw as you circle your clit. He locks eyes with you as he drags his hips out before thrusting hard. It immediately sends you over the edge, your mouth open in a silent scream as your body shakes through it. You can feel it all the way down to your toes, the waves of pleasure consuming you once again. You can’t stop clenching around him as he bites into your skin.

“Fuck, baby. Just like that. Oh - shit. Gonna make me -” he moans, thrusting in short bursts, his face screwed up in determination, his muscles tense. A guttural moan punches out of him as he comes, hard. You can feel him empty into the condom as he ducks down to kiss you, rough and deep, moaning as his whole body shudders. It’s all you can do to hold tight to his hair, kissing him back as best you can. His kisses slow, turning softer before he buries his head into your neck as you both shake with aftershocks.

It’s silent for a few moments. Just the sounds of you both trying to catch your breath. You drag your hand up and down his back as he breathes you in, not daring to move quite yet. You let your legs slide down to the mattress as he pulls his head back to look at you, a relaxed, blissful expression on his face. And to your surprise, tears in his eyes.

He brings his hand up to cup your face, rubbing his thumb on your cheekbone before leaning in to kiss you sweetly, sniffling once as he pulls away.

“Sorry I -” he shakes his head, shutting his eyes for a moment before opening them to stare right at you, his eyes soft with emotion. “That was incredible. I -”

He dives in to kiss you once more, moaning softly when you open your mouth to him, dragging your tongue against his before closing the kiss. He leans his forehead against yours.

“I never imagined it’d be that good. That it could feel like this. That we would…It’s never - I’ve never felt like this before. With anyone. ”

Tears spring to your eyes as you take in his earnest expression, the feeling on his body of yours, his hands on your skin.

“I know. Me too. That was…” You look up at him, the two of you staring in each other’s eyes, emotions you’re unable to articulate flowing through you. In awe that you’re both equally affected. You reach up, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, keeping your fingertips resting lightly on his face.

“You took such good care of me,” you whisper.

He blinks rapidly in an attempt to keep the tears at bay, a whispered “Baby.” leaving his lips as he leans down to kiss you softly. You both just lay there, sweet kisses expressing the love words cannot.

You pull away with a soft sigh, looking up at him in a daze, taking a deep breath as you run your hand through his sweaty hair.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Chills erupt across your body as you lean up to capture his lips once more.

“Should probably pull out now.” he whispers against your lips as you snort.

“Romantic.”

He smacks a kiss against your temple as he leans back, pulling out as you both grimace. He leans back against his heels as he pulls the condom off, tying it off and throwing it into the trash next to the bed before collapsing on top of your body.

“Oof.” you groan as he laughs, planting slow kisses along your neck, before wrapping his arms around you and rolling onto his back, holding you close as you lay on top of him.

You look down at him, the post sex glow working wonders on him as he smiles sleepily at you.

“Tired you out, did I?” You ask with a smile that widens when he huffs out a laugh.

“You got me good, darling.” he whispers, pulling you closer and holding you against him as he brushes kisses along your forehead.

“Should probably pee,” you mumble.

“Sexy.”

You snort as you pull away from him, proving more to be more difficult than it should as he refuses to let you get too far. He eventually drops his hands as you roll off the bed and shuffle to the washroom.

You hurry over to the toilet to pee, flushing and standing up to wash your hands, almost gasping at your reflection in the mirror. You look well and truly fucked. Your hair is a bit of a rat’s nest, you’ve got bruises blooming all over your neck and chest but you’ve also got a glow that you’ve never seen before. You like this look on you.

You dry your hands, shuffling back into the bedroom as you hear soft snores. You look up to find him spread on the bed, still completely naked, and asleep.

You gently shake him awake as he looks over at you with bleary eyes.

“Might help to get under the covers.”

“Shit. Sorry didn’t mean to fall asleep -” he cuts himself off with a yawn. “Just did a lot of hard work, you know.”

“Trust me, I know. Gonna be feeling you for days.” He inhales sharply at that, eyes darkening as you look over at him.

“Yeah?” he says smugly, already sliding his way closer to you, his hand reaching out to grab you as you skeptically lift an eyebrow.

“You were snoring a minute ago, H.” you say, tugging at the covers to get him off of the bed.

He rolls his eyes at you, standing up and stretching and you get so distracted by the expanse of skin that you freeze for a moment.

“The covers, love?”

You snap back to attention to find him looking at you with a smug gleam in his eye. You pull the covers back and slide into bed, he immediately follows suit.

“Don’t want to fall asleep on you after I rocked your world.” He says with a yawn. “Could stay up and talk, if you wanted.”

“You just yawned like 8 times in the last 30 seconds.”

“That is an exaggeration,” he says a yawn breaking through his speech as he quickly clamps his mouth shut in an attempt to quell it. You look at him with a raised eyebrow as he smiles back meekly.

You lean in to give him a kiss, murmuring “Let’s go to sleep.”

“If you insist,” he says, as if he’s not the one already drifting off. You lean over to flip the lamp off and he wraps his arm around you, pulling you down so your head lays across his chest, as you wrap your arm around his waist, tangling your legs with his.

“Love you.” he mumbles sleepily, his breaths already coming in deeper, slower.

“Love you too,” you say, squeezing at his waist as you close your eyes, finding yourself drifting off to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Feeling more loved than you ever have in your life. Just you and your boy, in your own little bubble. You fall into a deep sleep, blissfully ignorant of just how soon this little love bubble you’ve found yourselves in would pop. Big time.

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a/n: wowweee. can we believe it?! thanks for sticking with me and my long ass updates if you have. would love to know your thoughts! pls pls pls.fingers crossed its not the worst smut you've ever read xo

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