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kayhi808 · 2 months ago

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Another ask for First Crush and if this is part of the series or you prefer to use it in the series please feel free to ignore! 👀👀

Imagine Abby throwing a temper tantrum over something very trivial or she starts having nightmares or she accidentally watched a scary video so now there are monsters under the bed and then she starts screaming that she wants her Daddy but it’s Bucky that she’s referring to… 😩😩😩 Bucky would get rid of all the monsters!

What a sweet Ask @crazyunsexycool. I've had a couple people wanting Abby to call Bucky Daddy. 🤭 Your baby has such an active imagination; it doesn't take much to work herself up.

You're woken up to warm humid breath in your face. You crack open an eye & Abby is standing by the side of your bed but her head is sharing your pillow. You jerk back, "Abby? What's wrong?" you croak out.

"Cans I sleeps wit you, Mama?"

"No. Go back to bed, Abby. It's 2 in the morning."

She frowns & tears start tracking down her chubby cheeks, "But the bad men are coming for me. I sees them."

Now that got your attention! "What?" You sit up and turn on the lamp. "What bad men, Abby?" She points outside of your bedroom.

"Can Bucky comes over?"

"No, baby. He's on a mission." You grab her & put her in your bed covering her in blankets & pillows. "Stay here. Don't move until Mama comes back." You grab your old softball bat & make your way down the hall. You peek into Abby's room & it looks fine. You make it to the living room; the door locks are still engaged, and you have an open floor plan. You don't see anyone. You make your way & crawl to the window, looking through the breaks in the curtain to the streets below. Everything looks quiet. As it should be.

You go back to your room & Abby is where you left her. "Dids you see them?"

"No, Abby. No one is here, but you & me."

"I wants Papa!" Abby starts to cry.

You hold her hands trying to keep her attention. "Where did you see the bad men?"

"On TV with you. And my eyeballs."

What? "Your eyeballs? What does that even mean?"

Abby closes her eyes to demonstrate, "I close my eyes and I sees them in here," tapping her eyelids.

"Are you dreaming? You dreamed of bad men?"

Abby shakes her head & shrugs, "I want Papa. Can you calls him??" Tears start to fall again.

"Baby, Daddy is in heaven. He's not going to help."

"No, not Daddy. Papa! Bucky! Papa Bear. He helps me. He not let the bad men take me."

"Oh. Oh. Papa Bear. Um...I'm here. I won't let them take you either!"

Abby throws her head back dramatically & cries, "You can't stop them! You too widdle! Horse & Japper can throw you in the closet & takes me!"

"Horse & Japper?" Who the hell??

"The bad mans!"

Jesus! "Horace & Jasper??"

Abby hits the covers with her little fists, "It's what i says. Horse & Japper."

"The bad men from 101 Dalmatians?"

"They take me to the spooky lady in the dirty broken house!"

You're ready to pull your hair out by the roots. It's 2 in the morning and Abigail lost her mind.

"I hate to tell you, but Horace and Jasper don't want you unless you're a puppy. And you are NOT. You are a little girl that's making her Mama crazy." You growl & get under the covers to sleep.

"Mama?"

"Go to sleep Abigail." You feel her wiggle down under the blankets & up against your back.

When did Bucky become Papa??

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#bucky barnes #abigail x reader

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roosterforme · 1 year ago

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So Fresh, So Clean | Rooster x Reader

Summary: At first, Bradley is mortified when the guys force him to stop at a carwash featuring bikini clad women from a college softball team. But when he meets you there, he starts to think he should thank his friends instead.

Warnings: Fluff and swearing

Length: 2000 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

I wrote this for a request and for @wicked-remarks Summer Festival! Check out my masterlist for more!

"Dude, stop at In-N-Out. I'm starving," Payback whined from the passenger seat as Bradley zipped down the road in his Bronco.

"Nah, just stop at Starbucks," Jake argued from the backseat. "I need more caffeine."

"We're going to be late," Bradley groaned, passing the fifth fast food place while Payback whined and pointed out the window.

"We told Nat we'd be there around noon," Coyote said from the back. "I mean, if we stopped for food, we could grab something for her too."

Bradley rubbed his hand over his face, wondering why he had agreed to drive all of these idiots. "Guys, if I stop, I'm only stopping once. Then straight to the beach. So decide what you want."

Then Coyote started stuttering at the same time Payback said, "Holy shit! Pull over! Pull over!" Bradley looked where Payback was pointing, and then he saw a sign that said University of San Diego Softball along with a car wash and a lot of scantily clad women.

"Fuck caffeine. We're stopping here!" Jake said, practically climbing into the front seat. "Come on, Rooster!" He started trying to grab the steering wheel, and Bradley had to smack his arm away.

"Seriously!" Bradley yelled. "Stop reaching for the steering wheel!" He slowed down as all three of his passengers started loudly begging him. "You want to look at a bunch of college girls who couldn't care less about you more than you want burgers?"

"Hell yes!" Payback sang as Bradley put his turn signal on and pulled into the parking lot where the collegiate softball team was holding a very popular looking car wash. There were so many cars lined up, and a lot of men milling around. Bradley parked next to a pickup truck and eyed the women in wet tee shirts and bathing suits while Jake pounded on the back of his seat.

"They are practically naked! Get out so I can get out!" Jake whined.

"Chill!" Bradley said, loud enough that he had the attention of all three of them. "You guys need to be on your best behavior. I'm not kidding!"

"Look at them," Coyote said, pulling his sunglasses lower on his nose and whistling. "These girls are hot."

Bradley groaned. "Yes, I see them. And don't call them girls. They're women. And please don't touch any of them. Oh my god, I'm already so embarrassed."

"Let's go," Payback said, opening his door. "Time to flirt."

"They don't want to flirt with you," Bradley muttered. "You're thirty five."

"I dunno about that," Jake drawled, fixing his hair. "That redhead looks like she might like a daddy."

"Oh my fucking Lord, we are going to get kicked out of a fundraiser," Bradley groaned as he climbed out of his door and was nearly trampled by Jake.

"Relax man, I'm about to pay for your car to get washed," he said, shoving Bradley out of the way to get over to the redhead holding a hose. "Hey, sweetheart, my name's Jake...."

Bradley headed in the opposite direction, cradling his forehead in his hand. The last thing he wanted was to try to chat up some nineteen year old. He was almost thirty seven, for fuck's sake. But if they wanted to humiliate themselves, that was fine with him. But it didn't mean he needed to watch.

He thought he had found a nice spot to stand and wait while listening to a car stereo blasting Pour Some Sugar On Me. He was out of the way of the guys who were being roped in to helping the girls wash cars now. Jake's shirt was mysteriously missing, and Payback was spraying the hose while a few of the girls screamed.

"Grown ass men," Bradley muttered, pushing his aviators up higher on his nose.

He heard soft laughter and turned to see you standing next to him. And of course you were gorgeous. And young. And looking up at him with a smirk that he should not have found adorable.

"Yeah, well, the deans at the college are always amazed by how much money our car wash fundraisers make every summer," you said, smiling at him. He found himself smiling back.

"My friends almost made me wreck trying to get me to pull over, so I guess that does make sense," Bradley replied with a nod. You were the only one on the team who was still dry, and he could see the straps of your bathing suit tied above the collar of your USD Softball tee shirt. You had on some tiny denim shorts and flip flops, and Bradley bit back a groan and forced himself to look away from you.

"Your friends look like a bit of a handful," you told him. Bradley was treated to the sight of Coyote dancing to the music in the spray of the water.

"Just show them women in bathing suits, and this is what they turn into." You were laughing and gaping up at him, as Bradley quickly added, "They're harmless though! I promise! Your teammates have nothing to worry about! They just like to flirt."

"Teammates?" you asked, head cocked to one side.

"Yeah," Bradley grunted, really trying so hard not to look directly at you. Fuck, this was getting difficult. He could tell that your bathing suit was red through your snug fitting white tee shirt, and now he was looking at your chest. He pinched the bridge of his nose over his sunglasses and rolled his shoulders, trying to focus on the dirt being rinsed off a filthy car. "Your teammates? Uh, are you a senior? Or team captain or something?"

Your laughter rang out as you said, "No, not exactly."

"Oh. Uh, what position do you play?" He knew he was rambling now. Really, he should just get out of here.

"I used to play third base."

And now Bradley was biting his knuckle, because he was thinking about getting to third base with you, unzipping those little shorts in the backseat of his Bronco and slipping his hand inside. "Oh god," he swallowed hard. He was worse than the rest of the guys who were currently covered in soapy water and surrounded by softball players.

"I'm their coach."

Bradley froze, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. "You're the coach? The softball coach?"

"Yeah. They're not my teammates."

Bradley turned to face you and let his eyes drift down your body and back up to your face. You did look a little older than twenty two. And that's probably why you weren't actively washing the cars. He must have been staring for too long, because you were smirking again as you held out your hand and introduced yourself. "Head coach of USD women's softball."

He took your smaller hand in his. "My name is Bradley, and I'm really hoping you're going to tell me you're like twenty eight years old?"

"I'm thirty," you said slowly, still holding his hand and looking at him with a confused smile.

"Even better," he said, smiling happily and pulling you a little closer by your hand. "So, you played third base? Which school?"

"University of Oregon."

"Shit. You must be good."

"I'm very good," you told him, and Bradley squeezed your hand a little tighter.

"I'll bet you are."

"Do you play?" you asked, really sizing him up now.

"Yeah, just on a Navy rec league. But I'm very good, too."

"Bet I can guess which position you play," you told him before you bit your lip, and Bradley swore he was never going to let go of your hand.

"Okay. Go ahead and guess."

"But...if I'm right, you owe me a drink," you said coyly.

Bradley's eyebrows shot up. "Then you better fucking get this right."

With a bright laugh, you told him, "You look like a shortstop."

"Damn. You are good."

"I'm right?" you asked, and he nodded. "You owe me a drink."

Bradley took his sunglasses off with his left hand, and your smile grew. "Listen, as soon as you told me you're not a student, I was absolutely going to ask you out. So all you did was make it easier for me."

You pressed your lips together in pleasure, and it was so adorable. "You're still holding my hand."

"I know," he confirmed with a nod. "When are you free? Tomorrow?"

You licked your lips. "I'm coaching a game tomorrow, Bradley. You know, since I'm not a student."

He smirked at the way you were sassing him before asking, "Is it home or away?"

"Home. At USD."

"You gonna invite me to watch?" he asked, and you looked so damn pleased with yourself now.

"Would you be coming just to ogle the players?" you asked, nodding toward the soaking wet women who were now spraying the hose at Payback. "You know they wear their uniforms to the games instead of bathing suits, right?"

He narrowed his eyes and glared at you playfully. "It's much more likely that I'd be ogling their coach."

"Oh, I like that," you told him. "You can come then. And we can get that drink afterwards?"

"Absolutely," Bradley said, and he finally released your hand as he added, "Can I get your number?"

"Mmhmm."

He retrieved his phone from his pocket, unlocked it and handed it to you. He watched you enter your contact information, and then you handed it back to him, letting your fingers linger on his. "Text me later today, and I'll send you a ticket to the game."

"Sounds good, coach. I can't wait."

You glanced to the side and then met his eyes again. "It looks like your car's done. And your friends look like an actual disaster."

Bradley groaned as he saw the three of them getting the soap hosed off so they could leave. "Yeah, let me go babysit them for the afternoon. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes, you will." And then you put your hand on his chest and kissed his cheek before you turned away to help one of your players who was calling for your attention.

Bradley tucked his phone away and watched you as he made his way toward the Bronco. You waved to him and he smiled back before turning to assess his three sopping wet friends.

"Rooster, you idiot!" Coyote said, dripping water on the pavement. "You just stood there like a lump, man."

"We got phone numbers," Jake drawled, holding his wet phone while Bradley snorted.

"Yeah, we did," Payback said, high fiving Jake. "And we're going to meet up with Sylvia and Taylor later tonight at a bar on their campus."

Bradley just shook his head. "Wring out your shirts and get in the Bronco. Nat's already going to kill us, I hope you know that."

"Worth it," the three of them said in unison. And while Bradley waited for them to dry off a bit, he sent you a text.

Can't wait for tomorrow.

And right before he pulled out of the parking lot, you wrote back.

XOXO

And there was a ticket to the USD softball game for tomorrow afternoon attached.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Jake said as Bradley drove down the road toward the beach. He had his phone to his ear as he added, "Taylor gave me a bogus phone number!"

Payback scrambled to unlock his phone, and a second later, he had it on speaker. "Oops, it looks like the person who gave you this number is not actually interested in you! Better luck next time!"

"Damn," Coyote said, completely crestfallen. "Sylvia gave us a bogus number, too."

"I spent fifty bucks to get this thing washed for nothing!" Jake complained, gesturing around the Bronco.

"I can't believe we all struck out today," Payback whined. "We should have just stopped at In-N-Out."

Bradley bit his lip and shook with silent laughter. "Yeah, you all struck out. What a shame." But he was already thinking about where he was going to take you out for a second date.

-----------------------------

The way Rooster flirts, just holy shit. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls.

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biscuitsnow · 2 years ago

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#vintage men #men's softball

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dvchvnde · 4 months ago

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excerpt; best friend's dad | John Price x Reader infidelity. age gap.

He breaks your heart in Greece. Cuts a jagged line down your middle. Spills your wet, sticky blood over the Naxian marble outside of the Temple of Apollo with just a handful of words.

(fitting, you find: you've always considered your aimless pursuit to his heart some bastardised delusion akin to Icarus chasing the immovable sun—)

And you suppose it's kind. Or as gentle as a man like him could ever let himself be. Still gruff, surly. But you've always loved the sound of his voice, haven't you? That sarky growl reminding you of classic muscle cars, American-made; the low, gritty purr of an old Mustang. Enough to make you shiver, even as he's shaping it around these awful, cutting words. It makes you heart flutter, enraptured as he speaks like he's ripping a bandaid off.

Except that now that wound is being filled with salt. Acid. Cauterising itself from the friction burn when the gauze is wrenched off your skin. A permanent scar right in your sternum. A gaping hole spilling all the ugliness out. You wonder if he cares that it's being slashed across his shoes—no sandals, he griped when you teased him in the airport; I hate the feelin' of sand between my toes—that this madness inside of you is finding a home on the hot pavement, rotting under the summer's sun.

"m'thinkin' about marryin' her."

The her in question is ten years older than him. Pettily, you wonder if this is to compensate for the fact that he's nearly two decades older than you. An obscene age gap, you know. But—

It's Price.

Your best friend's dad. The man you've been in love with since you were sixteen. Falling all over yourself after a dumb boy broke your heart, and he offered to drive you home, silent the whole way there before he stopped, a block away from your house, and told you that boys weren't worth your time. Boys. Boys—

Not men.

Foolishly, you let yourself hope. Let yourself become the very thing they talk about in TikTok videos lambasting age gaps and silly little girls who let older men run them into the ground. Why would a man his age have any reason to be interested in a girl yours? Sickening. Disgusting. You're being lead stray, groomed. But you clung to it still, even as you thumbed through the comments on those videos and found pieces of yourself lying among the rubble.

You've always known what they say about girls like that. And you were just delusional enough to believe that you were different somehow.

And now—

"Gettin' older," he grouses out, and you wonder if she finds the ornery lilt to his cadence as comforting as you do. Or if it rubs her all the wrong ways. "Might be time to settle down."

Shamefully, you wish he'd say, but maybe you can convince me otherwise, climb into my lap, and eat this decision from between my teeth until all I see when I open my eyes is you.

But that's not the John Price you know. Mr Price. Single dad. Widower. Untouchable.

Mr Price who sees you for what you are—smarter than them, he'd said when you broke down in his Bronco after a softball game where everyone, your best friend included, went to an afterparty that no one invited you to.

Quiet, thoughtful, even when you spent the evening afterwards (the fight hashed out between your best friend and you; i'm so sorry and me too) thumbing through old vinyl records he kept in his basement, listening to the classics that kids your age just didn't understand, so why the fuck do you?

Weekends spent bonding over golden cinema (movies just ain't what they used to be; there's no romance anymore, it's all so—vapid; you don't talk like a kid; i've never considered myself one, do you? he didn't answer. you didn't expect him to). Listening to music older than your dad. Niche jokes and texts that read like I saw this and thought of you.

Your fault, of course, for thinking you could trick him into loving you if you played your feelings through Johnny Cash, Vashti Bunyan, Fleetwood Mac, and Smokey Robinson. An impossibility you know now.

Mr Price who knows you. Who sees through the thin skin you wear and into the heart, the core of you. Who must have known since you called him in the pouring rain to pick you up when you got too drunk to drive home. A house party in the suburbs. Waterlogged flats he told you to toss.

Said nothing at all when you apologised with your head pressed against the foggy glass. You never told him that your sorry, Mr Price was for kissing a boy and wishing it was him.

But he must have known.

open book. pages spilling out. silly little girl with your heart cupped in your palm—

So he knows. Has known. Hindsight says this is him letting you down gently before you get any ideas about forever with your diploma tucked into your chest like a shield. A trip to Greece with your best friend and her dad to celebrate the rest of your life looming over you like a thundercloud. Your eye slanting sideways, glancing yearningly back at him.

sorry, but no. look the other way—

And you think fine, fine, whatever, so long as this doesn't hurt anymore—but what comes out is, "oh."

What follows is this:

He says he's thinking about marrying her with his hands tucked tight under his arms. He tells you he wants to settle down with his chin tucked against his chest, four lines rucked across the pinch of his brow. An emphasis, perhaps, on just how serious he is.

You taste salt in your throat. Sand between your toes. The sun blisters against the thin straps of this pretty blue dress that match the melting sapphire of his burning gaze. It's heatsickness, maybe. Or just all the years of want building and building, festering and growing, until it can't climb any higher—forever reaching for god that won't spare you a glance—and—

falling down around you. wings of beeswax and bird feathers.

Solemn, he says, "it's what I should do."

(i saw this and thought of you—)

Your fingers knot into the soft cotton of his dress shirt, pulling the fabric taut between your knuckles until it peels back from the seams, curling between buttons.

You've had too much to drink. Whiskey sour. Scotch neat. Somewhere along the walk to the temple, you snatched a puff of his cigar, the nicotine blooming between your teeth. Head full of cotton too thick for you to think. To retreat.

In the morning, when he refuses to look at you, you'll blame it on the drinks. On the sun. On being young and dumb and untouchable under the Greecian sky.

Daddy issues, you can shrug. You have the diagnoses from every single TikTok psychologist embedded between your teeth. See, mine never loved me and now I'm taking it out on you—

But right now, you kiss him.

Or maybe—

Maybe he kisses you.

It's a mess in your head. Everything turned upside down, all askew because when your lips touch his, he shudders. His chest rumbles under your fingers, expanding with the sudden inhale as he breathes you in. Deep. Takes you into his lungs—all salt-slick, and sunburnt—and groans low in his throat, all want. All heat.

He should push you away. He's your best friend's father. Two decades older than you. Dating another woman who's so far removed from the person you are that she might as well be a different species. Mature. Stoic. Poised. Graceful.

The perfect antithesis to you.

Everything about this must be ringing shrill in his ears: abort, abort, do not engage. He should push you off.

And he does.

After a moment of your greedy, unpractised kisses pepper along the bristles hanging low over his lips, he makes another sound. Angry. Whitehot. His hands slip free from the damp prison of his armpits and latch tight onto you. Thick, hirsute fingers curling over your upper arms, and pushing, shoving—

Your back hits the marble pillar. The air in your lungs punched out.

But when you try to siphon more balmy air into them again, you find an obstacle in your way.

His mouth.

Searing, blistering. Slanting hungrily across yours, devouring. Intense, dizzying. Your head cracks against the wall when he shoves his thigh between the silken softness of your inner thighs, blanketed by the dress that made him swallow when he first saw you in it, eyes darkening like a storm.

(bit short, ain't it? he'd groused, and your friend slipped her hand into yours with a huff. stop being such a dad, dad—)

It slots there now like it's owed the right. Thick thigh spreading yours apart on a gasp, a groan. Corded muscle pressed taut to the seam of you that burns hot. Melted wax. Dripping against his leg. He must feel the way he liquifies you, turns you into putty. It drags a sound his chest. The misfire of an engine.

"Fuck," he breathes, all teeth. Salt. He should be saying, no, stop. go back to your hotel room, and we'll pretend this never happened, silly girl. But he pulls you closer instead, his hand looping around to cradle the back of your tender head in the cup of his palm. A small comfort as he delves his tongue between your teeth. "Makin' me lose my goddamn mind—"

The words are growled against your mouth. You taste the tobacco-smoked fury between his teeth when they sink into your lower lip. Angry, maybe, that you're making him do this. That you had to be who you are, and despite that, he kisses you like you're not.

"Price," you whine, arching into his chest when he pulls at your bottom lip still caught between his teeth. Skin tender, bruised. He ruts into you at the sound, nearly purring. You feel it then. The hard press of his thickening cock against you. Mindlessly gyrating against your hip. The turgid length proof of his desire. His want for you. All you. "Please—"

He folds himself over you. Tucks you into the bracket of his chest, his arms. His fingers are iron bars on your skin, holding you tight to him. Unwilling to let go. His hand on your crown; his fingers gripping your thigh, hiking it up his waist. It's good. Better than all of your meagre fantasies combined. You've wanted this since you knew what want was. When he wandered into the kitchen the morning after a sleepover with a towel slung loose around his hips, his hand scrubbing the damness from the wet tangle of his hair, spilling them down his neck where they disappeared into the thick bed of hair on his chest, his belly.

He paused in the doorway when he saw you sitting at the island, eyes wide and drilling holes into his chest.

"Shit," he'd cussed, gruff and mean with sleep. "Didn't think—"

But you did. Over and over again. With your face pressed against your pillow, fingers shoved into the sticky wetness leaking out of your cunt. Thinking of him. Wrong. Wrong. Terrible—

Dad bod, your friend said with a cluck of her tongue that afternoon. And you feel it under your fists as he heaves. As he eats you alive, whole. Because kissing John Price, Mr Price, is a whirlwind. A maelstrom.

He devours. He conquers. He owns.

He licks into your mouth, petting over your tongue, your teeth, until you can't remember anything else except the tobacco and whiskey tang of him. Heady. An elixir you want to sip from for the rest of your life. Damn him—

He tells you he's thinking about marrying someone else. Then whispers, ash-soft, against your chin that he can't get enough of you.

Grunts, "you need to go," as he sinks his teeth down, hard, into the throbbing skin of your pulse. Laying claim as he slowly comes to.

The coarse hair of his beard rubs your flesh raw when he buries his face into your neck. You can feel the thunder of his heart against the knob of your wrist. The heat of his skin burning through you.

"Fuck," he rumbles again, and you know this time it's for good. Ironclad. But the remorse is paperthin. "Shouldn't have done that, should have—"

"I want you," you whisper through bruised, kiss-bitten lips. "I want you so bad. I loved you since I was—"

"Don't."

The sweat beading along his hairline smears across the naked arch of your shoulder and neck when he moves; a shallow shake of his head. Muted and small. Heavy with reluctance.

The man who meets you when he pulls back is frowning with wet, red-stained lips. His eyes are hardened sapphire reinforced with unbreakable obsidian. There's no inch to move. No cracks to squeeze through.

"This—" he swallows. You hope he tastes you still. Whiskey sour. Scotch neat. The drag of his cigar, the one he coached you through, scoffing when you choked, when you cough. You hope he runs his tongue over his teeth and tastes nothing but you. "This shouldn't have happened."

You don't say anything. Can't. The words are staining his lips.

You nod, slow. Cautious. He tells you he's marrying someone else. Thinking about it. Says this shouldn't have happened—

But he holds you like he can't bring himself to let go. Fingers clutching, clenching tight around you. Possessive. Greedy, even he as he slowly unspools from around you. As he pulls away, scouring his hand down his face with a deep, ragged inhale. Rough, worn fingers digging into his jaw until the knuckles under a dense cropping of umber hair turn white, nails pinking under the strain.

"This isn't—"

You nod again. Soft and slow, but you let your tongue flicker out, chasing the smoke drying on your swollen lips. It stings. The burn makes you think of him. Of his hot, heavy hands on your skin.

His eyes drop down to follow the slip of red that teases out between your teeth, blackening as they trace the new wetness left behind. You can feel him twitch against your thigh.

Your name is a broken snarl trapped in the thick of his throat. You've never heard it like that. Never. It does something. Lights you up from the inside out. Supernova in his arms. Icarus burning, crashing down to earth—

Catch me, Apollo—

He pulls away instead. Detaches from you with a heavy groan, as if the distance that now sits between you hurts him just as much.

The silence is broken by the sound of the crowd just beyond the pillar. You can see the moment it settles over him in the flattening of his eyes, the erasure of all affection that bloomed bright in blue. The terse set to his shoulders. The distance, the space, that grows and grows and grows—

He clears his throat. Mr Price once more. Untouchable. Off-limits.

"You should go," he says, and there's not an ounce of give in the rough flatline of his voice. Fixed. Firm. "You should go back to your hotel room. Come on. I'll call you a taxi."

"And you?"

He sucks in a breath through his nose, nostrils flaring. "Don't worry about me. Just—go back to the hotel room. We can—we'll talk in the morning."

"Where'd you?" She asks when you crawl into bed, the starchy sheets rubbing against your sunbitten skin.

There is a deluge of things you want to say. Things like—

I'm sorry. I love him. I—

can't let go.

"I think I just got my heart broken," you say instead, and wonder when the tears are supposed to come. At the wedding, maybe. But right now, you just feel numb. Empty.

The bed creaks when she rolls over, facing you in the dark. "Really? Didn't know you were, you know, foolin' around with anyone."

"I wasn't. It's—" your dad. But you can't say that, can you?

There's something painfully nostalgic about loving a man you're not supposed to want. A man who cannot, should not, want you back. An unrequited love in a foreign land. Unconsummated in the summer's heart. Sticky, bittersweet heartbreak.

Or, that's what it's supposed to be.

They are not John Price, though. Your best friend's dad. And they didn't kiss you back—

But he did.

And you think it's the worst thing he could have ever done.

#in all honesty #this will pros go nowhere lmao #i have a clear idea for bfd Price and this doesn't really fit #but it was the og idea in my head and i need it to go somewhere while i restructure this story #john price x reader #BFD Price

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moonmoonthecrabking · 1 year ago

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one of the many reasons i love the bi paul headcanon (???) is how it’s a fuck you to stereotypes. “bi people are adventurous” “queer men are theatrical” “bi people are sluts”. no. here’s a guy who has lived in his hometown his whole life, hates musicals, and has one canon love interest across three musicals. he is awkward and tired and unsociable and will not see mamma mia. and he swings both ways but he won’t participate in the company softball league.

#tgwdlm #paul matthews #headcanon with question marks bc JON WHAT DO YOU MEAN

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coff33andb00ks · 5 months ago

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Osc + 1!!

1: tiny hands in big hands <we love a size difference>

requests closed until I catch up <3

You don't like loud music. You hate people being close to you. You suck at dancing, unless it's in your kitchen. And you like alcohol but you don't like losing control of yourself so you only drink enough to relax. Flashing lights give you a headache, and dim corners give you anxiety.

But here you are, drink in hand, music pounding in your ears and lights flashing obnoxiously around you. There's a group of men that you've never seen before here, and their added yells and revelry are adding to your brewing headache.

"Let's go celebrate your promotion!"

When you see her again, you're so killing your best friend. This was celebrating? You'd be so much happier with some good pasta and a binge watch of of your favorite tv show. Maybe a mani pedi. Something relaxing and enjoyable not...

Whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

You sigh and wish you were at home, eyes scanning to find your friends. They went to dance three songs ago. You think they'll be easy to spot, but--

"HOLY SHIT!"

You stumble backwards to avoid being crashed into by one of the men partying hard. He's laughing, almost cackling, and you wince as your drink splashes over your front, staining your light pink top because of course you'd ordered a rum and Coke. The guy laughs, catching himself before slamming into you, and he looks at your empty glass.

"Sorry!" You can barely hear him above the music and he can tell, motioning wildly in a drunken pantomime that isn't too hard to decipher.

C'mon I'll buy you another.

Why not, you decide, nodding. He grins and grabs your forearm, practically dragging you with him towards the VIP section, and you think you see your friends' shocked faces when you're pulled past a group.

The music isn't quite as loud here and you wave off his apologies, taking the napkins he shoves at you to sop up the mess of your top.

"I'm Lando," he tells you, sniffing your empty glass then walking off.

"So pleased to meet you," you mutter under your breath, nose wrinkling as you try to inconspicuously fish the thin straw out of your bra.

"You alright?"

Seriously what is with all the accents? You yank the straw out, squeaking when it slips from your fingers and hits the guy's cheek. He makes a face, cheeks tinging pink.

"I'm fine," you promise. "Sorry, it was - Lando? He bumped into me and, well."

"Sounds like him." The man in front of you smiles ruefully, and as he watches you it fades. "You're not one for clubs are you?"

His accent is so nice. You shake your head, looking around for some place to put the napkins. He takes them from you and shoves them onto a table, then blushes again.

The next thing you know he's taken a jacket off the sofa and is draping it around your shoulders. "Um, your top is kinda..." His cheeks darken even more and he rubs the back of his neck. "See through?"

You almost giggle, finding his embarrassment more than a little endearing. "Thank you." You slip your arms into the sleeves and pull it closed. "Really, thank you. I don't want to flash a bunch of strange men."

"So women would be alright?" he asks with a grin and you do giggle this time, accepting his offer to have a seat.

His name is Oscar and you're so glad he's not a grouch. The only sport of any kind you've ever been interested in was little league softball and you'd been horrible at it, so when the brown eyed man from Australia says he's a race car driver you nod. Lando comes back with a drink for you and it's not a rum and coke but you drink it, enjoying the conversation you're having with Oscar. And when your friends start texting you you sigh, almost sad to go.

"My friends," you say, texting them that you'll meet them at the front of the club. You start to take off the jacket, surprised when he reaches to close it. The spill is dried now, your top sticking to your skin.

"Nah, keep it. Don't want you flashing a bunch of men." He smiles softly and stands, holding out his hands to you.

You don't need his help to stand but you slide your hands into his. They're large, swallowing yours, and you think you may have had a little too much to drink because the difference in size makes you feel fuzzy. He pulls you to your feet, hands still holding yours as you stare up at him. "Thanks," you tell him. And, emboldened by the small amount of alcohol, you lick your lips and lean up on your tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his cheek. You feel his little breath of surprise and his hands gently squeeze yours as you pull back.

"Can - Christ," he groans when his voice lifts an octave in the middle of the word. His cheeks are red and your phone is buzzing with an incoming call. You ignore it, wiggling your fingers against his. "Can I walk you out? And maybe get your number?"

Later, after you're home and showered and have exchanged several texts with Oscar, you think that maybe you like clubs after all.

#inbox #f1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #Oscar Piastri #oscar piastri fluff #drabbles

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