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wreckedandpolemic · 4 months ago

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what baking can do - matty healy

(mdni) in which you try your hand at baking for your husband, but he comes home early and ruins you the surprise. part of the white and gold universe and promptober75 2024. 2922 words

warnings: unprotected sex, slight degradation, praise, mild dumbification, breeding kink, slight cumplay, a very inappropriate use for whipped cream lol

You’re humming to yourself, singing along to the song playing tinnily out of your phone’s speakers when Matty comes home. “Oh! Hi,” you gasp, setting the mixing bowl down on the kitchen counter so you can fold yourself happily into his arms. “Is it six already? I must’ve lost track of time.”

Matty kisses the top of your head, pulling you close with a relieved little sigh. “Hi, gorgeous. Nah, it’s just gone five, my last meeting got cancelled. Had a fucking shitter of a day, though,” he adds, cool palms cupping your cheeks as he leans down to kiss you.

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. Are you feeling alright?” you say, eagerly returning his kiss, long and sloppy with tired affection.

He smiles, wandering a hand down to grab your ass. “I am now. Can’t stay mad with you around,” he adds, eyes liquid with an adoration that turns your heart to mush. “What are you making?” he asks, hooking his thumbs into the strings of your apron to hold you close.

“Pumpkin pie,” you grin, dipping your finger into the filling and holding it up to his lips. “Was supposed to be just out of the oven when you got home,” you add with a teasing little pout. Matty wraps his lips around your finger, sucking delicately and flicking his tongue in a way that’s deliberately reminiscent of how he teases your clit.

He releases your fingers with a lewd little pop and smirks down at you. “So sweet,” he says, and you can’t tell if he means the pie filling or you, but you’re inclined towards the latter. “God, I’m so lucky,” he murmurs. “Comin’ home to my gorgeous wife cooking for me, lookin’ like this?” His fingers toy with the hem of your little lace skirt, barely longer than your apron, and brush against your thigh.

You shiver, swatting him away with a smile. “Behave, or I’ll never get this finished.”

Matty shrugs, now fiddling with the top of your stocking, snapping the strap of your garter belt (okay, maybe you got yourself a little dolled up in the hopes he’d come home in this mood) against your skin. “I can live with that.”

Squirming, you carefully extricate his hand before he starts touching you properly and your mind melts. “Let me finish cooking, and you can do whatever you want while it’s in the oven, okay, Daddy?” you smirk, savouring his choked little inhale at the epithet.

Blunt nails dig into your hips, the heat of Matty’s body soaking into yours as he presses against you. “Alright, princess,” he says, stepping away as you reach up for a pair of wine glasses. “You need any help?”

You shake your head, retrieving two bottles of wine; malbec for him and rosé for you, and pour two healthy glasses. “No. Just relax and look pretty for me, okay?” you grin, taking a long sip of your wine and gazing lovingly into Matty’s eyes as he does the same.

Dumping the can of pumpkin purée into the bowl, you stir it through carefully, suddenly conscious of Matty watching you. “What?” Matty laughs, cupping your cheeks and pressing his forehead against yours.

“I can feel you watching me,” you whine, pressing your legs together when he catches your lips in a slick, messy kiss. “Stop it,” you giggle when you break apart. “I’ll never get done if you keep kissing me like that.”

Matty’s lips fall to your neck. “Like I said, princess, I can live with that.”

You roll your eyes teasingly. “You’re always telling me to be patient. S’your turn,” you pout, letting him steal one more sweet kiss before you back away to retrieve the heavy cream from the fridge. Matty’s still watching you as you cook, smiling and sipping wine and occasionally handing you spices to stir into the pie filling.

He comes up behind you as you bend to put the pie into the oven, grabbing your waist and grinding his hips against yours. “Finally,” he groans, spinning you around and untying your apron in one swift movement. “Thought you were tryin’ to break some kind of record for the longest time spent on one fucking pie,” he teases.

“Longest case of blue balls suffered by a thirty-six year old man, more like,” you retort, and he pinches your ass in response.

“Don’t be a smartarse,” Matty says, an edge of dominance tracing lightly over his tone.

You moan into his mouth as his hand slides up your skirt. “You love my ass,” you tease, lifting your apron and letting it slide to the floor. Greedily, Matty paws at your tits through your top as you kiss at his jaw and let his stubble brush your lips. He whines softly when you break away and waltz up to the fridge, confused until his eyes catch on the cool canister in your hands. “Got it for the pie, but I don’t see why we can’t open it now.”

Setting the can down, you hop up onto the kitchen table and let Matty pull your top over your head. He leans down to kiss your tits where they spill out of your bra, unhooking the garment and tossing it away somewhere over his shoulder. He picks up the can of whipped cream, presses it against your neck just to make you shiver. “Gonna make you even sweeter,” he grins, popping the lid open.

You groan. “That was awful. Don’t know why I let you have sex with me.”

“‘Cause you love me,” Matty teases in an echo of your earlier words, presses the nozzle of the can against your sensitive skin. He sprays the cream across the top of your tits, and you gasp at the coolness. “Jesus,” he mutters, pulling back a little just to stare as it starts to melt. “You’re a walking wet dream, you know that?”

His tongue runs sandpaper-rough over your skin as he laps up the cream, and you giggle and squirm under his attention. “Daddy,” you whine playfully, threading your hands into his hair as he kisses and licks at your nipple. He pulls back, eyes gleaming wickedly, and shrugs off his jacket.

Gently, Matty presses your body back against the table. “Lay down for me, princess,” he murmurs, tracing gently around the curve of your boob with one hand and sliding his jacket under your head with the other. “Good girl,” he praises, trailing featherlight touches over your hips and waist, your muscles tensing with need. “So pretty,” Matty coos, drawing a sticky line from the valley of your chest down to your waistband.

You writhe under him as he runs his tongue along your body, hands at your hips pinning you still. He looks up at you with lust-blown eyes and presses a kiss just below your belly button, laps at the skin there, laughs softly when you wrap your legs around him. “Please,” you breathe, your cunt pulsing with need. You don’t even know what you’re begging for, just melting into a desperate little puddle in Matty’s hands.

“You want me to take you to bed, sweet girl?” Nodding frantically, you reach for him and tug him in by the collar, teeth clacking together as you kiss him, deep and frenzied. “C’mere, darling, hold on,” he says, scooping you up and letting you bury your head in his neck and breathe deep as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“You smell good,” you mutter, half-dazed with lust and the blunt pain of Matty’s nails digging into your ass. A happy sigh escapes you as you fall on top of the sheets, your hands instinctively falling to pull off your skirt and panties in one motion. Matty watches you greedily, his own shirt now discarded on your bedroom floor, his familiar tattoos exposed for your viewing pleasure. “Need you,” you whine, spreading your legs to give him space to kneel between them as he tugs off his suit trousers.

Brushing a stray piece of hair out of your eyes, Matty leans down to plant a soft, affectionate kiss to your lips. “How do you want me, princess?”

“Please fuck me,” you murmur, mouth watering at the sight of his cock, flushed and dripping and beautiful. “Need you inside me, Daddy, please.” Your head swims, already picturing it so clearly you can almost feel him deep inside you, a sudden daze of thick lust enveloping you.

The memory of him buried in your ass swims to the forefront of your mind, then of his dick so far down your throat you could barely breathe, of his cum splashing on your tits. “What are you thinking about, angel? Y’miles away,” Matty says, palms rubbing circles over your body as he teases your hole with the tip of his cock.

You grin, a filthy, sleazy thing you know you’ve learnt from him. “Was thinking about you fucking my ass, Daddy,” you say as innocently as you can. He swears under his breath, mutters soft, filthy words that can’t seem to stick in your head as Matty draws slow circles over your clit and pleasure seeps stickily into your bloodstream.

“You ready for me, princess? You want Daddy to fill up this pretty, sweet cunt?” Matty coos. Jaw slack, you nod, arching desperately up towards him. “Yeah, that’s my good girl,” he says, pushing into you in one fluid motion and groaning as he bottoms out.

Whining, you clench your cunt around him, sinking your nails into the smooth, bare skin of his back. “Stay like this,” you moan. “Please. Just for a minute. I need to feel you.” Matty groans, buries his head in your neck, murmurs perfect girl into your skin. You stretch, pleasure coiling in your belly, moaning happily and luxuriating in the feeling. Pressing a hand to your stomach, you gasp as you feel his cock buried deep inside you.

Grabbing Matty’s hand, you rest it in the same spot, smiling stupidly up at him. “Shit,” he breathes. “I’m in your fucking guts, princess, fuck,” he groans, cock twitching inside you as he fights to stay still and not thrust messily into you. The vulgar words wash over you, dripping between your legs and grinding what was left of your brain into dust. “Such a good little slut for your Daddy, yeah? Always take my cock so well, baby. Y’look so pretty full of me, wish i could keep you all cockdrunk and happy like this all the time.” Long, calloused fingers trace over your cheek, electricity sparking between your skin.

“You feel so good,” you groan, rocking your hips up against his. “I almost don’t even wanna fuck, feels that good just like this. Almost,” you giggle, locking your legs around Matty’s waist to urge him to move.

He starts a slow, sweet pace, eyes wide with adoration as your own roll back in your head. “That’s my good little girl,” he murmurs, rolling his hips and filling you impossibly deep. “Always so pretty for me, love fucking you like this, princess.” Matty leans down, catches your lips in a messy, spit-slick kiss, moans lowly into your mouth. Gasping, his name falls from your lips in a needy whine. “Sweet, dumb little girl,” he coos, pouting down at you. “Can you open up for Daddy, baby?”

Obediently, your jaw falls open, letting Matty spit in your mouth and swallowing greedily before he even has a chance to tell you. The sticky slide down your throat makes you grin dazedly, and you clench around Matty’s cock as he keeps fucking into you. He kisses down your neck, sucks a little bruise into your collarbone as you moan into the air between you. His lips wrap around your nipple and he sucks greedily, his moan a visceral thing that rolls over you. “Perfect fucking tits,” he groans, burying his head between them and kissing at your soft skin. “Perfect cunt, perfect body, perfect fucking girl.”

Thick, calloused fingers trail down your body, a burst of dizzying pleasure coursing up your spine when they find your clit. “Daddy, please,” you whine, rolling your hips up to meet him. Ecstasy floods your body, your cunt pulsing around Matty as you writhe under him.

“Please what, princess?” he teases, rubbing tight little circles into your sensitive nerves. “You gotta tell Daddy what you want, yeah?” You whine, pouting up at him until he kisses you, moaning happily when his tongue sweeps greedily into your mouth. “You wanna cum for me, darling?”

Nodding helplessly, you arch up towards him. “Yeah. Please. Need you to make me cum, Daddy, wanna make you cum, want you to make me yours, fuck,” you whine, pleasure coiling tight in your belly. Matty slams into you so hard you can barely breathe, rough pace utterly foreign from the gentle, sweet smile on his face.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Whenever you’re ready, princess.” Pure, molten desire drips down your spine, pooling between your hips and dripping out onto the mattress. Matty kisses your neck, pinching your clit harshly and hitting your g-spot in the same split-second, and you’re fucking gone. You wail his name, echoing off the walls as your cunt pulses around him and ecstasy hammers between your legs. Eyes rolling back in your head, you ride it out, helpless under Matty’s deep thrusts.

An overstimulated whine falls from your mouth as Matty slumps on top of you, slack lips finding yours as he groans through his orgasm. “Fuck, so fuckin’ good, princess. Takin’ Daddy’s cum so well, darling, that’s it,” he moans, lifting his fingers, still wet with you, to his lips and sucking pornographically. “Taste so good, baby,” Matty sighs.

Pouting as Matty pulls out, you curl into his arms, sweaty and sated. “Love you. M’sorry you had a shitty day,” you say, giggling as he presses a kiss against your forehead.

He grins down at you. “Love, if you think I give a shit about what happened at the fucking office anymore…” Matty teases, tracing his fingers over your hips and wandering his hand down to your ass. “Y’so fucking beautiful, baby. Always take me so well, look so good full of my cum. Drive me fuckin’ crazy, pretty girl.”

Matty’s fingers are skating over your swollen, messy cunt, and you catch his lips in a sloppy kiss as desire drips out over his hand. “You can finger it back into me. I know you want to. Keep me nice and full, make sure I’m knocked up, yeah?” you breathe against his lips.

“Jesus, princess,” Matty murmurs, slowly filling you with two thick fingers. “Such a little cumslut, god. Y’love Daddy’s cum, huh?” Nodding helplessly, you let a wave of pleasure overtake you, riding it out until you regain the strength to speak.

“Mhmm. But… m’serious, too.” Matty makes a soft, curious noise. “I wanna have your baby. Not right now, but… soon,” you murmur, biting your lip in trepidation at your confession.

Matty’s lips part in awe, eyes shining like you hung the moon. “God, every time I think you couldn’t get more perfect,” he groans, burying his head in your neck and sucking a harsh bruise into the skin there. “Are you sure?” he adds, rubbing softly over your belly like he’s imagining it already.

You whine as his thumb swipes over your sensitive clit, your cunt throbbing around his fingers. “Yeah. M’gonna— fuck— gonna come off the pill, n’you— shit, Daddy, please— can just keep makin’ sure I’m nice and full of you, yeah?” Ecstasy is pooling at the base of your spine, Matty’s pace slow and insistent, fucking his cum so deep inside you that it won’t drip out.

His fingers curl up, brush your g-spot, and you wail, the burst of glowing pleasure that ripples through you bone-shakingly intense. “Is that the spot, princess?” Matty teases. You gasp out something that must be an intelligible yes, because he grins down at you. “Good girl. Pretty, perfect girl. You wanna cum for Daddy, baby?”

“Please,” you whine, arching up as he crooks his fingers again and that same, mind-numbing pleasure washes over you. A few more slow thrusts and a long, messy, spit-slick kiss are all it takes to topple over the edge, a wail of Daddy spilling from your lips as euphoria floods your body. Your mind goes blank, your vision whiting out; all you can feel is Matty. His breath on your lips, his fingers still buried deep inside you, the heat of his body tangled up with yours.

A sleazy little grin paints Matty’s lips when you come to, and you stretch up to kiss it off. He lifts his fingers, still slick with both of you, to your face, gently prises your mouth open. You suck them into your mouth happily, swirling your tongue and moaning at the heady taste. “Good?” he teases.

“Try for yourself,” you giggle, rolling on top of him to press your mouth against his, licking greedily into his mouth as he takes your jaw in his palms. Panting and slightly dizzy from the lack of oxygen, you break away, curling up against him and resting your head against his chest. Your eyes slip closed as Matty traces gentle patterns on your shoulder and his heart thumps steadily, soothingly in your ear.

The sound of your smoke alarm screeching wildly snaps you out of your daze as Matty sits bolt upright. “The fucking pie!”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you. “Shit.”

#Disclaimer i have never seen waitress #and i have only the Vaguest handle on the plot #matty healy x reader #matty healy smut #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 smut #writing #smut #white and gold #promptober75

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matthewtkachuk · 1 year ago

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bad at love

Breaking your brother's only unspoken rule—don't date his teammates—has never been an issue in your adult life. Until now.

pairing: jt compher x reader

warnings: angstttt, smut, a minor car accident with mentions of injury (broken bone/concussion), and the usual (alcohol, swearing, etc. etc.)

word count: 4.9k

a/n: hiiiiii @comphy-and-cozy i'm your super secret fic exchange writer! sorry this is a day late and a dollar short. one of these days @wyattjohnston is going to perma-ban me from participating in exchanges. until that date she remains my ever loyal editor. mad thanks to @thomasschabot for reading it first and telling me they loved it even though they're contractually obligated to do so and for physically being there when the fic idea popped into my head <3

It’s not the first time you’ve shown up at your big brother’s house with a face full of tears and a couple bags full of all your worldly possessions. Despite your best efforts and well intentions—if you had to guess—it likely won’t be the last.

It is the first time you’ve done so with him being a married man, and so it’s your sister-in-law whose comfort you really seek and are expecting to pop up behind the slowly opening door in front of you.

Unfortunately for you, and for the poor soul you really don’t know that well, it’s not Kenzy who opens the door but the over-the-summer pick-up from Colorado.

If it had been any of the other, more tenured of your brother's teammates, you might have been waved inside with nothing more than a sympathetic glance and an unspoken ‘again?’.

Instead, JT’s look of utter confusion has quickly evolved into something more akin to a quiet rage, and you’re reminded that he is a big brother himself. The look is familiar to you, having inspired a similar one on Dylan’s face more times than you can count.

It’s been a really fucking long day, and you don’t have the emotional bandwidth to have any sort of reckoning with some guy you barely know in your brothers drive way.

JT’s in the middle of some sort of sentence that begins and also ends with “What—” as you none too gently push past him in order to finally gain entry to the house.

The mix of sympathy and feigned disinterest that greets you on the faces of your brothers teammates who occupy the large sitting room has your stomach rolling uncomfortably. It seemed like the entirety of the Detroit Red Wings were always around to witness your spectacular failures. What must they think, watching you disappear with the next great love of your life, only to reappear once again with bags packed in a manner of months?

You could hazard a guess at what your brother thinks, the variants of ‘I told you so’ that live and die on his tongue without ever leaving his lips. He wraps you up in an infamous Larkin hug that serves to fix a tiny crack of your broken heart, and so you revel in it like you used to revel in the comfort when the pain you felt was because of falling off the monkey bars when you were a kid.

But, he has a house full of hockey players to entertain and Kenzy has a glass of wine with your name on it. Dylan returns to the living room and you slide out to the back porch with your sister-in-law, briefly catching the eye of the one who let you in. You don’t see the telltale signs of judgment reflecting back at you, but maybe something else entirely.

Outside you pour your soul alongside the Malbec. Curled up on the wicker chair under a blanket you tell Kenzy about Owen and the promises he failed to keep. She oohs and ahs at the appropriate times, commiserating without belittling you.

By the end of the night your heart—and the bottle of wine—feels a little lighter. There’s a little less shame as you make yourself at home in the spare bedroom that might as well permanently be yours.

Owen visits you in your sleep, breaking your heart again and again until his face morphs into one with a ginger beard and kind eyes.

Those kind eyes become a fixture in your post breakup life. If he’s not hanging around your brother's house, he’s bumping into you at the local coffee shop you frequent when you’re in Detroit. If he’s at neither, he’s obviously at the games you attend in support of Dylan alongside Kenzy.

At Dylan’s, you barely speak to his teammates and friends beyond simple pleasantries. At your coffee shop, it starts at small talk but grows to be considerable conversations that dip just below surface level.

It’s at Little Caesars Arena where he really endears himself to you though. Warm ups are arguably your favorite part of the games you attend. You like to look out at the signs, from the heartwarming to the obscene—picking out your favorites and giggling about the latter with your sister in law.

Dylan’s always been really good about tossing kids pucks, and his big bleeding heart only grew larger when he got the red C strapped to his chest. Some of the other guys, even some of the so-called vets are less good about it.

JT’s just like Dylan, maybe even a little kinder hearted. He takes the time to read the signs that are meant for him, never turns down a trade for a puck and even gives a stick to a kid whose sign says he came all the way from Denver to watch him, his favorite player, play in Detroit.

It warms your heart.

So much so you don’t even notice you’re staring until Dylan’s slamming himself into the boards in front of you to startle his wife. She rolls her eyes and calls him a name not worth repeating while you try to pretend like you weren’t just fixated on his teammate.

The thing is Dylan has never outright said his teammates are off limits. Not since you were a teenager making eyes at his USNTDP teammates anyway.

The memory keeps you from looking JT’s way the rest of the warmups, but once the puck drops your eyes can’t help but wander.

Wandering appears to be your specialty, considering you’ve gotten yourself lost in the underbelly of the arena.

Your first mistake was leaving Ken’s side—she was your ferryman, guiding you down the River Styx, and without her, you were lost in Hell.

Were you overdramatic? Maybe. Were you lost with no hope of getting out? Still overdramatic, but definitely a possibility.

The walls begin to look the same, and you’re half worried you’ve accidentally fallen into a back room or something stupid when you stumble upon the one who caught your eye earlier.

‘Stumble upon’ is a gracious way of saying you absolutely smack into him and fall on your ass.

He hauls you up effortlessly with one hand and your skin burns beneath his grasp.

“What are you doing?” you both say in near unison before he laughs.

“I was getting my shoulder checked out, what are you doing all the way over here? Are you lost?”

Regardless of what he was doing, JT obviously has more of a reason to be found wandering the halls of the arena. And he’s right, you’re most definitely lost but you play it off like he’s crazy.

“Me? Lost? No, I know exactly where we are,” you bluff.

JT’s eyebrows raise and he nods slowly. “Which is…?”

Well, he’s called your bluff but he also gave you a key context clue. “Near the athletic trainer, obviously.”

He laughs again and it has your cheeks feeling hot.

“Okay fine, maybe I’m a little bit lost and maybe I was contemplating how I’d be trapped down here forever before you knocked me over.”

“I’m sorry, but you ran into me.” You roll your eyes and begin to argue, but he doesn’t let that happen. “Doesn’t matter, I can help you find your way out.”

You swoon dramatically, only half joking as you reply “My hero.”

Now that you’re no longer focused on navigating your way out of Pan’s Labyrinth, you’re free to focus on your close proximity to JT. Based on the way his eyes dart between meeting your own and staring at your lips, you assume he’s just as aware.

Is this not what you’ve been wanting since you knocked on Dylan’s door? But that’s part of the problem, and you’re sure JT is thinking the same. Not only is your brother his teammate—and you’ve always been off limits to your brother's teammates to your chagrin growing up—but he’s JT’s captain, too. There’s a million ways this thing could go wrong and blow up in both of your faces.

You could get caught, and be forced to sit with Dyl’s disappointment. You could hurt the one person in your life who consistently showed up for you and loved you and cared for you.

Not to mention you could risk it all for nothing—could crash and burn spectacularly as you were wont to do. Could fuck it all up with not only your brother, but JT too and be left with nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gone behind your brother’s back, but you had a sneaking suspicion things would be worse than they were when you were 15 to his 16.

Ultimately you decide fuck it, because what’s life without a little risk?

Tentatively, you slide your hand over the rough beard covering his jaw. When he doesn’t flinch or move away from you, you lean in closer.

He’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving closer, letting you make the first move.

It’s probably a terrible fucking idea, but you’ve never been accused of being someone who makes good decisions when it comes to romantic partners.

The first press of your lips to his is cautious, barely a brushing of your mouths, just to get a taste. Quickly you become a woman obsessed. Unable to get enough, the kisses turn frenetic, bordering on sloppy.

He reciprocates in kind, his mouth hot and heavy on yours while his hands grasp and pull and hold. His very essence consumes you, taking over all of your five senses and pulling noises from you that you didn’t know existed.

If your arm burned from his grasp earlier, your entire body has caught fire.

You’re unaware or probably more accurately uncaring of your public nature, despite your earlier hesitance. Now you just want more and more and more of JT, as much as he is willing to give and maybe even a little more.

He seems to be on the same page, entire body wrapping around you and pulling you deeper and deeper.

Unconsciously your hands begin to pull at the waistband of his pants and it’s then that the two of you finally separate.

You’re worried you’re going to find regret in his eyes and excuses on his tongue, but he’s just looking at you intently.

“Not like this,” he says. “Not here.”

“I don’t want to wait,” you protest, but he shushes you with his mouth.

“It’ll be worth the wait.”

And worth the wait it is.

It's sexy at first. Clandestine meetings in dark hallways, sneaking in and out of JT’s apartment that’s on the same floor as Jake Walman’s, covert texts and quiet phone calls where you get off on the sound of each other's voices.

It doesn’t take long for you to want more, though. To fantasize about not just what his calloused hands can do to your body, but what it would be like to hold one in your own while walking down the street. To show up at a home game and have everyone know you were there to support not only your brother, but JT too.

It’s a fantasy that is only stoked by the comfort you feel walking around JT’s apartment in just his t-shirt with his number on the shoulder. By nights spent together at his dinner table, on his couch, in his bed. By sweet texts and stupid memes and random photos of things that made him think of you.

You don’t dare speak your desires out loud though. For fear of JT not wanting the same thing or for fear that he would, you’re not quite sure.

It’s a tough situation to be in. One where you’re worried you're heading to a fork in the road that has JT on one side and your brother on the other.

You have no delusions about the two paths eventually forging back together again, know that you’ve come dangerously close to that intersection marked with a big fat caution sign.

Probably you should speak to JT, get on the same page about where you’ve been and where you’re going. Following that, assuming he secretly yearns for the same thing you do, you should probably then come clean to Dylan.

Probably you should do a lot of things, but unfortunately what is done in the dark always comes to the light and sometimes it happens quicker than you can make your mind up.

A road win presumably has JT in a good mood. He’s texted you letting you know he’ll be home before midnight, requesting your presence in his bed.

It’s an easy yes, considering you’re already in the aforementioned bed. It’s nice to get out of Dylan’s house, of the suffocating feeling that you’re intruding in someone else’s home, on someone else’s life.

There’s really nothing particularly sexy about the way he finds you, but his eyes darken upon finding you curled up in his bed just the same. You’re not attempting to recreate a sexy pose from a boudoir photo shoot, and one of JT’s shirts and a pair of boy shorts aren’t exactly fancy lingerie.

That doesn’t stop him from dropping his bag dramatically and stripping from his dress shirt and pants.

“Awfully presumptuous,” you say as if the very fact that you’re in his bed in not much more clothing than he is.

He shrugs, “Not presuming anything. I’m fine if you just want to sleep, but I’m sure as shit not going to sleep in those dress pants. Bad enough I had to sit through a plane ride like that.”

His tone is teasing, but the implication that he would be just as fine falling asleep beside you as anything else pretty well takes all the fight out of you.

“C’mere,” you say instead of a catchy comeback, lifting the covers and inviting him into his own bed.

He wastes no time sliding in beside you and curling up around your body. “Hi.”

You snort and hide your face in his neck. “Corny.”

“I’ll show you corny,” he says, but you shush him by pulling his face closer to yours until your lips brush.

“Thought I was presumptuous,” he says upon breaking the kiss.

You roll your eyes—“Shut up.”—and kiss him again.

He doesn’t manage to keep his mouth shut, but at least this time it’s to slip his tongue into your mouth.

The temperature of the room rapidly increases—between the weight of his body covering your own and your body’s reaction to his fervid kiss, you feel the need to lose at least one item of clothing.

“I need—“

Luckily he quickly understands what you’re trying to accomplish by pulling at the hem of your shirt, lifting off of you long enough to assist in removing it from your body.

He makes a noise of appreciation at the bare skin revealed to him before diving back into your lips, this time with one hand cupping your right breast.

Appreciative noises of your own build in your throat when that hand slides down your body to dip into your underwear. It’s teasing touches at first, until you reciprocate by cupping him through his boxer-briefs.

Finally you both shed that last remaining layer, uncaring of where they end up in the bedroom. There’s a brief pause while he rolls on a condom and then he’s entering your body like it was made for him and him alone.

There’s no rush about his pace, just gentle thrusts and soft moans and sweet praises.

Sex with JT is so good, better than with anyone else you’ve ever been with. He’s the very opposite of a lazy, selfish lover. It’s like your needs and your pleasure come first, and you certainly do too.

The positioning of your bodies is so intimate, bodies close, mouths slotted over each other with intermingling breaths.

You worry you’re getting too caught up in that intimacy, possibly running in a direction not quite warranted and so you seek to depersonalize it a touch.

“Let me,” you say softly while gently pressing a hand against his shoulder, indicating you want him to lay on his back. He moves willingly, even helping you climb atop him.

It feels just as good with you on top, and the bit of distance between your upper halves means you can breathe a bit better.

It’s easy to get lost in the feeling, to tilt your head back and focus on your movements and the feel of his bruising grip on your hips.

Feeling the pressure build in your stomach, you slide a hand down your abdomen to where your bodies meet while the other grasps your breast just for something to hold on to. The added friction to your clit is pulling you closer and closer as you move on top of him.

He’s staring up at you with lust filled eyes, mouth open in a mix of awe and pleasure. A look of almost disbelief on his face. His hands are still on your hips, now helping the movement of your body on his when your body lights up like the fourth of July with your orgasm.

It’s hard to keep moving while in the throes of pleasure, but it’s like JT can read your mind, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you until he finishes too.

Your whole body tingles as you collapse on top of him, relishing in the feel of his arms wrapping around your body. Leisurely you kiss for a minute, until your heart rate returns to normal and you feel like you’re not likely to fall over when going to the bathroom to clean up.

When you return, you’ve slipped on one of his shirts once again. There's a soft look on his face as you crawl into bed beside him. It only cracks when you quietly whisper, “should we order pizza?”

“I think you’re the girl of my dreams,” he laughs.

The room is quiet, filled with only the sounds of your breathing and occasional kissing as you wait for the delivery.

Finally the doorbell rings. “I got it,” you tell JT and pull on a pair of discarded sweatpants before pulling the drawstring so they don’t fall.

You don’t bother to check the peephole, certain it’s your food which turns out to be a giant mistake.

Not only is it not your pizza, it’s also the last person you want to catch you with sex hair in oversized clothing that obviously belongs to the guy you’ve just had sex with.

Dylan’s mouth has dropped so far down it would be comical if it wasn’t also horrifying.

“Dylan I–” you start to explain yourself but pause midway through. How could you even begin to explain?

“I can’t believe this.” He shakes his head, hands curling at his side. “Actually no, I can’t believe this from JT, I can definitely believe this from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap.

Your brother laughs sardonically, “Well you’re not exactly known for making the right decisions when it comes to relationships.”

JT exits his room, no doubt lured by the loud voices and the lack of food. “Hey man, come on, let's talk about this like adults.”

“Like adults?” Dylan is incensed in a way you’ve never seen before. “Now you want to talk about things like adults? The time to talk was before you started sleeping with my sister behind my back.”

“I’m sorry you found out like this–” JT continues to try to defend himself, defend you while you stand there speechless.

Dylan interrupts, “Sorry I found out or sorry you got caught?”

JT goes to respond but Dylan cuts him off again. “I trusted you dude. I told you she was off limits, and not only did you ignore me, you went behind my back.” He then turns to you. “And you? My teammate? Seriously? You couldn’t have chosen literally any other douchebag to treat you wrong?”

That snaps you out of your stupor. “JT doesn’t treat me bad!”

A different kind of look crosses your older brother's face then. “Well when he does, don’t come running back to my house and crying to me.”

Dylan slams the door and you sit in the quiet of the room for a minute with your ears ringing.

The reality of the situation hits you.

“I can’t stay there, God not only am I a fuck up but I’m homeless too.”

“You can always stay here,” JT offers and it really bothers you that you can’t tell if he wants you to, or if he’s just offering because of his hand in the most recent blow up of your life.

“I’m pretty sure his baby sister shacking up with his teammate he doesn’t want her with isn’t exactly going to win me any favors with Dyl,” you reply.

“Well I’m pretty sure he’d rather you be here than living on the street.”

Ordinarily you think that would probably be true but the look on his face when you opened JT’s door is seared into your mind. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

In the end you do move your things into JT’s apartment. Kenzy is the accomplice to your crime, helping you pack your things while the team has practice, wrapping you in her arms and telling you that he just needs some time.

“He loves you,” she says.

You’re not so sure.

That’s probably overdramatic. You’re sure he loves you, and you sure hope he forgives you. You’re just worried that this time you’ve both done and said things you can’t take back and you’re not sure how things will move forward from here.

It’s not all bad though.

Living with JT is surprisingly easy, even right one might say. You fit directly into each other's lives like perfect puzzle pieces. His strict routines of practices and morning skates and games—both home and away—allow you the space to complete your own work on your own time. Cooking pregame meals together and curling up beside him when he takes his pregame naps quickly become some of your favorite activities.

You dance around the feelings talk, never quite broaching the subject. But it can’t feel this right if it’s all one sided, all in your head, right?

He’s even kind enough to let you drive his SUV even though the price tag makes you nervous every time you’re behind the wheel. You’re not a bad driver, as evidenced by the fact JT lets you drive the Audi, but you are possibly on this side of over cautious as a result of a bad car accident in high school.

Three home games after your fight with Dylan and approximately zero words or text messages exchanged between the two of you, you find yourself in the passenger seat.

“I could have taken the bus,” you protest weakly, almost knowing exactly what JT’s response will be.

“Over my dead body,” he laughs, eyes flickering over to you before focusing on the traffic in front of him. “Just pick me up after practice or text me if you’re still out and I’ll find a ride.”

“I’m not gonna leave you stranded at the arena, of course I’ll be there after you’re done.”

It’s oddly domestic, kissing JT across the console and then sliding into the driver’s seat that he vacates. You wait as he grabs his gear and walks away, you do really love watching him walk away.

The moment is cut short by catching a glimpse of your brother's vehicle. He’s not in it, obviously already inside the arena, but the sight of it makes your stomach clench all the same.

Thoughts of Dylan and his disappointment and worry that he’ll never forgive you flood your mind the entire drive. So much so that when the next light turns green, you let off the gas without realizing that there is a larger SUV running the red.

It all happens so fast. The screeching of tires, the crunching of metal, the pop of airbags going off and then a blinding pain in your wrist.

In the end, you’re pushed into the wrong lane of traffic, the other vehicle damn near in the passenger seat you occupied only fifteen minutes ago. There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and you offhandedly wonder if this is what it feels like to get boarded.

“Are you okay? I’m calling 911.” The words sound like they’re underwater, and it takes you several seconds to realize they’re being spoken to you. Turning your head to the side, you try to get the words out to say you’re fine, but you’re blocked by the airbag that has gone off near your head.

Emergency services come quickly, a perk of living in Detroit you suppose. Embarrassingly, it takes the jaws of life to peel off the driver's side door to get you out. A cop takes your statement and then you end up in the back of an ambulance. Despite your assurances that you’re fine, one raised eyebrow from the female paramedic and the idea that you’ve probably broken your wrist has you agreeing to the ER visit.

It’s then that someone asks you if there’s anyone you want to call. Heartbreakingly, your first thought is Dylan and your second thought is you’re not sure he’ll pick up.

Your third thought is JT and his SUV that you’ve probably totaled.

One of the paramedics helps you dial the equipment manager’s number, the one you were instructed to only ever use in case of emergencies. If ever there was a reason…

When he picks up the phone, you have to explain that you’ve gotten into a tiny fender bender and if you could please speak with JT and yes I mean JT not Dylan.

“Are you okay?” JT all but demands when he picks up the phone.

“I’m totally fine,” you fib, and then concede based on that same female paramedic once again raising an eyebrow. “Okay so I might have broken my wrist but–”

“Which hospital are you going to?” he interrupts.

You tell him, but try to say, “It’s okay you don’t have to–”

He interrupts again, “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up quicker than you can ask how he’s going to get there without the car that you’ve wrecked.

True to his word, he’s sitting on a chair in your hospital room when you return from getting an x-ray. He stands abruptly upon your entrance and takes the three strides to stand in front of you before hesitating, like you’re made of glass.

You take matters into your own hands and slide your good arm around his back, careful to not jostle your injured wrist. There's a slight tremor to his body that you feel run through yours.

“I’m okay,” you say comfortingly, rubbing your good hand along his back before pausing. “Your car though….”

The tears are already starting to pool in your waterline as he pulls back.

His hands slide to cup your jaw as he speaks seriously, “I don’t give a damn about the car. It can be replaced, you can’t.” A tear slips out before you can stop it and he brushes it away with his thumb before kissing you softly. “I care about you. So much. And that phone call scared the shit out of me.”

Despite the less than stellar background and circumstances, his words have your heart leaping in your chest. “I really care about you too,” you whisper and kiss him again.

“Where is she?” you hear coming down the hall and it occurs to you that your brother is still your emergency contact.

“Did you tell him?” you ask JT who promptly shakes his head.

You don’t even have time to step back from JT’s embrace before Dylan comes crashing into the room. JT wisely pulls away and gives Dylan the space to place his hands on your shoulders and scan for any signs of injury.

“I’m okay,” you reassure him but the words feel hollow considering they’re the first you’ve said to him in more than a week. “Broken wrist they’re gonna cast and probably a concussion. Can’t say the same for the car.”

Eerily similar to JT, Dylan replies, “Cars can be replaced–”

“But I can’t,” you say in unison with him. “I know, JT said the same thing.”

It’s like Dylan remembers his teammate then, eyes sliding over to where JT stands and then back down to your slowly purpling wrist.

The room is silent except for the sounds of medical equipment and the faint sounds occurring outside the door.

“I’m sorry,” you say in unison with your brother again.

“No, I'm sorry,” he says first. “I’m your big brother and I’ve seen you get your heart broken too many times. I’m always going to worry about you but I was out of line.”

“I’m sorry we went behind your backs and I’m sorry you found out that way. We should have just talked to you, I should have just talked to you.”

“Truce?” he asks, like you’re 10 and 11 again, fighting over something silly and trivial.

“Truce,” you confirm, hissing when you knock your broken wrist as you pull him in for a hug.

Later, when you’ve gotten over the guilt of totaling JT’s barely used Audi and the cast on your wrist is long gone, it’ll be a fun story to tell at parties. About how it took an idiot running a red light for you to define your relationship with JT and to reconcile with your brother.

#nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #nhl fanfiction #nhl fanfic #nhl x reader #jt compher fic #shelb writes

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catscidr · 1 year ago

Note

Could I request head canons with reader who likes to cook and clean and is basically like a house wife. Dottore and Childe please ☺️

(oﾟ◇ﾟ)ﾉ perhaps you can............. i did my best to try to make these not too redundant , so forgive me if they're a little repetitive sometimes. the tldr is just that they love their cute wife (you) shgjngfns ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: fluff! domestic fluff!! talks of food, mentions of having a family, childe's part gets a teensy bit suggestive includes: fem!reader, dottore and his clones, tartaglia wc: 1,2k

-ˋˏ It’s a popular headcanon that Dottore has a sweet tooth and I’m here to contribute to it bc I’m a firm believer in the Man Bad But Secretly Soft trope.......

-ˋˏ You often find yourself baking desserts for him to eat when he gets home from work and, on the rare occasions that he’s home while you’re baking, you make him taste-test the dessert you’re currently making

-ˋˏ He’s actually decent at baking (it’s just food science and he’s The Science Guy), however he doesn’t particularly enjoy doing it. But you do! You love doing acts of service for him, which is why you got promoted from housewife to personal-pastry-and-dessert-expert housewife (said endearingly)

-ˋˏ Good ol’ chocolate chip cookies, maple pudding, red velvet cake, lemon meringue pie, tiramisu, mille-feuille; you'd make so many desserts that he had to buy a chef-grade refrigerator on top of your regular fridge to store them. Not that he minded of course, but sometimes he’d lightly scold you for making so many unhealthy foods (all the while being a hypocrite himself because he’s the one enabling you)

-ˋˏ Has a mini fridge in his office full of desserts (and the occasional homemade sandwich, for variety). He always has to restock it because his segments always get into it and eat his sweets that you made for him

-ˋˏ When he tells you about it you end up giving him two extra tupperware containers full of sweets that you insist he gives to his segments, especially the younger ones. If he doesn’t, you’ll just show up to his lab and give your freshly baked desserts to them yourself

-ˋˏ Sometimes Dottore tries to bake with you, but you always get frustrated that he never makes the desserts look nice. He just takes up space in your shared kitchen when he tries to help; which you tell him that by staying out of your way he’s helping

-ˋˏ You’re also the designated cook since he doesn’t really have any skills in the kitchen outside of knowing the technical stuff. The man is too busy fiddling with machines and organs to know about how to properly sear a steak

-ˋˏ His favorite meal of yours is a simple steak paired with a good, dry Malbec. You’re always setting up the table when he gets back from work, to which he always hugs you from the back to greet you. One time you didn’t hear him come in and you accidentally dropped the plate you were holding (you made him eat it as punishment. five second rule)

-ˋˏ On the rare times he works from home you insist that he doesn’t need to help you with chores, no matter how much he offers (which wasn’t that often to begin with, but at least he offered. like..... once). Instead, he’d get settled on the kitchen table while you wash the dishes, vacuum, etc

-ˋˏ Some days you’d be in comfortable silence, while on other days you’d listen to him ranting about how irritating his coworkers are, or about how much he wants to fire some of his underlings because they’re “so incompetent”. Thankfully you can calm him down before he,, makes an angry phone call

-ˋˏ You don’t get the chance to visit him at work that often, so you revel in the times where he’s able to work from home. But since you can’t go see him that often, it means you don’t see his clones either

-ˋˏ The older segments would refrain from asking about you (because you’re Prime’s wife, not theirs. he’s yelled at them multiple times about it. bro’s possessive) while the younger ones would consistently bother him about your whereabouts. He insists that he hates it when they ask, but inwardly he imagines how you’d take care of them. (is it to heal his inner child or to imagine how good of a mother you could be? maybe both, but he wouldn’t admit to the former)

✧✧✧

-ˋˏ Childe would have been your housewife if he wasn’t a Harbinger. point blank

-ˋˏ Buuuut, since he isn’t, he makes sure to take care of you. You’re always cleaning after him, cleaning him sometimes, and overall taking up more tasks than he thought you could (should) chew. Of course, you did it all out of love and didn’t expect him to owe you anything, but he’d feel bad if he didn’t help at least a little bit

-ˋˏ So once or twice a week (depending on when his schedule allows it) you’ll both be cleaning the house and doing chores together

-ˋˏ You’re both listening to music while sweeping the floor, reorganizing the pantry, wiping down the counters..... getting as much done as you can before Childe decides he’d rather have you sat up on a counter while he nestles himself closer to you

-ˋˏ He always buys the best appliances for your sake since you’re the one that’s home most of the time. That one really expensive, cordless vacuum cleaner you saw at the store? He bought it. A duster with a retractable handle that can help you reach the top of shelves without you needing to stand on a chair to clean? Childe bought it before you could even ask. That really cute cherry-shaped deep dish with matching baking utensils you saw at the store together? He’s carrying it to your car right now

-ˋˏ Though while he does buy really useful things, he balances it out by getting you unnecessary items. Like a frilly pink apron with Kiss the cook embroidered in cursive on it, or a soup ladle that looks like the Loch Ness monster but I digress

-ˋˏ Childe is 100% a family man- so, as a result, he's thought about having his own family with you. After seeing you indulging Teucer and his siblings’ shenanigans, he absolutely wants to have kids with you and have you do things like read books to them, make them lunch to bring to school, etcetc

-ˋˏ Loves to come back home from work to you, smelling the fresh aroma of dinner wafting in the air

-ˋˏ He loves your cooking!! Can’t get enough of it, especially when he comes back from training and he’s all spent. Whether it be your homemade soup, a hearty meaty meal, or a pasta dish he’ll always devour whatever you make

-ˋˏ You make extra portions of chicken, steak, whatever protein-filled meal when he’s bulking so he can bring leftovers to work to eat them after sparring sessions. It makes everyone else jealous (which is partly his intention lol)

-ˋˏ Boasts about you to his coworkers and agents below him, always saying “my wife” with a lovesick smile on his face

-ˋˏ Has a whole bunch of photos of you in his office, ranging from cute candid pictures to professional, framed photos on his desk, and a tasteful polaroid of you in his wallet. Adores showing you off to others (except the photo he has in his wallet, of course. that’s for his eyes only), so much so that sometimes his underlings try to come up with excuses to leave because he goes on and on and on........ what can he say, he loves his cute housewife !!

#୧ ‧₊˚orderup!#dottore x reader #dottore x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #dottore x fem!reader #dottore x afab reader #childe x reader #childe x you #tartaglia x reader #tartaglia x you #childe x fem!reader #tartaglia x fem!reader #childe x afab reader #tartaglia x afab reader

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sunlightmurdock · 1 year ago

Text

The Odyssey | 1.1 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

One step forwards, two steps back. You’re just not on the same page.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), swearing, infidelity, making out, honey has a meltdown every time she thinks Bradley wants to have sex with her but very much wants him to want to have sex with her, bradley dislikes her fiancé, deception, also inaccuracies in the timeline of Pompeii and the telling of Greek mythology, 18+ minors dni, wc: 4.7k

…

It’s the last day of June. Under the table, his hand is on your knee and above it, you’ve started to memorize the delicate pattern his smile lines cast around his temples. A bottle of mostly empty Malbec sits between you, the centre of his lips is tinted a sweet red.

His fingers curl into your thigh, eyes widening in mock offense as he leans in close enough for you to inhale that honey, amber, cedar medley of his cologne. You’ve been meaning to ask him which fragrance he wears; it’s classic, it could be too strong but he seems to have hit the perfect balance when applying it. It makes you want to turn your face into the curve of his neck and fall asleep right there.

“Okay, now you’re just trying to upset me,” He taunts with a grin on his face, shaking his head in dramatized disbelief. His thumb has been trailing a complex pattern around the curve of your knee for the better part of ten minutes. “Come on — I taught you this two days ago.”

Something about the age of Cicero, the supposed master of Latin prose. You remember the lesson — well, you remember being present for it. He’s right, two days ago. Right after arriving in Florence.

That first afternoon, Bradley had seemed restless. Leaving Natasha behind, you had presumed. Being cooped up in a hotel room trying to study was the last thing he had needed, and you know that he likes showing you around. As soon as you had asked, he had once again found the perfect spot for your lesson.

The corner of your lips twitch as you think of being nestled away in that corner of the library with Bradley. On a beautiful day in late June, it was practically deserted beside the two of you.

He stares at you across the table, seeming to enjoy the show of you trying to think back to what exactly it was he had been talking about.

The smile tugging at his lips that afternoon in the library as he had kissed down the column of your neck, lips grazing the collar of your polo shirt, fingers bracing against your thighs politely. His voice deep, and low, respectful of the library’s standards, “His philosophical works were the basis of moral philosophy during the Middle Ages.”

You swallow softly, crossing one knee over the other.

Across from you, that brown hued gaze flickers briefly downwards. It’s hardly a scandalous dress. A soft pink colour, cowled in the middle, dipping just lower against the centre of your chest than you would normally allow. The summer heat, or this newfound feeling in your stomach — one of them has you practically glowing. From the second you stepped out this evening, Bradley has been admiring this dress.

Either way, when he looks back up, he knows that you think you just caught him staring at your chest. He might have taken a glance in that direction. Unashamed, he smiles again, more candidly this time.

“Is this why you were late back this afternoon?” His fingers stray from the safety of your knee until the chiffon material is curling between his fingertips.

Caught. The look spreads itself so quickly across your face that you couldn’t lie to him even if you wanted to. The class was given an hour to roam the city today after the morning lecture — you had been a short measure later than everyone else.

And here you sit, in your reason for being late, staring back at him like he just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar.

His gaze flickers down again, the conversation about your lack of attention and the dull topic of the golden age of Roman literature long forgotten, and brushes at the hem of your dress with his thumb.

“I like it,” Though the look on his face has already given that away, it makes your mouth tug at the corners anyway. “Should I have worn a tie?”

Malcolm would have worn a tie, and a jacket. You would have expected nothing less from him. Bradley is sitting opposite you in a faded yellow shirt made of something comfortable and not stiff — probably a linen blend. He has skipped the top three buttons and from your seat beside him, you’ve got a faint glimpse of the gold cross necklace he wears.

As well as the dip between the muscles on his chest, dusting of brown hair covering his golden skin and the constellation of sun-kissed freckles you’re growing ever-familiar with.

“No.” You answer him decidedly, tearing your eyes away from his tanned chest to look him in the eye. This time, he caught you right back. His lips tug at the corners, and he almost fights it, and then he lets his mouth stretch into a smile.

His lips are a set pink. You’ve never liked facial hair but him without the always neat dusting above his lip is unthinkable. Tonight, the two of you shared that bottle of Malbec. His mouth will taste of the notes of cherry and blackberry.

His fingers brush the underside of your knee, featherlight. “Let’s take a walk.”

It’s late already, now that the two of you have finished your dinner. Bradley’s already regretting making group dinners mandatory now that he finds himself having to wait until afterwards to take you out, but in this moment, he doesn’t mind. It just means that there is even less chance of running into someone that you know.

The city is quieter by the time he slips his palm into yours, an instinctual move that neither one of you will address. Your fingers squeeze against his. It’s not until afterwards, when he turns his head to look down at you quickly, that he remembers it shouldn’t all feel this normal.

He should be ashamed of himself; afraid of being caught with you. He’s far from it. He’s arrogant enough to know that his students will be getting drunk on cheap spirits in the taverna he left them at, and that he’s got you all to himself.

“What do you want to do?” He asks you. He’s got an idea in his head already, that he’s not so sure you’ll find as interesting as he will.

“You’re the expert.” You answer calmly.

He smiles like that was the answer he was hoping for, then pulls you closer and lets go of your hand to wrap his arm around your almost bare shoulders. His lips press softly to the top of your head.

“I walked by a place earlier that I thought maybe we could stop by,” He explains as he starts to walk, looking up at the waning crescent centring the stars over the city. He doesn’t mention to you that there’s a little more to it than that. You follow his lead, looking up at the stars above these ancient rooftops. “Counts as school work in my book.”

You make a sound of complaint beside him, leaning your head back against his bicep and exhaling with a dramatic sigh. Without having to look, you know he’s grinning beside you as he curls his arm tighter around your neck and drags you closer.

“Be nice, honey,” He whispers jokingly into your hair. “Just give it a chance.”

At that point, you should have guessed that he was up to something. Tucked under his arm, wondering exactly which undertone in his cologne makes it so entrancing, you’re hardly jumping for joy when he leads you up the steps and into an art gallery. It’s the kind of art gallery that you don’t need a suit or tie to get into — so can’t be that impressive.

Pompeii is one of the few words on the poster board that Bradley whisks you past that you understand.

“We’re going to Pompeii in a couple of weeks, isn’t this cheating?” You turn your head to look up at him and he just shrugs, taking you in his stride as he leads you right up to the first floor. Despite this being a temporary exhibition, he seems to know exactly where he’s going.

He rounds the corner and tightens his hold on your shoulder as you’re met with a canvas featuring a rather blurrily drawn woman bent over some kind of seat, and a man standing behind her.

To the right of that is a woman pictured straddling a man, his head thrown back against the sheets. Bradley lifts his hand from your shoulder and tucks it safely over your eyes.

“That’s not what we’re here for.” His tone is almost soothing, like he’s expecting you to turn and run for the door as he uncovers your eyes again. The opposite actually, you frown slightly and tip your head to understand the angle of the oil painting. He guides you swiftly onwards.

As you pass by, you can see that this room is filled with similar art. Some of it is weathered, not quite preserved, or outright broken. All of it is erotica.

All too quickly, he leads you into the next room in the gallery and swiftly off to the side. This room is already filled with people sitting in chairs, and at the front there’s an older lady with hair down to her waist and glasses that cover most of her face.

“She’s a classicist at Cambridge.” Suddenly his lips are brushing your earlobe and he’s nudging you back against the back wall of the room. “I think you might like her way of explaining things a little better than mine.”

He turns his head towards the front, you turn your head to look at him. His way of explaining things is just fine. Still, you turn your head back to watch the lecturer, and lean against Bradley’s side.

“As many of you know, during my team’s ongoing works in Pompeii, we are constantly able to determine more and more about the neighbouring cities of both Pompeii and Herculaneum. On a visit this past March, my team worked primarily in a building: the lupanar, or brothel.”

You shoot a look up at Bradley. He drops his hand down to your waist and pinches playfully at your skin, making you jolt into him.

“Pay attention.” Bradley whispers to you, smiling towards the front.

“Lupanar in Latin translates almost directly to ‘wolf's den,’ and lupa, she-wolf, was a common term for female prostitutes at this time.” The lecturer goes on.

She’s an interesting woman, maybe around your mother’s age, talking about sex and phalluses and erotica with a level of candor that you simply weren’t expecting. The people in this room are hanging on her every breath.

She goes on to explain more about what sets Pompeii and Herculaneum apart from other Augustan era Roman cities. As Bradley’s textbooks prove, Augustan Rome could be somewhat prudish in the major cities. Essentially, with their seaside location and their distance from the eyes of the emperor, modern theories tend to lean towards the abundance of erotica being simply a result of the Romans getting hot and heavy in their summer homes.

Bradley would scold you for phrasing it that way. You’re cutting corners and leaving things out, but that’s the gist of what she’s saying.

As much as you’re enjoying the fact that he wants you, specifically, to stand here and see this with him — you must admit that you’re waiting for the point to hit you a little bit.

Brothels quite clearly aren’t your kind of thing.

Then, she gets to the point. “So far in the study of Rome, we have tended to interpret erotic decorations in rooms to be signals of a brothel. The discoveries we are making now, tell us even more so, that there was a safe space for sex inside regular homes.”

Is that what he’s trying to tell you?

You turn your head and look up at him, watching the way he listens to the lecture. He hasn’t even noticed you staring just yet, he’s so interested.

Exhaling softly, you push closer to him. Heat courses through you, uncomfortable like an itch. If he wants you to feel safe having sex with him, if that’s why he brought you here — you’re not so sure that’s a good thing.

When you close your eyes and ignore the speech being given, and picture yourself in that library two days ago, with that dark look in his eyes and his lips sucking at your neck… it’s a nice feeling. It felt good. You would do it again in a heartbeat.

When you think further back, to the night he knelt beside your bed and buried his mouth between your legs, it makes you shiver, but not in a bad way. In a cold and hot all at once, conflicted kind of way. That felt good too.

He feels good. His arm on your shoulder, his weight in your bed, the way it feels when he grins at you. It all feels good.

Maybe that’s not such a good thing.

After all, he may only want one thing in return. With this ring on your finger, what he wants is no longer yours to give away — you’ve promised it to someone else.

You turn your head and rest it against his chest, your cheek hugging the soft linen of his shirt.

“By 79 C.E., by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, Christianity had begun to usurp the formerly polytheistic Roman Empire. With the rise of Christianity came a clear shift in the way sex was viewed culturally. With conceptions of red becoming more obscene into the 19th century—“

“Bradley, can we go?” You tug at his shirt and break him from his focused listening.

He unwraps his arm from your shoulder and gently touches your hair, cupping the back of your head. “Sure. You okay?”

“Mhm. It’s just getting late.”

He seems content enough with that answer, taking your hand once again and letting you lead him down the steps. Each step you take, you know that you’re just one step closer to inviting him into your hotel room.

“I know I kinda threw you in at the deep end just then,” Bradley starts to talk, seeming not to notice the way you’re panicking at his side. “I just wanted you to see how impressive she is.”

“Yeah. She was cool.”

“Cool? — She’s a legend,” Bradley cranes his neck to get a look at your face, frowning as he feels you speed up and tug at his hand to bring him with. “Her studies into Greece and Rome won her a Nobel prize, baby.”

“That’s… impressive.” You wobble over the words, trying to give him what he wants in an answer. Bradley stops abruptly and tugs hard at your arm to make sure you do the same. You’re spun towards him sharply, stunned as you blink up at him.

“I know I probably should have warned you about the paintings, but—“

“Do you want to have sex with me?” You ask him.

Bradley notices the elderly couple passing behind you turn their heads and curses them silently for being just about the only ones around that would have even understood the absurdity of that question, then looks back down to you.

He stares, focused and unwavering for a moment.

“Yes,” He answers you calmly, still holding your wrist in his hand. “But that’s not going to happen, honey. Now, what’s the matter?”

“It’s not?” He’s surprised by the surprise in your voice. You see it on his face. He’s practically tracing his steps in front of you, trying to figure out at which point the two of you stopped being on the same page.

“I… baby, Your first time shouldn’t be with me.”

“I was going to say the same thing.” You exhale quietly, without missing a beat, feeling the panic in your chest start to drain finally. A different feeling pinches at your nerves, tingling in your chest that makes you fidget. Bradley stares back at you.

“Good.” He answers curtly. Maybe a little too quickly. He’s still holding on tight to your wrists.

“Yeah, good.” You try back, heat creeping along your skin and making your ears burn. You push onto your tiptoes and back down again, glancing down at him still holding you captive in his big paws.

He seems to notice at the same time, and swiftly drops his hold on you to instead hook a finger under your chin. “Okay, so you’re alright now?”

“Yeah.”

He swallows, then nods. As he turns away, he sticks his hand out for you to grab once again. For him this doesn’t change things — he has wanted to sleep with you and known that he can’t since the day you kissed him back in Verona.

For you, this is the first time you’ve ever heard him admit that he wants you. You knew, of course, by the way he touched you last week in Venice.

You slip your hand into his. Across cobbles, under the stars and string lights, he leads the way the short walk back to your hotel somehow without the need for a map.

This hotel doesn’t have an elevator, you climb three flights of stairs beside him and start towards your door. Heels along aged, dark wood floors. This time, your sole occupancy room isn’t at the end of the hall or on a different floor — it’s right in the middle. Sandwiched between the common bathroom, and Robin’s room.

As you open up your bag and dig for your key, you wonder how he’s going to say goodnight. After the time you had, you don’t want the end on this tone.

“Can I come in?” He asks softly, fully prepared to hear you tell him no. His hand reaches once more for the pale chiffon of your dress, his thumb familiarly trailing the seam at the small of your back.

“Yes.” You turn your head and meet his gaze over your left shoulder. He’s relieved to see you smile. A smile spreads across his cheeks, warm and flushed as the old door clicks open with a pained but compliant creak.

It almost looks like room service came. If Bradley didn’t know any better, he would say they had. The bed is meticulously neat, and all of your belongings are packed neatly ready for your travel day tomorrow.

“I feel like I need to explain why I took you to that exhibition.” Bradley closes the door behind him and sticks to it as you cross the room and sit on the edge of the double bed.

“Okay.”

“It’s not because I’m trying to fuck you.” Bradley wracks his hands through his hair, his back pinned to the door, his eyes searching the floorboards like he’s looking for his point. “I’m a little bit offended that you think I can’t do better than Roman erotica if I was trying.”

Bradley hasn’t tried to make any of this happen. It’s not like he sought you out. And yet, it all keeps happening — like puzzle pieces falling into place.

Still, his joke is enough to earn him a smile and a soft giggle at the same time. You lean back on your palms as your smile fades into an apology of its own.

Bradley takes a step away from the door and crosses the room to sit beside you. He opens his palm.

“If we had stayed, the end part of that seminar is about Greek influence on Roman culture — specifically Pompeii,” He watches as you rest your hand in his, looping your fingers through his. “I thought maybe seeing her talk might convince you to stay in school… in my postgraduate program.”

His fingers close around yours, squeezing softly as he turns his head to gauge your reaction. His worst case scenario was that you freak out — and that doesn’t happen, so his pitch is a success in his eyes.

“I didn’t even know you ran a postgrad.”

“It’s a research programme. It’s relatively new — I ran it a year ago, we didn’t get enough people enrolled to run in this year. Next year I have forty places and a waitlist. Mythology and Art; Poetry in Greek Culture.” You still haven’t told him no, it feels like that’s building to a yes.

Instead, your brows knit together slightly.

“I don’t know anything about mythology.”

“Yes you do,” Bradley argues. It really bites at him when you pretend to know less than you do. “Look, it doesn’t have to be my class. I just wanted you to think about what comes after this.”

“My wedding.” You remind him quietly. Now you aren’t looking at him, staring at your hands in your lap. He’s kicking himself for ruining the night but god, everything you say makes him want to argue even more.

“And after that?” He skips over the idea of letting you go entirely. It’s easier that way, to pretend that he doesn’t care that you’re still planning to get married.

“After that I’ll support Malcolm and—“

“Christ, is that what you want? — You want to spend your life picking up his dry cleaning and cooking his dinner?” Bradley stands up from the bed and paces away from you. Instantly, you throw your face into your hands and growl in frustration.

The thought crosses your mind like a camera flash. The alternative; seminars and art galleries, nights like this with Bradley. He probably doesn’t even get his clothes dry cleaned, probably just drops them all in the washer.

Your brows draw together. Bradley hates how often he has seen that wounded look on your face.

“I don’t have to want the same things that you want.” You croak out.

“No, you don’t, you’re right,” He won’t come any closer, he’s just standing there and dwarfing the doorframe behind him with his broad shoulders and long legs. He runs a hand roughly across his mouth. “But you should want something for yourself. Something that’s just yours. Something you care about, you know?”

There’s a beat of silence between you. At first, he thinks he has really ignited the fuse and that there’s a big argument coming. Then, all of the anger fades from your face and you throw yourself back against the bed, facing the ceiling and letting out a deep sigh.

“You think too much.” You mutter grumpily, draping an arm over your eyes and finally taking away the ugly warmth of the yellow-orange mismatched lampshade above your head.

Bradley agrees, in principle. This doesn’t stop him, though. He thinks again as he’s watching you lay there in the middle of the bed, with your arm covering your face, about how different things could be.

Even with your eyes closed and your forearm acting as a makeshift blindfold, you expect that he’s still standing by that door and planning out your future for you. It’s tiring.

With all of the thinking he’s doing, you expect him to have plenty to say by the time he’s done. Another lecture.

The air is sucked out of you as he plants his knees on either side of your thighs, grabs your forearms and pins then above your head. Eyes blown wide, you must look crazy. He looks beautiful. Smiling softly, inches from your face, his cross necklace spilled forwards from his shirt and dangling above your lips.

“I’ll stop.” He swears, eyes pooled with sincerity as his head dips with a soft nod. Your heartbeat thurs between the two of you; his thumb strokes at your wrists. “I’ll stop, if you just make me one promise.”

The playing field isn’t exactly level, here. You could be convinced to promise him just about anything when trapped with him looking down at you like this. Your lips twitch, but you won’t smile at him. One of his hands leaves your wrists, coming down to trail an index finger along your cheek.

“You’ll think about it. While you’re here, you’ll think about what comes next for you.” He’s gentle with you, leaning in close and kissing your lips chastely.

It’s just too tempting to roll your eyes at him.

Bradley abandons his hold on your wrists all together and grabs at your waist instead, pinching playfully as he scowls down at you. “Don’t you roll your eyes at me.”

“Fine, fine — you win.” Your lips crack into a smile, taking advantage of the newfound freedom to drape your arms around his thick shoulders and guide him in closer. Compliantly, he kisses your mouth.

Your tongue pokes out from between your lips and wets the flesh of your bottom lip, coating it in saliva, capturing Bradley’s total and absolute attention.

He lets his thumb follow the same path your tongue had, your saliva coating the rough pad as he trails it downward and catches hold of your chin.

The doe-eyed look on your face, the silk of your skin and the soft sheen of saliva sitting on the pad of his thumb has his mind reeling with possibility. You’re studying him too, recognising that same dark look in his eyes, trying to place it.

“You’ve gotta stop looking at me like that.” He whispers finally, his chest inflating with a deep breath, his throat tight as he finally swallows. Heat prickles at the back of your neck. Your eyes dart downward from his face, at his knees bracketing your thighs, and back up swiftly.

That’s it.

“Will you teach me something Greek, then?”

Teaching is truthfully the furthest thing from Bradley’s mind. The thought of grading bad papers isn’t even enough to stem the sudden rush of blood flow headed to his dick. He exhales above you, practically itching with the need to touch you.

The thing about Bradley is that he isn’t a stranger to casual sex, but he doesn’t sleep around. When someone has captured his attention, they’ve got all of him. He can’t imagine going out and finding someone to hook up with, but at the same time — he can’t keep spending the morning work time thinking about you with your hand shoved into the front of his jeans.

“Sure, kid,” He leans forwards and kisses your forehead, then rolls off of you and settles against your pillows with an arm tucked behind his head. “What do you want to know?”

You push off of your back, wrinkling your nose at his choice of pet name as you turn and settle at his side, laying your head on his chest.

“I don’t know. A myth.” You close your eyes and turn your face towards his neck. After waiting all night to do so, the first inhale is exactly what you wanted. You hum and pull closer to him. His hand finds a spot safely, almost platonically at the small of your back.

“Okay, uh…” He takes a moment to think, trying to remember his study material instead of the way your bare leg is brushing against his thigh. “I’ve got one. It’s from the second century… by Apuleius, in…”

You let him figure out the publication details, absently toying with the loose button in the middle of his shirt. It would be a quick fix, beyond easy to sew back on. You could fix it for him.

“So the myth is right in the middle of his book, and it’s there as an example of mise en abyme—“

You turn your head quickly, frowning disapprovingly back up at him. “Bradley, I just asked for a story.”

“Right,” He hums, shifting slightly and closing his eyes as he scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Fine. The context might have been helpful, but fine… The story starts with a king, and the king has three very beautiful daughters. The most beautiful of his daughters is called Psyche, and she’s beyond beautiful — rivaling Aphrodite kind of beautiful.”

Right before your head settles against his clavicle, fitting perfectly against the curve of his broad shoulder. Your fingers follow the wrinkles in the linen on his shirt. Your leg is hooked just slightly over his thigh. Glancing upwards, he’s already watching your fingers dance across his chest. His lips pink, his cheeks warm, his eyes flicker up to yours.

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @cassiemitchele @himbos-on-ice @wkndwlff @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @sugarcoated-lame @kmc1989 @cherrycola27 @ahoyyharrington

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster x you #top gun smut #professor bradley #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader

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ralkana · 1 year ago

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Fluffbruary, Day 6

February 6: tie | embarrassment | dessert

Dream of the Endless / Hob Gadling

Rated G

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It's the middle of the afternoon when his stranger shows up at the New Inn, a smile on his face, naming Hob friend. Apologizing for his absence.

"Welcome," Hob says, shoving his marking into his satchel. "Let me get you a glass of wine."

His stranger sits silently as he asks Katie for another pint and orders a glass of Malbec.

"The good one," he clarifies, and she grins.

"Got it, Robbie," she says, with a curious glance at his companion, and then they're alone again.

His friend is still watching him, that smile on his face, and Hob can't help but take a moment simply to look. He thinks about asking why they didn't meet in 1989, why he was left adrift and alone, but it doesn't matter. Not really. He's here now.

"What were you working on when I arrived?" his friend asks, his gaze shifting briefly to Hob's satchel before anchoring firmly on Hob's face once more.

"Marking," he says, and his friend's brow furrows. "Checking my students' work," he adds. "I'm a professor now! Me, can you imagine?"

And then he's off, the familiar rhythm of their past meetings suddenly returning. He talks for so long that his voice falters. There is so much to tell his friend about. X-rays and the space race, vinyl records and the internet. With a word to Katie, he switches from beer to water, and keeps going.

His friend is no more talkative about himself than usual, but he seems more engaged, less... dour. He asks questions, and is more expressive than Hob has ever seen him. Hob even thinks he tried the wine Hob chose for him, though the nearly full glass now sits on the table between them.

He is in the middle of explaining the miracle of organ transplants when his stomach growls, loud enough to be heard from across the table even in the busy pub, and he breaks off in embarrassment.

"Pardon me," he says with a laugh.

"I have kept you from your evening meal," his friend says, shifting in his seat, and Hob lunges, half-desperate, as it looks like he might rise. His friend stills, eyes widening a fraction.

"No, no! It's fine!" Hob says, lowering his hand from its aborted grasp. Please don't leave! He takes a moment to breathe, to calm himself.

"We have shared a meal before," he reasons, though of course, his friend has never eaten. He has remained while Hob has eaten, though, and that's what he's hoping for now. "We could do so again. If you'd like."

His friend nods his agreement, so quickly that Hob thinks he might not be the only one unready for the evening to end.

He orders a steak and ale pie, and when Katie asks his friend for his order and he declines, Hob asks for two forks. His friend raises an eyebrow at that, and Hob simply grins. One day, he'll find something that tempts his friend - his need to feed those he cares about is strong. Stronger still because his friend looks like he's missed a fair few meals recently.

If he even eats. Perhaps he lives on words. Heaven knows Hob has given him plenty of those.

His meal arrives, and he breaks the crust of the steaming pie, smiling as he inhales the aroma of the thick gravy that wafts out.

He has eaten a few bites in between his words when his friend shifts in his chair, reaching for the fork in front of him.

Hob watches, fascinated, as he scoops up a small bite of beef, a morsel of crust, and a tiny bit of gravy. Those petal pink lips part as he tastes it, head tilted like a bird's as he considers it.

"It is pleasingly savory," he pronounces as he sets the fork down again, and Hob grins.

"That it is, friend," he says in agreement, applying himself to his meal and his tale.

"Dessert then, Robbie?" Katie asks a few minutes later, as she brings him another glass of water and sees the remains of his meal.

Hob debates for approximately three seconds. "Yeah, go on then."

Katie laughs as she picks up his plate. "The usual?"

"Please, and two forks."

There's so much more to tell his friend about - there always is - but Hob feels mostly talked out. This is by far the longest his friend has ever lingered, and he can't ignore the ache of the knowledge that soon, their meeting must end.

Unwilling to prematurely give into the melancholy that always arrives after these evenings, Hob pushes it away and says, "The kitchen here is fantastic. In some ways, pub food is the same as it's always been, but some things are so different now..."

He's in the middle of explaining gastropubs and fusion cuisine when Katie approaches their table once more, and he breaks off.

"Ah, thanks, love," he says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as she sets down their dessert. "Butterscotch bread pudding with vanilla bean ice cream and housemade whiskey caramel sauce. It's absolutely the best thing on the menu. It's won awards."

Lifting the shot glass of caramel, he upends it, drizzling it over the pudding sizzling in its little cast iron pot. The ice cream is melting slowly into the top of the pudding, and the smell is divine.

Hob digs in and pops a bite in his mouth. It's too hot, burning his tongue, and it's absolutely worth it.

His friend picks up his fork and digs out a tiny bite to try, and Hob watches his eyes widen, his pleasure clear on his face in a way that has Hob shift in his seat. He's beautiful.

"Good, innit?"

He says nothing, but his fork dips again, lifts a larger bite this time.

Sweet tooth, then, Hob thinks. Got it.

He goes in for another bite as well, picking the thread of his words back up.

He's talking about the rise of the celebrity chef a few moments later, reaching for another bite, when his fork scrapes against iron, and he blinks and looks down. The little pot is empty, only a few drops of caramel sauce and a few smears of melted ice cream remaining. Hob has had maybe three bites.

He looks up, astonished. His friend looks back serenely, but there are spots of color, high on his pale cheeks. He sets his fork down.

Hob could not stop the smile breaking over his face for all the money in the world. His friend's lips twitch, the corner tucking into a tiny smile, and Hob notices there is the smallest drop of caramel sauce at the corner of his friend's mouth.

Hob entertains a very brief fantasy of leaning across the table and licking it off, tasting the sweetness of the caramel and his friend's perfect skin.

Clearing his throat and shoving the thought away, he sets his own fork down. They are not unfamiliar, these little moments of want that flash within him, whenever they share an evening. They are what sustain him in the long decades between their meetings.

His friend's gaze is sharp on his face, but those spots of color remain.

"I apologize for consuming your dessert."

"Our dessert, friend. Two forks, remember? I'm just glad you enjoyed it. Would you like another?"

His friend looks away, out the window long since gone dark.

"The hour grows late," he says, and Hob tries not to flinch. "And I have. Difficult work ahead of me. But. Perhaps we might meet again soon. To share this dish. Or perhaps another."

Hob's breath catches, his heart pounding. I will take you to every bakery and dessert shop in London, he thinks. England! The world!

"I would like that very much, my friend," he says.

"Dream," he says as he stands, looking down at Hob with the same smile he had when he first came in. "You may call me Dream."

"Good night, Dream, my friend," Hob says, trying not to choke on the emotion that swamps him. "I hope to see you soon."

"You shall, Hob Gadling. Good night, my friend."

Between one blink and the next, he's gone.

END

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Thanks to @fluffbruary for the prompt, and to the Morrison in Atwater Village for the best damn bread pudding I've had in my life.

#dreamling #centennial husbands #the sandman #hob gadling #dream of the endless #fluffbruary #fluffbruary 2024 #my fic #tumblr fic #fic challenges #my immortal sunshine boy #my sad wet king of cats

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uncleeater · 2 months ago

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O' Christmas Tree - DR3 🍈 (2/12)

Warnings: Language, Alcohol, Drunk kissing

A/N: thank you all for the support on the Lando fic! it means a lot to me :3. Also sorry this is so short im writing this at 3 AM day of, so...

Word count: 494

"Wine, my love?" Daniel smiles as he walks into the family room, glasses in one hand and bottle in the other

You glance up from putting ornament hooks on the newest tree decorations, eyeing your boyfriend warily. "This is a brand-new white couch, Daniel. Get that Malbec at least 6 feet away from it."

He rolls his eyes, but sets the Malbec down as he kneels next to a box labeled 'FRAGILE - CHRISTMAS DECOR'. You two had decided that 11 at night would be the perfect time to drag out ornaments and start decorating.

"Aren't you cold? It's freezing and yet you're wearing shorts." Daniel comments as he digs through yet another ornament box.

"No, because there's this thing called an indoor heater" You tease back, "Have you found the star yet?"

Daniel had been looking for the star for an hour before getting wine, dragging out boxes and tubs of every type of holiday decoration. He had managed to find a back up, a toilet paper doll from his grandmother that smelled like a mixture of cat piss and puke.

"No, but I found your box of ornaments. I'm loving the disco ball snowman with tits. Very...y/n." He laughs, raising his eyebrows to accentuate your name

"Check the box for my star. It's brass solder and red glass." You choose to ignore the jab at your choice of decor, "I'll help since you're drunk"

You kneel across the tub from him, peeling out ornaments and tinsel garlands. You notice Daniel looking up at you every once and a while, his eyes pulling along your body when he thought you weren't paying attention. He feels a heat in his chest as he traces your body, his basketball shorts becoming a tad bit too tight for comfort.

"...hey baby?" As your head moves up to look at him, he moved forward, lips quickly pecking yours. He looks at you with a stupid grin on his lips

"What was that for?" You raise an eyebrow. Danny always had some sort of ulterior motive, whether it be getting in your pants or winning a grand prix.

He remains silent for a second, looking you up and down before he kisses you again. This time, however, his lips don't separate from yours. He shoves the tub to the side, pressing you back until you're laying against the carpet.

Daniel climbs over you, one of his forearms resting next to your head, his other hand on your waist as he kisses you. Hot kisses trail down to the side of your neck, where Daniel begins to suck a hickey into your flesh. "Fuck, Danny..." You whisper, leaning your head back so he has more room to kiss.

But suddenly, his forearm slips from underneath him, sending his fist straight into the bottle of Malbec. And sending Malbec into the couch. You let out a quick gasp, looking up at the mess.

"...sorry babe...merry Christmas?" He giggles, looking down at you

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murderousink23 · 2 years ago

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04/17/2023 is National Espresso Day ☕🇮🇹, National Bat Appreciation Day 🦇🇺🇲, National Cheeseball Day 🇺🇲, National Ellis Island Family History Day 🇺🇲, International Haiku Poetry Day 🇺🇲, Patriots' Day 🇺🇲, Malbec Day 🍷🇬🇧

#national espresso day #national bat appreciation day #national cheeseball day #national ellis island family history day #international haiku poetry day #patriots' day #malbec day

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rabbitcruiser · 6 months ago

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National Red Wine Day

Pour a lovely glass of Bordeaux, take a sip of a Cabernet Sauvignon or open a bottle of Shiraz because it’s time for National Red Wine Day!

History of National Red Wine Day

National Red Wine Day is an ideal time to take a look at the past of the red wine industry and see how it developed into modern times.

Wine’s history goes back several thousand years. It is estimated that Chinese people in the Henana province may have been the first ones to create something like red wine, perhaps around 7000 BC. This would have been a drink that was made of wild grapes as well as honey and rice as well as hawthorn fruit. The concoction was stored in clay jars with yeast on the skins causing it to be fermented.

The history of wine continues through the centuries. A recent discovery in 2007 in Armenia dates the first winery in the world at around 6100 BC. This earliest, prehistoric form of wine production took place in a cave was discovered by archaeologists from Armenia as well as Ireland.

Since ancient times, red wine has been part of many cultures throughout the world. As civilization has developed, so has the technology for growing the right grapes and turning it into this delicious beverage. Through the old world and the new world, red wine has come to be more than simply a drink, but it also symbolizes transformation, happiness and friendship, as well as sustenance and life.

National Red Wine Day symbolizes all of these and more. It was founded in 2014 by Jace Shoemaker-Galloway with the idea of celebrating the beauty of magnificence that is red wine. As the grapes begin to ripen and autumn begins to loom large, National Red Wine Day offers a time to enjoy and celebrate.

National Red Wine Day Timeline

6000 BC Red Wine is made in South Caucasus

People in Georgia discover that red wine can be made by burying grape juice underground during the winter.

3100 Ancient Egyptians make wine

Early versions of red wine are made from red grapes in ancient Egypt, coming along with superstitions about red wine as it resembles blood.

71 AD Bordeaux Wines are first recorded

Pliny the Elder makes the first written recorded evidence of vineyards in Bordeaux, which is in modern-day France.

1619 French grape cultivation begins in Virginia

Bringing their grapevines from France, the French cultivate their grapes in Virginia.

2014 National Red Wine Day begins

Founded by Jace Shoemaker-Galloway, the first Red Wine Day is celebrated on August 28 of this year.

How to Celebrate National Red Wine Day

Enjoying and celebrating National Red Wine Day is really no trouble at all! Don’t forget to share the experience with family and friends. Try out some of these ideas to make the most of National Red Wine Day:

Drink a Glass of Red Wine

If this isn’t the perfect day to enjoy a glass of red wine, then what is?! Whether opening up a bottle of Merlot to enjoy at home with dinner, or going out to order a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, National Red Wine Day offers a special opportunity to pay honor to this alcoholic beverage that is both ancient and modern.

Head Out to a Wine Tasting or Vineyard (or Both!)

National Red Wine Day is the ideal time to schedule a trip to wine country to enjoy a tour or a wine tasting. A visit to a vineyard would be amazing, whether it is Texas Hill Country, Arizona’s Valle Verde or Northern & Central Virginia where grapes for America’s first red wines were originally grown. Of course, California produces about 80% of the wine in the United States, so Sonoma County, Napa Valley, Santa Barbara County and Edna Valley might make the visit to a vineyard even more accessible.

Learn More About Red Wine

Use National Red Wine Day to celebrate and take advantage of opportunities to learn more about this unique beverage. A nice way to start might be to learn a bit about the different kinds of red wine. Take a look at these varieties and try one out in honor of the day:

Merlot

Cabernet Sauvignon

Malbec

Pinot Noir

The second most planted grape in the world, Merlot is an easy wine to drink. It’s rather fruity and has a wide range of flavors, from black berries and black cherries to plums and cocoa, from herbs and graphite to vanilla and cedar. It’s a versatile wine that is great for beginners to enjoy and experience. Merlot is a red wine that is lovely to drink while eating poultry such as chicken or duck.

This is the most planted grape on the planet and it is easy to see why it is so beloved. Cabernet is a fairly safe wine that is easy to share at a table because almost everyone will enjoy it. It might have a fruity taste, with French versions showing as a bit more herby. Cabernet Sauvignon is a red wine that is great when paired with meats.

While the grapes for Malbec wine were originally grown in France, most of this variety that is produced today comes from Argentina. With its deep purple color and fruity flavors of plum and cherry, many people enjoy the ending flavors that offer a hint of smoke. Malbec is a red wine that goes well when paired with lean meats as well as with spicy foods like Indian or Mexican.

This delicate red wine offers a lighter body that is less shocking and pushy. It has a silky feel in the mouth and often has a bright berry taste, similar to raspberries or cranberries. Pinot Noir is a red wine that, surprisingly, is delicious when paired with fish, like salmon dishes or sushi.

Make a Playlist of “Red Wine” Songs

Try out some of these red wine themed songs to create a playlist in honor of National Red Wine Day:

Red, Red Wine by UB40 (1983). This classic eighties classic song is typically remembered for its funky sound, but it’s actually a cover from a Neil Diamond Song from 1967.

Melva’s Wine by Johnny Cash (1972) A country music song by musical legend Johnny Cash, Melva’s Wine is a song remembering the batch of wine made by a woman from the singer’s past.

Old Red Wine by The Who (2004). Written by Pete Townsend in memory of John Entwistle who had been a bass player for the band. Entwistle, who died in 2002 just before this song was written, was a lover of red wine.

Cherry Red Wine by Luther Allison (1995). A blues bass guitarist, Luther Allison plays and sing this song that is mostly a blend of his super fantastic guitar riffs and some minimal lyrics.

National Red Wine Day FAQs

Is red wine good for you?

Drinking an occasional glass of red wine might be healthy, with antioxidants that protect against heart disease and inflammation.

How many calories in a glass of red wine?

A 100 gram glass of red wine contains approximately 85 grams.

Can red wine go bad?

An unopened bottle of red wine can last 2-3 years past the expiration date printed on the bottle.

Does red wine need to be refrigerated after opening?

Yes! Refrigerating red wine slows down the chemical processes that make wine spoil.

Is red wine keto?

People on a keto diet can drink a very dry red wine in moderation on their keto diet.

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