#so i should come up with a tag for it.. just maybe...

[almostempty]

clint eats it from the back (clint x f!reader)

wc: 1.9k | other fics | rating: 18+ | 

summary: clint comes home to find you half-naked and half-asleep and eats it from the back and then gives you that dick (as he should)

a/n: @yxtkiwiyxt said ‘clint eats it from the back’ and i thought this might jumpstart the gremlins that have been holding my brain cell hostage so here’s some pwp <3 

tags: pussy eating, backshots, raw creampie (as always), dirty talk (if i wrote it and he isn’t groaning and spewing filth send a medic), spanking (i can’t stop won’t stop), clothed sex (whip it out and stick it in already!), established relationship (they like each other idk i can be a little soft sometimes okay) 

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You’re half-asleep when the front door swings shut.

The blinds in the bedroom tap against the window, making the shadows in the room dance. The soft thud of his boots wakes something in you. Enough to stir but not enough to really move.

Facedown in the middle of the bed, one knee bent and the other leg straight, you're wearing nothing but Clint’s well loved t-shirt. The one that smells like cigarettes and sweat... in a comforting way.

You’d been waiting. Maybe you fell asleep, but you can’t say for sure. You don’t even know what time it is.

He steps into the bedroom, but doesn’t say a word. Traffic and city noise filters in through the window, carried by the sticky summer night breeze.

But all you hear is the sharp breath he takes.

Like he’s been hit in the face with something he didn’t expect—and he’s not usually one for surprises.

You don’t move. Not until the mattress dips beneath his weight.

A big hand slides up your thigh. Slow. Heavy. Possessive.

His rough palm stops at the curve of your ass and squeezes. Hard.

Clint doesn’t ask if he can—he just spreads you, exposing everything before massaging your smooth flesh with a hint of affection.

“You been like this all night?” His voice is low, scraped over pavement. “Laid out like a fuckin’ present for me?”

His thumbs bruise the crease at the top of your thighs, demanding an answer from your hazy mind.

You grumble into the flattened pillow, too tired to be sweet. “You’re late.”

A single sharp smack to your ass jolts you more awake. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to remind you he can.

“I got busy,” he snaps, stern and half-growled. “Didn’t say you could fall asleep.”

You’re shifting toward clarity, but not enough to resist when he grabs your hips and lifts them, dragging you onto your knees with your face still buried in the pillow.

He sighs—heavy, like it’s too much. Like you’re too much. “Fuck me. Look at this fucking pussy.”

Both hands spread you wide, fingers dimpling your flesh. He’s not gentle. Clint palms your ass, squeezing and manipulating you until you squirm.

His stubble scrapes along your delicate skin as he noses closer, breathing you in like he’s been starving. You don’t bother hiding your moan. He likes that.

“So wet for me,” he mutters to himself. His warm breath teases your slick seam, making your thighs tremble faintly and drawing a needy whimper from you.

He laughs. A little mean and a lot indulgent.

“That’s right, baby. My filthy girl. Always dripping for me.”

He stays fully dressed—boots on, jeans still zipped—while he readjusts, sinking between your legs.

Then the wet heat of his mouth makes your brows draw together and your mouth part. With his tongue flat and slow, he licks one long stripe from clit to ass, like he’s claiming every inch. You gasp, hands scrabbling against the mattress.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice thick and muffled between your legs. “Back it up for me.”

You arch instinctively, and his hands flex in response before sliding underneath your legs, wrapping around your hips to hold you against his face.

“Oh, shit,” your voice is barely above a whisper.

His mouth is on you, in you, tongue fucking into you—messy and unrelenting. You can’t help it—rocking back, grinding down, chasing the friction. The wet sounds are obscene, and his hungry groans melt into your skin.

Every time you whimper, he doubles down. He wants it loud.

He bites, nips the soft skin where your thigh meets cunt, just to hear your gasp and feel you tense in his grip. Then soothes it with his tongue, like it never happened.

“Look at you,” he pants, voice thick. “Face down in my bed, moaning into my fuckin’ pillow like a whore. You love this, don’t you?”

You whine something desperate, words half-formed and foggy.

And then he’s sucking on your clit, bringing you right to the edge—everything pulled taut—just to ease up and make out with your pussy until you’re liquid again.

He presses a kiss to your clit. “Tell me. Who’s this pussy belong to?”

“You,” your voice already sounds far away. “Only you.”

“That’s my girl,” he says, proud and rough. “My perfect fuckin’ mess.”

“You’re gonna come like this,” he growls into you. “All bent over for me. Like you should.”

You bite your lip hard. You’re close. He knows it. One hand slips between your legs and spreads you wider. Lewd. Greedy. 

Then he’s nearly overwhelming you entirely.

Lips wrapped around your swollen clit until your thighs are shaking. Then again, with a wide tongue, he uses his whole face. The friction of his facial hair, the pressure of his jaw, the ridge of his nose—like he was divinely created for your pleasure.

Though in this moment, it seems like your pleasure is all his.

You’re soaked, chasing the release he keeps taunting you with. He’s moaning into you, rutting his hips against the bed like he needs it too. He never stops moving, working you closer expertly—like you’re his to control.

And you are.

Your knees give out as you finally break, but his hold on you is so strong it doesn’t matter. Your thighs quake, and you cry out—wrecked and loud. You don’t give a shit if the neighbors can all hear.

He doesn’t let up until you’re twitching from the overstimulation. Then he hums with a satisfaction that would make your face hot if you weren’t already blazing from the whole act.

When he loosens up, you collapse forward, melted and buzzing. He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, laced with reverence.

“Not done yet,” his voice is lusty, with a hint of strain in it. “You hear me?”

You nod weakly, hitching a breath when he gives you one more slap.

Behind you, fully dressed and still hard in his jeans, Clint smiles.

You’re still catching your breath when he moves. The bed frame creaks as his weight shifts. You hear him undo his belt. Hear the zip of his jeans.

You don’t even lift your head—just hum softly into the pillow in anticipation.

Clint chuckles once behind you. Not with amusement—but with hunger.

“Too wrecked to talk already?” he murmurs, rubbing a hand down your spine. “Didn’t even need to get my dick out to have you all fucked out.”

You whimper again, hips tilting toward him instinctively.

“Goddamn.” The word falls from his lips like he’s mesmerized. “Layin’ here… legs open, pussy still dripping on my sheets like you don’t have a single thought left in your pretty head.”

You don’t.

Not a coherent thought, anyway.

He pushes the faded t-shirt higher up, bunching it around your ribs, baring every inch of your glowing skin to his greedy eyes. His hands stroke along your back and down your legs.

“You’re so fucking easy for me,” he growls. “One taste and now you’re already begging for cock to fill you up.”

You shake your head, a little desperate now. “Not begging.”

That earns you another slap, right against your throbbing, swollen cunt. You yelp.

“No?” Clint’s voice shifts—something mean bleeding into the edges of it. “You’re soaked, face down, ass up, pushing back on my face like you’re in heat, and you’re gonna tell me you’re not begging?”

His hand wraps around your hip and yanks you back until you’re flush with his crotch. Until you can feel how hard he is through his jeans.

He grinds you against him once, slow and firm, causing you to choke on a moan. The friction is one thing—but it’s the way he maneuvers you with confidence that has your eyes rolling back.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”

He grunts lowly, freeing himself from his jeans and stroking once, twice, and then—

He pushes in with no warning.

You gasp, mouth open, eyelids slamming shut as the stretch steals the breath from your lungs. He’s thick, hot, and rough in just the way you like. He drives in deep, holding you with a bruising grip while you adjust.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That never gets old.”

He doesn’t give you more time—slides nearly all the way out of you before slamming back in, hard.

He sets a rhythm and creates a debased symphony. The bed knocks against the wall, your skin slaps loudly in the dark room, and your breathy moans are punctuated by his reflexive grunts.

His jeans drag against the backs of your thighs, the rough fabric a constant reminder that he hasn’t even undressed for this. That finding you half-naked in his bed, in his shirt, might as well have been a demand to fuck you stupid on sight.

Clint leans over you, his chest pressing into your back, one big hand curling around the back of your neck—not choking. Just holding.

Just claiming.

Just fucking you the way he wants. Getting more honest with every snap of his hips as he unravels for you.

“This what you wanted, baby?” he growls in your ear. “Want me to use you like a fuckin’ toy? Fill you up nice and deep?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is moans in the shape of unrecognizable words.

He bites your shoulder, sharp. Not enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say who owns this fuckin’ pussy.”

“You—fuck, Clint—it’s yours,” you gasp.

“Damn right it is.”

His other hand slides down your front, rough fingers finding your clit and circling fast and filthy. You sob—your body already too close, too sensitive. It’s dizzying and sharp.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

“Yes!” you get one word out before your mind liquefies.

It hits hard—sudden and overwhelming—your whole body clenching, pulsing around him as he groans loud and desirous behind you. He fucks you through it, losing the last of his restraint you didn’t know was still in place, escalating with single-minded determination.

“Gonna come,” he growls. “You want that? Want me to fill this pussy up?”

You can’t even speak—you just moan, nodding frantically into the sheets.

“Yeah,” he snarls. “That’s right. Take it. Take all of it.”

He comes with a drawn-out moan, pulling you down onto his dick as he pulses inside you—like you might collapse without him there to steady you.

His hand is still wrapped around your neck, his body draped over yours, and his cock still buried deep inside you.

Then he exhales.

His tone shifts—less urgent. More awed.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You hum something soft in response, completely boneless under him.

Clint pulls out with a soft groan, and you feel the drip of him between your thighs—warm and shameless and exactly what you wanted.

He leans down to kiss your spine, then rests his forehead there, breathing heavy. For a moment, that’s all you hear.

Then the world starts to seep back in—the low hum of the fan on the dresser, the bass thumping from a house party down the block.

You’re still not sure if you’re fully awake. But if this is a dream, it’s the best one you’ve had in weeks.

Then his hands are moving again, warm and real and right where they belong.

“Hi, baby,” he murmurs, almost too quiet to hear.

You smile into the pillow, a whisper of a laugh barely leaving your lips. “Hi.”

And god, he loves coming home to you.

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thank you for reading! pls let me know your thots <3

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[deadly-diminuendo]

A Fitting Reunion

a tailor (spawn) astarion x fem!tav reader fic | nsfw | ~13.7k words

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Summary: After a rather embarrassing experience at the reunion party, you have been nervous to see Astarion again. You manage to gather the courage to visit his tailoring shop for dress alterations—and to be a better friend to him. And maybe there is just a little part of you that still hopes for something more. But he couldn’t possibly want that—or could he?

Tags/CW: anxiety, piv sex, oral sex (both ways), post-game, fluff/smut/mutual pining

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Or read below...

Breathe. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. Then again. And again.

You can do this.

He is your friend.

A friend you used to sleep with.

A friend you never stop thinking about.

Ever.

Hells.

You have not seen Astarion since Withers’ party. The one where you drunkenly suggested you would not mind taking a stroll together back into the woods where the two of you once used to go. You could still remember the way.

You might have phrased things a little less delicately at the time.

And of course he said no.

“Darling, flattered as I am, I think it’s best we get you to bed. Your own bed, to be clear.”

A more gentle rejection from him than you perhaps deserved. What must he have thought of you? Coming on to him like that when you knew a night of passion was probably the last thing on his mind? You are supposed to care about him, not treat him like a piece of meat.

Not that you ever thought of him that way—but still you worry how it seems.

Fuzzy though the details are, you remember enough to know Astarion was the one to ensure your safe journey home that night. The one to step through the portal with you, to help you up the stairs, to tuck you under the covers. And how did you repay him?

You made yourself a stranger.

You should have gone to see him sooner. Apologized. Been a real friend.

Granted the party happened only a month ago. A month is not too long a wait, is it? People live busy lives. Some of your friends you only see a few times a year.

Or maybe it has not been long enough. Maybe you are making too big a deal of this, and you will only be making an even greater fool of yourself by doing this now.

The garment bag draped over your arms feels heavier and heavier. Maybe a purely social call would have been a wiser choice than this transactional one. On the other hand, you do want to show your support for his new business venture. Any friend would do that, right?

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

You repeat your exercises as you try to calm your rapid heartrate. A near impossible task knowing he will be able to hear it the second you walk through that door. Gods, your heart is hammering so hard that you worry he might already hear it through the walls. Curse his vampiric senses.

You can still turn back around. Come back another time. When you are ready.

Who are you kidding?

You will never be ready.

But, if the choice is between now or never—between the shame of showing your face or the pain of never seeing his again—you know what you have to do.

Swallowing your pride, you manage to free a hand enough to turn the handle, lean against the door, and push.

The bell rings.

Its shrill announcement of your arrival sends you spiralling. You think of running. Hiding. Just dropping to the ground and crying.

But there will be no escape because the second you hear that achingly familiar voice sing out the word, “Coming,” your feet are frozen to the floor.

Then comes the inevitable moment, when you see him and he sees you, and you look away, and you look back, and you try not to avert your gaze, and you try not to stare, and gods help you through this for his beauty stuns you still.

He briefly mirrors your silent stupor before you see the crinkle of his eyes and the crook of his charming smile. “Hello, darling.”

Frantically you ask yourself what this means. You sift through every detail you know about the man before you as you try to deduce the thoughts running through his mind. Whether he is truly happy to see you or if he only pretends to be. Whether this is his real face or once more the mask.

You have imagined this scene a million times, practiced every possible variation of it in your head, but when you try to think what to say your mind runs blank. You settle for a few words that are simple and true. “It is good to see you, Astarion.”

“And same to you, my friend,” he says, and you manage a small smile. Are you really worthy of being called his friend after all this time apart? Is an honest-to-goodness friendship even possible between the two of you?

You do not speak so he continues. “And might I add that you are looking more delicious than ever.”

Oh. He is flirting with you. Falling back on old habits, perhaps. Or maybe he seeks to lighten the mood, to ease you into a conversation that clearly makes you feel awkward. Nothing more. Still your heart flutters as it always used to back in those early days. 

Back when you were foolish enough to believe he might be your forever.

“I was hoping you could help me,” you tell him, trying to get yourself back on track. “I have a gown that needs alterations. I take it you have heard about the upcoming Ravengard ball?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, reaching out to take the garment bag from you, and though you are glad to be free of its weight, you are not quite sure what to do with your hands. “I have been invited myself, but honestly, I expect the whole affair to be dreadfully boring. I suppose I could always introduce a little chaos into the mix myself, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll likely just skip it.”

“You’re not going? Not even for Wyll?”

Not even for me? That third question burns in your mind but you dare not ask it.

“We were not exactly the best of friends if you’ll recall.”

That is true. You remember many a tense exchange between them—Wyll needlessly cruel at times, Astarion spitting back with an understandable but equally vicious venom—no real surprise that the unlikely alliance between a monster hunter and a vampire spawn would also be an uneasy one.

The fact that you once shared a dance with the Blade did nothing to help matters. The tenderness in his touch and the awe in his eyes told you he wanted something beyond friendship. A true love, a happily ever after, a tale straight out of the pages of a storybook—tempted though you were, you could not envision that future with Wyll. Not while you were still spending your nights tangled up with Astarion.

Even knowing now how it all turned out you would not have chosen differently.

You consider encouraging him to attend, expressing how much you would appreciate having his company there, but you let the moment pass as you follow him deeper into the shop. “It seems you have done quite well for yourself,” you comment—your words still feel more stilted than you would like, and your gaze meanders about the shop rather than meeting his—but at least you are here.

And he really has done well for himself, you think. The front of house proudly displays a tasteful array of apparel—a combination of carefully curated selections from local clothesmakers and his own elegant and inventive fashions. Perhaps you should have commissioned him to design your dress in the first place.

“I have, haven’t I?” He lets out a little hmph as he considers it. “I thought this life might be a little, uh… pedestrian, for my tastes, but… to my surprise, I like it. It suits me rather well.”

“I agree,” you say with a genuine smile as he stops you in front of a series of curtains—the dressing rooms, you assume. Sure enough he pushes one open and gestures you inside, hanging the garment bag on a hook.

“Well, darling, let’s get you out of those clothes and into that dress, hm?” Your breath hitches. You almost let your imagination run away with you, but of course he gives you your privacy. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

You peel off each layer one by one, trying not to think about the fact that your former lover is on the other side of this curtain, trying not to remember the slow and sensual ways he used to strip you bare.

But you do think about it. You do remember.

You are just friends now, you remind yourself. No more. And no less, you hope. To be without him all this time has left a hollow in your heart. You want to fill its empty spaces with his presence. You want him to be part of your life again.

So why does being here only make your heart ache harder?

And why are you still so godsdamned nervous?

You sigh and slip into your gown, admiring its A-line silhouette and its delightful shade of purple. Not quite the right fit, but that is why you are here after all. Astarion can surely fix that for you. He does work wonders with his hands.

Hands that you now realize will have to lace up the back of your dress because there is no way you’ll be able to accomplish that by yourself.

Hugging the loose garment tight against your chest, you call for help. “Astarion?”

“Yes, dear? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to fall into peril right here in my dressing room. You do seem to have a knack for finding trouble wherever you go.”

“Just… come in, please.”

He pushes through the curtain and you are instantly and acutely aware of just how snug this little space is.

“Ah, you need to be tied up, I see.”

Of course he would choose to phrase it like that. Now you are thoroughly convinced he is thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. He always did like to make you squirm. In more ways than one, the Astarion in your head adds. Ugh. You feel a fleeting sense of relief as you spin around, but the mirror betrays you, putting your mortified expression on full display while the look on his face remains a mystery to you. The chuckle you then hear at least helps you picture his smirk.

He takes his time with you. Like he always did. Words he once said echo in your mind. A treat like you deserves to be savoured. Does it tempt him still to be so close to you? To sense your blood pumping through your veins? To see your neck so deliciously exposed? You ponder and you reminisce and you catch yourself tilting your head to one side.

It seems the tempted one is you.

You wonder if he noticed. He may be ‘tying you up’ as he so eloquently put it, but you feel more like he is undressing you. Like he is uncovering you bit by bit, inch by inch, piece by piece. Like he could reach into your mind and read your most intimate thoughts even though the tadpoles are long gone.

“There we are,” you finally hear him say, snapping you back to reality. You pause in front of the mirror together and you wonder what it isn’t telling you. What he thinks when he looks upon you. 

“A fine choice, my dear,” he says as you both step out of the dressing room. “Much better than those hideous rags and that horrid armour you wore on the road.”

You roll your eyes at him. “That horrid armour kept me alive. Forgive me for picking function over fashion.”

“Oh, come now, fashion need not be sacrificed. Yours truly had both, thank you very much.” He gives you a playful bow.

You snicker—and then a full-fledged grin spreads across your face. To have this bit of banter with him again feels right. A bit of good-natured ribbing is something you can handle. What you do not know quite how to handle is—

“Luckily for you that smile more than made up for your questionable wardrobe.”

And just like that you no longer know what to say.

Astarion guides you over to a fitting platform, circling you as he sizes up what needs to be done. And though you know this is all about your dress and not you, you begin to fidget under his intense scrutiny.

“Much too long, obviously,” he remarks. “Typical. It should be taken in at the waist, too. We must do justice to that pretty figure of yours after all.”

Another flirtatious comment from him, another internal panic for you. You are not given much time to ruminate on this one though before he asks you a question that catches you off guard.

“Did you bring your shoes?”

“My shoes…?”

“Shoes, darling,” he says, elongating the rounded vowel as he repeats the word. “You have heard of the concept, surely. They come in pairs? You wear them on your feet?”

“I know what shoes are,” you insist, glancing towards the open dressing room where your trusty boots remain on the floor.

He follows your line of sight, and you nearly laugh when you look back to witness his eyebrows raise in horror then furrow again in exasperation. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. You will not be wearing those ghastly things to a ball.”

“They’re comfortable, and no one will be able to see them,” you say with a shrug and a smile, and this time you do laugh at the indignant noise he makes in response. Really, you did plan on wearing something more suitable—but you are enjoying this little opportunity to vex him.

“Absolutely not. As an upstanding citizen of this fine metropolis, I cannot stand idly by while you commit this outrageous crime against fashion.”

“Upstanding citizen, huh?”

“Of course,” he says with that mischievous smile of his. “I’m hardly the ‘help every poor unfortunate soul in sight’ type—that, my dear, is unique to you and you alone—but perhaps a smidgen of your do-gooder nature has rubbed off on me. Now,” he continues, returning to the matter at hand, “let me find you some decent shoes. We’ll need them to measure the length.”

Ah, that makes sense. You pout and you nod, playing your little game, but you do look forward to a new pair of shoes. Your adventures did leave your boots well-worn, not to mention covered with so much gore and grime that not even repeated scrubbings could remove all the stains. Your boots really did see everything.

He disappears into another part of the shop then reappears with a few options in hand—a selection of flats and modest heels you can actually picture yourself walking in—all simple but elegant. He knows just what you like.

“Sit and try these on,” he says, extending a hand out to you—an offer to help you down from the platform you presume—and you take it.

His touch is pure electric shock. Or maybe it is only the chill of undeath that leaves you shivering. And then you think on it, that pleasing tingle, the texture of his skin, the way his long, slender fingers interlock perfectly with yours, and your heart is fluttering, and he lets go all too soon, and you are lost. Empty. Incomplete.

And right now you are not ready to consider what that means.

You push your confusion out of your mind as you take a seat on the edge of the platform, refocusing on the task at hand. You pick out a pair of off-white kitten heels and try them on, and you find yourself pleasantly surprised by how comfortable they feel. To be sure, you take a few steps, you test other pairs, you return to the first—yes, these will do.

“Satisfied?” Astarion asks, and you nod. “Good. Back up you go, darling.”

You step onto the fitting stand once more—without assistance this time, which is somehow both a relief and a disappointment. Astarion sets about his work, pulling pins out of the small cushion tied to his wrist and pushing them through the hem, all while you stare into space and contemplate whether or not you should say anything.

You should say something, you decide. You did manage to catch up with him a little at the party last month before your drink got the better of you, but you are doing a poor job of it now. You’ve barely even talked. Not really. How can you call yourself his friend if you cannot even gather the courage to speak to him?

“How are you?” you blurt out. Those few trite words do little to express how much you truly care for his well-being, how every day you wonder if he is fed, if he is safe, if he is happy. Quickly you add, “With the whole ‘vampire tailor’ thing, I mean. No monster hunters at your door, I hope?”

His nature clearly isn’t a secret. The many mirrors give him away if nothing else.

“Not a one,” Astarion says, glancing up at you from where he kneels. “I am, after all, one of the great heroes of Baldur’s Gate. The fact that I also happen to be a vampire spawn is not so much a threat, but an… eccentricity. And a bit of eccentricity is right at home in this city.”

“I’m glad no one is giving you any trouble,” you say. Another question needles your mind, one you are almost afraid to know the answer to, but you ask it anyway. “And… are you feeding well?”

“I have my sources.” Oh. Good. That is good. Yes. Definitely. Not like it matters who or how. Not like the mere thought of him sinking his teeth into someone else crushes you. Not like the scene plays out in your mind no matter how much you don’t want it to. Your eyes shut. Your stomach twists. Your heart sinks.

“None quite like you,” he adds, and beneath that sultriness he so likes to tease you with, you detect a softness there. Or maybe it is only a trick of the imagination. A pretty lie you tell yourself.

And yet, when your eyes flicker open, all you can see is his boring back into yours, staring, seeking, searching.

Breathe. You must breathe.

And then the moment is gone, and he shifts out of your sight, concentrating his efforts on the back of your dress.

The minutes pass in screaming silence.

You wish he would fill your ears with little jokes, or idle chatter, or something, anything to save your mind from spiralling. Anything to save you from you.

You regret all you have done wrong and all you have failed to do right. And yet, you want, and you yearn, and you hope.

“It really has only ever been you, you know.”

His words shock you back to your senses and suddenly he is standing on the platform with you, mere inches away.

“Oh,” you say. Gods, what else can you say?

All is quiet between you. He fusses with your straps, and the fabric of your bodice, pins everything into its proper place. A hand lingers at your waist.

“You once told me that the world can be a kind place. That has been truer than I expected. But no one has been more good to me—and good for me—than you.”

What?

No. Whatever you think this is, you are wrong.

“I’m not so sure about that,” you protest, your heart pounding. “That night at the party… I wasn’t thinking, I… I know it wasn’t what you… I’m so sor—”

He stops you, shushing you softly. “Oh, no, no, love, you will not apologize for that. A little drunken fancy is nothing to be ashamed of. You were nothing but sweet. And it was sweet of you to worry. Unnecessary, but sweet.”

Your head is spinning. You were far from a good friend that night. You did him wrong. You were so sure.

But he does not seem offended in the least.

Quite the opposite, really.

“Although,” he says, and you hear the mischief in his voice as he leans in to speak into your ear. “I am rather curious about those pretty words you said when…”

The bell rings.

The two of you startle and separate.

“Oh, Astarion, dear?” a voice calls out, singsong yet sharp.

The scowl that then sullies his features tells you all you need to know. He curses under his breath before singing out an answer. “Just a moment, Lady Furrington. I am finishing up with another client.”

Astarion is all business now as he checks over his handiwork, and as he ushers you to the dressing rooms, and you cannot help but to mourn what could have been had no one else stepped foot through that door. You wonder what he would have done. What he would have said. What might have sparked between you.

You will lie awake tonight wondering and wondering and wondering.

You pause together just outside the dressing room, and he says, “My apologies for the abrupt finish, darling. Her requests are endless, but her coin purse is bottomless. Enough so that an extra charge here and there goes unnoticed.”

“You have to do what you have to do,” you say with a shrug. You take a step into the change room, and to your surprise, he follows you inside. You shoot him a quizzical look.

“The laces?”

“Uh, yes. Right. Thank you.”

He reaches around you as he begins to pull them loose. He is close. Impossibly, maddeningly, enticingly close. His gaze falls to your lips and, gods, you can almost taste his.

“Astarion?” cries out that same shrill voice.

He steps back. Another moment lost forever.

“Come back tomorrow night?” he asks.

Sooner than you thought, but you do not question it. You simply say, “Yes.”

You leave. You start your trek home. And, as you walk, an inkling of something forgotten—something you wanted to forget—itches within your brain. What was it he mentioned about that night? Something about ‘those pretty words’ words you said?

You think, and you think, and you think, delving deep into your fragmented memories, searching for the missing pieces you need to complete the puzzle.

You stop in your tracks.

You remember.

That night, as he put you to bed, at the height of your foolishness, you told him the most mortifying thing you could have told him.

But in wine there is truth.

You felt it. You said it. You meant it.

You love him.

It was the right choice. The right choice. The right choice.

How many nights have you lain awake, desperate to believe in the truth of those words? You thought one day they would sink in and soothe you. Instead their endless echoing always felt more like a pulsing headache.

Funny that, last night, the very opposite thought is what kept you awake.

What if, all this time, you were wrong?

You were so sure back then that friendship was the right choice. A hard choice, but the right choice. Never had anyone given him anything without the expectation for more. You could be that person, right? You should be that person. You wanted to be that person. A friend was what he needed. What he deserved. That superceded any silly notions of romance you had in your head.

Your offer of friendship meant everything to him, or so it seemed. Not a friend in the world until you, he said. His sincerity and his soft words melted your heart, and when he took your hand in his, and gazed into your eyes, you knew you were hopelessly in love with him.

You fought it. You denied it. You cried and cried and cried over it.

Still your feelings stayed the same. And so you did the only thing you could do. You resolved to keep your secret hidden under lock and key.

As if anything in this world under lock and key is safe from the likes of Astarion.

You love him. You have always loved him. You still love him.

And it seems he knows it, too.

And maybe, just maybe, there exists the teeniest tiniest trace of a possibility that he might be interested in you?

No, no, no. Surely you are mistaken.

He thought about kissing you, though, didn’t he? You saw him glance at your lips, right? Or did you?

No, no, no. A figment of your wild and wishful imagination, nothing more.

He would never want you.

Still you primp and you preen before the mirror like you are prepping for a date, not a dress fitting. Still you want to impress him, enamour him, pretend you stood a chance with him. Still you wonder and you worry that, maybe, improbable as it seems, you did once stand a chance with him, denied him and deprived him, denied and deprived yourself.

“You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

Those words of his still echo in your memories. You thought, then, that friendship was the realest thing you could ever hope to share. But, if you let yourself try, you could have been something more, couldn’t’ve you?

Maybe he did want you, could want you, does want you.

And if he does…

No. Do not let yourself go there. Do not get your hopes up. Never get your hopes up.

You take a moment to breathe, pull yourself from the mirror and leave through the front door. You will go to this appointment and you will be normal and you will be sane and you will be the friend you promised him you would be, not some gawking idiot full of foolish desires.

Twenty minutes is what it takes to walk from your place to his. Twenty minutes of exercise? A good thing, of course. Twenty minutes of cycling through these same tired thoughts ad nauseum? A not-so-good thing. That will not help you through this.

Maybe it won’t make much of a difference. After all you are quite capable of sending yourself into a frenzy in a mere twenty seconds let alone twenty minutes.

When you finally arrive at his door your head is still swimming.

Breathe. Just breathe.

You did it yesterday. You can do it again today.

The bell rings.

The silence that follows is enough to deafen you.

Well, it would seem you underestimated yourself before. You thought it would take twenty seconds to achieve total panic? More like five.

Astarion appears in the blink of an eye, all elven grace and vampiric mystique, emerging from what feels like out of nowhere but in reality must have been somewhere back of shop.

He is somehow even more gorgeous today, if that is even possible. His hair, perfectly coiffed; his vest, exquisitely embroidered; his whole ensemble, impeccably tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and slender waist. His sleeves are rolled up, and his shirt is a little more open than it perhaps needs to be at the chest, and gods, are you blushing?

You are here for a reason, and that reason is not to ogle him, tempting though it might be.

“Darling!” he says, greeting you with that brilliant smile you so adore. “I’m glad it is you, and not a certain patriar that so rudely interrupted us yesterday. There is only so much of that particular displeasure I can endure. My patience is thin enough as it is.”

“And yet you have managed to endure,” you remark, laughing a little at the thought of him attempting to navigate customer service. “The coin is that good, huh?”

“Oh, it is. Satisfying as it might be to deny my services to the worst offenders, a few of these annoying but harmless ones must be tolerated. Bad for business otherwise. Today, though, I made a point of keeping my schedule clear of all other distractions. My only priority now is you.”

You. The way he purrs out that one little word sends a thrill throughout your body.

But you must not read into that. You must temper yourself.

Be normal. Be sane. Be his friend.

“Alas, your gown is not quite done yet, though. I was just finishing up the hem when I heard you come in. It won’t take long. Follow me into the back, if you will?”

“Oh, uh, of course,” you say. You had expected more or less a repeat of the previous day—trying on the dress, making sure it fits correctly, changing back into your regular clothes, returning home. A nice, predictable order of events.

You like predictable. You like all its safeties and comforts. You like how it acts as a balm to all your anxieties. If you can predict, then you can prepare.

Unpredictable, though. Unpredictable is unnerving. Downright terrifying, even. And yet it is rife with possibilities.

The best things in your life have come from unpredictable. The greatest adventure you’ve ever had. The happiest memories.

The man you love more than anything.

Even if what passion you shared was fleeting. Even if this platonic connection is all that remains. Even if that glimmer of hope you cannot quite quash, no matter how unwise you think it, crushes you one day. You will still tend to and treasure your bond in any and every way you can.

So you take a deep breath and you follow him.

Astarion leads you into a room just big enough to double as a work area and a storage space. Rolls of fabric, diverse in colour, pattern and texture, fill the shelves lining the walls. What you notice most, though, are the in-progress projects draped over the mannequins. You would love to watch him at work. You suppose you will get one little taste of that now.

You also spot the base of a staircase in one corner, and that sparks an even greater curiosity within you. This lower floor is his business, but that upper floor is his home. A place entirely his own, and you hope he has filled it with anything and everything that makes him feel safe and happy and free. Maybe he will invite you up those stairs someday—you are friends after all—but for now you both seat yourselves across from each other at his work table.

“A good thing you came to me for this, darling,” he says, and you try not to stare as he licks the tip of his thread and pulls it through the eye of his needle with ease, “—else you would have been out of luck. Wait times are usually much longer than this.”

That is true, and you know you should have planned for this better. The ball is only a tenday away. “Oh, I’m sorry for the rush, you didn’t need to—”

“Hush, hush, my sweet,” he says, a gentle chiding that reminds you of yesterday. “It was not a bother. Not in the least. Although…” He pauses and smirks. “You haven’t paid me yet.”

Aghast, your mouth drops open, but he stops you before you can blurt out your hundred apologies.

“Now, I know that one so honest as you would never make such a mistake on purpose. Our time was cut short after all. Then again, not all of our gold was acquired by honest means, was it?”

“Thanks to your thievery,” you remind him. “Gods, you practically cleaned out the whole Counting House.”

“And yet I don’t recall you objecting. True that I picked many locks during our adventures, and why was that I wonder?” He makes a show of his hums and his haws and then one final aha. “Oh yes, that’s right. Because you asked me to.”

“Our mission was important,” you insist. “We needed gold, intel, resources… We did what was necessary to succeed. To survive.”

“Oh? Tell yourself that if you must, darling, but I think you just liked to watch my hands.”

That comment instantly warms your cheeks—and the realization that you actually have been watching his hands as he starts to sew absolutely scorches them. When you glance up to his face, you find him grinning at you.

And just like that you’re grinning too. You are embarrassed, yes, but you must admit there is something especially endearing about seeing Astarion like this—the skill, the passion, the care he puts into his work, the way his smile softens as he settles back into his state of calm and contented concentration—he looks happy.

It makes you happy. It makes you calm—or at least as calm as you can be under these circumstances. It makes you love him even more.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” he says, shifting back in his chair, pulling the garment from the table and into his lap, pulling farther away from you. Have you been staring too much? Has he taken offense? Does he no longer want you here?

He pauses, and gives you a pensive look, and you look back, lost as to what to do or say or think. Maybe you should go. Give him some space. But, he invited you in, didn’t he? Said it wouldn’t take long? You can’t just leave.

And you don’t want to leave. You hope that he doesn’t want you to leave either.

He breaks the silence with a chuckle, resuming his stitching like nothing has changed. “You never were. Not that I mind, though. If you want to watch a master at work, then who am I to deny you?”

“I can hardly see what you are doing now, though.” You try to keep your words matter-of-fact. Try not to show just how unsure and insecure you are in this moment. In too many of your shared moments.

“A shame. I’m afraid you will have to settle for admiring the stitchwork when it’s done. And it will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

You try to read him. He gives nothing away, offering up no more than a little smirk as you study him. He was always better at reading you than you were reading him.

You want to know. You need to know.

“I will,” you say, and that need to know brings out a boldness in you that was not there before, and though your inner voice scolds you and screams at you, you add, “though I would rather admire you.”

His eyes briefly flicker to yours, then back to the dress. You swallow hard.

“Then, by all means, bask in my presence and shower me with your praises.”

Good. No scrunching up his nose, no recoiling in disgust, no sign you went too far. But neither did he give you any indication that his feelings mirror yours.

Not that you truly expected that, of course.

Still you continue to examine him closely. He seems relaxed, focused, comfortable. There is a hint of fang to his smile and a gleam to his eye, and when he next glances at you, he raises an eyebrow.

Wait, does he actually want you to praise him? Should you? What can you even say? Oh, Astarion, you are clever, and funny, and talented, and gorgeous, and I am completely, absolutely, madly in love with you?

The greater your panic, the greater his amusement, until he can no longer resist clicking his tongue at you. “So shy now, darling. And yet you were not the least bit shy for me the last time I had you on your back.”

Oh. Whatever you expected, it wasn’t that.

Your wide-eyed, open-mouthed, heart-thumping shock earns a hearty laugh from him.

“Gods, you’re so adorable.”

Words fail you, and so you let out a giggle, its pitch too sharp, its volume too loud, its presence awkward, your presence awkward.

“It’s a good thing, my love,” he says softly, sincerely. “Trust me on that.”

My love. You zero in on those two words, and though your head tells you to dismiss them, your heart tells you to keep them and to cherish them.

And you are growing quite the little collection of words to thrill and fill you. Adorable, on your back, tied up, pretty figure, looking delicious, that smile, nothing but sweet, good to me, good for me. My love. You have not forgotten a single thing he said.

But you know it would be foolish to treat every flirtatious remark and sweet nothing as a romantic overture.

Even if you want to. And, oh, how you want to.

You seek distraction now, glancing at the table in front of you. It is a rather cluttered space, various tools of the trade scattered about—spools of thread, scraps of fabric, scissors and needles and pins—but what catches your eye most is a messy little pile of papers. Sketches.

“Are those your designs?” you ask, nodding towards the stack, leaning a little closer—just enough to imply a second question: “May I see them?”

“Yes,” he answers, and though he rolls his eyes, he smiles. “Go on, then. Take a look.”

Carefully you gather up the pages and begin your perusal. His sketches immediately impress. Astarion, the artist—you had never pictured it—but perhaps it should come as no surprise that a man with a skilled hand and a keen eye would take so well to pencil and paper. The time, the effort, and the creativity he poured into these—into every aspect of his work—is clear, and you are glad to see this side of him.

One by one, you look through the sketches, giving thoughtful attention to each and every one before moving on to the next. Some are still in their early stages, little more than rough outlines, while others are fully realized with intricate detail and vivid colour. The designs range from the everyday to the formal, from the simple to the elaborate, from the masculine to the feminine, and everything in between. A little something for everyone.

It eases you, this repetitive motion, this comforting quiet, this sweet glimpse into the life of the one you love.

Until you see it. Until your fingers tighten against the paper. Until you freeze.

Not because of the clothing, but because of the model. The shape of her figure. The shade of her skin. The style of her hair. The familiarity of her face.

It’s you.

He drew you. Like you are his muse. Like he could not help but to think of you. Like he is as in love with you as you are with him.

No, you try to tell yourself, this must be some coincidence. And even if it isn’t a coincidence—and really you should just admit to yourself that this cannot be a coincidence—it cannot mean what you want it to mean, right?

Maybe it is just because you are his friend. A real person he can easily visualize in his mind’s eye. Yes, that must be all this is. Yes, of course.

You quickly flip through the remaining pages. There is no Karlach, no Gale, no Shadowheart, no Wyll, no Lae’zel, no Halsin, no Jaheira, no Minsc—not that any of them got to know Astarion as well as you did, though. All you find are faceless figures, generic and unremarkable. Until, oh, there you are again. Oh, and once more. And again. And, by the gods, again.

“Did something catch your eye, darling?” Astarion asks, lips curled into a smirk, looking and sounding every bit like the cat that got the cream.

You pull that first sketch of you out of the pile and set the rest down, holding it in the air for him to see. “Is this me?”

“Ah, come to think of it, I did have you in mind when dreaming up that particular outfit, yes.” He shrugs, and the nonchalance of it all vexes you.

“And not only this one?”

“Not only that one, no. I do think of you often, you know.”

No. You don’t know. But maybe you are beginning to know. Beginning to let hope blossom in your heart, brave and beautiful and boundless.

He pauses his work, stares at you a moment, meets you eye to eye—and, gods, you feel like you are connecting heart to heart. Soul to soul. He speaks again, eventually, shifting back to a less serious, light-hearted tone. A retreat into his own comfort zone.

“What more can I say? I like to imagine you in my clothes, darling.”

And out of them, you can almost hear him say. Honestly you could go for a little body to body as well, but you know not to push him. Hells, you are not even a couple.

You never will be, says a different voice. An unwelcome voice. Your own voice, ever cruel and destructive. But maybe that voice of yours is wrong. Maybe it isn’t never. Maybe it is just not right now.

And you can live with not right now.

“Actually,” Astarion continues, “I’m not sure imagination is enough anymore.”

You blink at him.

“I’ve always thought working with a live model could spice things up a little. Someone to be my canvas, so to speak. Perhaps you might be willing to step into that role sometime? I rather like having you around.”

He wants you here more often. Does not mind being up close and personal with you. Wants to be up close and personal with you.

The very notion of it makes you giddy with an excitement you are no longer able to contain, and so when you open your mouth, what slips out is, “I like you, too.” Gods, what are you saying? “Like being around you, too.”

Embarrassing, yes, but you decide that grin upon his face and that laughter rippling out of him are worth it.

“If it is what you want, then I will be here.”

“It is what I want,” he says, and there is a conviction to it that sets your heart fluttering. You watch as he reaches for a pair of scissors. “Well, darling. It’s settled then. And I am pleased to tell you your dress”—a pause, a snip—“is complete.”

Oh. You were starting to wish this would take the whole night.

He sets down the scissors, the needle, and what remains of the thread upon the table, standing as he smooths out the gown—and that is when you realize it. That thread. It is thick and gold, not fine and colour-matched like you would have expected. Granted, you are not the expert here, but it is a curious choice—and a choice that makes you curious.

But, before your mind can wander too far down that path, Astarion’s voice startles you back to the present.

“Well, darling? You do realize you will have to try it on again?”

“Yes, of course,” you say, your chair screeching backwards as you push yourself out of it. “And thank you. For everything.”

“It is my job, after all,” he says, slathering his words with a thick coat of exasperation, but even he cannot hide the pride underlying them. “And for you? It is my pleasure.”

Always the flirt. But, for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to believe there might be more to it than a little teasing or empty flattery.

And, small and insignificant as it seems, you are still wondering about that thread.

He leads you out of the back room and over to the dressing rooms, back to that same snug space you shared with him yesterday, pushing the curtain to one side and hanging up your gown. You step inside and pull the curtain closed.

You undress, and you think, and something he told you tickles your brain. Something about the stitchwork. “It will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

Hmm. Maybe you should take the time to admire it.

You lift the hem and examine its inner edge, following that neat, flawless line in its circle, not a single speck of gold to be seen—

Until you find it. A hidden message, simple in design, yet elegant in execution. Four words. Four earth-shattering, heart-warming, life-changing words.

I love you too

You want to laugh and you want to cry and you want to sing. You want to wrap your arms around him and squish him and squeeze him until he can take no more. You want to tell him how much you love him, tell him a thousand times, then a thousand more, and gods, you want to hear him say it.

But to embroider those words so lovingly into the fabric is the sweetest confession he could have made to you.

You love him even more for it.

You can hardly wait to tell him—properly this time, not uttered out on some drunken late night like before—but, for now, you slip into your dress, and step into your shoes, trying hard to suppress the squeals begging to burst out of you.

He loves you. You spent so much time—too much time—convincing yourself that such a thing was impossible. But he loves you.

You exit that little room, and you see him, and you know it would only take seconds to close the gap between you and hug him and never let go. But, your dress is hanging open in the back, and you’re shaking, and you don’t want to ambush him with your touch if he is not yet ready for that.

The moment will come.

Or maybe it is time to take control of this. You will find that moment, and if you don’t, then you will create it, and then when you do, you will make it count.

Automatically he walks towards you, steps behind you, laces up your bodice, so close yet not close enough. You wish you could touch him, and the next thing you know, he is offering you his hand, and so you take it, and you squeeze it.

And he squeezes yours back.

He guides you onto the fitting stand. You catch a brief glimpse of yourself in the surrounding mirrors—the perfect fit of your gown, the way your smile shines—but the only thing you want to look at is Astarion.

He completes a single revolution around you, and when he stops in front of you, and you beam down at him, he stares back in admiration, in adoration, in awe. Like you are the sun itself. Like you are the centre of his whole world.

How could you not have known?

“You love me?”

His eyes grow wide as those words fall out of you. It’s all surprise, at first. But then it is openness. Vulnerability. “Ah. So you saw it already, then?”

“Yes,” you murmur, afraid to make a wrong move lest you wake up from this dream before you hear those words you want to hear more than anything. “You love me?”

Silence. You panic, and you retreat, pulling back, looking away. “Not that you need to say it out loud, of course. Not if you don’t want t—”

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap back to his. You watch him draw nearer and nearer, and you feel his hands find their place at your hips, and you breathe in that nostalgic scent of bergamot and brandy.

“I love you,” he says again, and you are so happy you could cry.

You throw your arms around him, pulling him into a hug that feels like home. You needed this. You needed him. And, when his arms wrap back around you, you know that he needed you, too. Here, both of you are snug, and you are safe, and you are loved.

And though you know he must know it by now—that he must see it in your eyes and feel it in your embrace—you say it anyway. “I love you, too.”

You both pull back, but only a little, just enough to smile at each other.

“This time on my own,” he begins, “it has given me the chance to think about what I truly want. All of this,” he says, gesturing around the shop, “I may not have expected to end up in a life this domestic, but… I’m happy. Mostly happy, anyway.”

He pauses, and you tilt your head, waiting, wondering, hoping.

“I want more. I want a partner. And who better than the woman who stood by my side through everything? Who always treated me with kindness and understanding? Who I just so happen to utterly adore? I want you.”

Tears well in your eyes, and you are smiling so hard it hurts, but you are sure this is the happiest moment of your life. “Then I am yours.”

And then he cups your face in his hands and kisses you.

You melt into him, into his softness and his sensuality, into the comfort of his embrace and the heat of his touch. This is perfect. This is right. This is where you belong. You pour all of your affection into every press of your lips, willing him to feel your devotion, your desire, your love down to his very core. But, when you part your lips to meet his tongue, he breaks away.

You fear something will break inside you—but his reassuring grin steadies you.

“Just a quick moment, darling,” he says. “There is but one little thing I need to do.”

Astarion steps off the platform and heads towards the front of the shop. At first you are confused. And then you understand.

The bell rings.

The ‘open’ sign is flipped to ‘closed.’

The lock clicks in place.

And, tonight, the bell will ring no more.

Astarion locks the door and locks eyes with you.

You remember the day you met him as if it were yesterday. Little more than a beautiful stranger to you, back then, all elegance and ice. Even as your lover he felt unreachable, with you by midnight and gone by morning, no more real than a dream.

But now, as you gaze upon him, he is warmth, and he is sweetness, and he is truly, honestly himself. Mask off for you and only you.

Unbelievable, really, how far the two of you have come. And yet, with your whole heart, you believe it.

The man before you is your best friend. Your love. Your partner.

And tonight, together, you will take your first steps towards a life intertwined. Whatever that looks like.

And, gods, what does that look like? What comes next? Will he invite you into his arms? Into his home?

Into his bed?

The mere thought of it, you all wrapped up in him, sets your mind racing and your heartrate rising. There is a familiar hunger to his pretty eyes as he draws near, and you wonder if that rapid rhythm in your chest is still, to him, the irresistible siren song it once used to be. If he longs to taste your blood, your lips, your—

Oh, but you should not get too far ahead of yourself. He might not yet want what you so evidently crave. You must not forget that.

You can be patient. You will be patient. You will give him as much time as he needs.

Not that Astarion is making this easy for you. Certainly not with the way he grins his roguish grin, nor the way he wiggles his fingers as he reaches a hand to you, coaxing you down from the platform.

Maybe patience is not so necessary after all.

But surely there are important conversations to be had, which you very much want to have, and surely a night of sweet kisses and cuddles would be a good place to start, the perfect place to start, even, no matter how much you want to—

Oh. A hard pull, an audible gasp, and you are flush against Astarion. His intense stare is holding you in place just as much as his hands on your hips are.

“What’s that look for, my dear?”

“What look?”

“That mind-going-a-hundred-miles-a-minute look. We’re not overthinking now, are we?”

“No.” It's a weak attempt at denial, and you know it. “All right, maybe a little.”

“A little, she says? Just a little? Well, even if that were true, I’m afraid even a little is simply unacceptable, sweet love. Not when I’ve got you like this. Whatever shall I do with the likes of you?”

His hands shift upwards, every bit eager as they sweep along the curve of your waist, every bit assured as they cup your face. In his eyes you see your whole world spinning, and your mind continues its endless spinning along with it.

“Well, darling. I suppose then I’ll just have to kiss”—a brush of his lips—“you”—so plush and perfect against yours—“senseless.”

There is an urgency to the way he kisses you now, to how his tongue tastes and his teeth tease, and it makes you drunk with desire you have too long denied. You match his every insistent press against your lips, the need blooming between you escalating into a feverish frenzy. Your mind is indeed rendered senseless—but your body is awash with sensation.

His mouth leaves yours, leaves you breathless and boneless, but still wanting more. And more is exactly what he gives you as he kisses a trail along your jaw. To your neck, perhaps? No, to your ear, and you giggle when he nibbles at your lobe.

He whispers, "Come upstairs with me?"

As if there were any chance you would say no to him now. "Yes."

And yet he makes no moves to whisk you away. Instead he pulls you back into the blistering heat of his kiss, his apparent haste to have you making you doubt whether you will even make it up to his quarters at all. His every impatient touch has you envisioning how he might take you—bent over his worktable, or pushed against the dressing room wall, or laid out on the floor, anywhere, everywhere—until, oh, he is tugging loose the ties at your back.

It is all suddenly a bit too much. A bit too fast. A bit too real.

Is he actually truly ready for this?

Astarion instantly senses the change in you, moving back, but keeping close. And even though he is calm and composed, and gives you a kind smile, you cannot help but feel that this precious moment is in ruins, and the reason is you. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Oh, my love. Always so full of apologies even when there is no need for them. How about we go upstairs, make ourselves comfortable—change back into your everyday clothes first if that would suit you better—and we'll sit and have a chat, hm?"

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. "That sounds wonderful. Truly."

"Good," he says, nodding towards the dressing rooms. "Off you go, then. I'll be waiting right here."

You make your way inside, glancing at your flustered face in the mirror before you slip out of your gown, your worries creeping their way back into your frazzled mind.

Where did it all go wrong?

To connect through touch is something you want desperately. And, by now, you are almost entirely sure Astarion wants to share in that with you, too. But therein lies the problem: almost isn't enough, is it?

What if he is only doing this because he thinks it will please you?

And how can you be sure when you hardly know how to be sure of anything?

Part of you still feels ashamed for lusting over him, knowing all that you know. The other part of you just feels ridiculous—here you are, pulling on layer after layer of clothing, when every indication suggests he wants to get you naked before the night is through.

You analyze every moment you've shared tonight, searching for even the slightest of signs that this is all just a performance.

Yet you find none.

Maybe the best thing to do is to just trust him. Trust him to make his own choices, to decide his own limits, to navigate all of this together with you.

After all, if you are sure of only one thing in this world, it is that Astarion loves you.

You gather the hem of your dress into your hands one last time before you leave it behind, tracing over every line and every loop of his embroidered message, committing those beautiful words to memory. It is exactly what you need to bring a smile back to your face.

And, when you finally step out of the dressing room, Astarion matches that smile the moment he sees you.

The two of you walk hand in hand into the back room and up, up, up the stairs, your anxious anticipation growing with every single step you take.

"I'd tell you I'd give you the grand tour, but I'm afraid my home is far too humble for that," he remarks, and for the first time tonight, you notice a bit of a shake to his laughter, an irregular height to its pitch.

And here you thought that the only nervous one was you.

What if that means—

No, you'd better not worry what that means.

No matter what happens, you will be here for him as he is here for you.

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure it's perfect. And I'd take a nice, cozy, humble home over a palace any day."

"I might not have always agreed with that sentiment, but now?" Reaching the door at the top of the stairs, he pauses long enough to smirk at you before twisting the knob. "I find that I do."

You step inside, taking in as much of the surrounding space as you can. The only light emanates from the fireplace, its flickering flames casting a sensual glow across the room. The open layout is typical of city merchants' quarters—no walls needlessly taking up the already limited space—a sitting area on one side, a small disused kitchen on the other. A pair of strategically placed dividers offers some sense of separation, and behind them—oh, yes, that is most definitely his bed.

Best not to linger too long on that thought.

Although you do make a mental note that it is big enough for two.

Taking both your hands in his this time, Astarion pulls you towards the loveseat in front of the fire, playfully pushing you into its comfy cushions and planting a single kiss upon your lips that you hope is a promise for many more.

He does not yet take his place at your side, however, instead lighting a candle on the coffee table—and it is then you study the scene before you.

A now-lit candle. A vase home to a single blush-pink rose. Two goblets and a bottle of your favourite red wine. A spread that is romantic. Meticulous. Premeditated.

You let out a chortle.

"What?" Astarion asks, eyes narrowed, but lips curved into an unmistakable smile.

"It's just so"—a bigger, brighter laugh bursts out of you—"so obvious."

"Obvious? Obvious?" He tosses his head to one side as he scoffs. "Are you really only realizing this now? Darling, I have been obvious this entire time. You, on the other hand, have been hopelessly oblivious."

And, in retrospect, you can admit that it's true what he says. The evidence was everywhere, even if you could not, would not, thought you should not believe any of it.

But you do now.

He settles next to you on the loveseat, warmth rushing to your cheeks at his sudden nearness. His fingers, cold to the touch though they are as they interlock with yours, do nothing to cool you. No, if anything, they have quite the opposite effect; the whole of you hot and molten beside him.

"Tell me, love," he begins, the purr in his voice and the mischief in his grin telling you he intends to use every ounce of his charisma to its fullest extent. "Should I have serenaded you with song? Recited to you a sonnet? Scattered a trail of rose petals from your door straight to my bed?"

"Maybe, though it's not too late," you suggest. "If you would like to regale me with music and poetry, I won't complain."

"Oh, my dear. I wouldn't be quite so sure of that. I am a man of many talents, yes, but I'm no bard. Although, if the result is hearing you laugh again, then it might still be worth a try."

You grin. "Then try."

Astarion clears his throat dramatically, and with his back tall and straight, and his nose held high in the air, he starts to speak.

You cannot even begin to take him seriously.

"Your skin so sweet and lips divine, / your blood the most delicious wine. / Each precious bite is my delight; / so let me make you mine tonight."

"You're ridiculous," you say—but you are indeed laughing.

"Why thank you, darling," he says, lowering his head in a mock bow. "Ridiculously eloquent, I hope? Or ridiculously charming? Ridiculously good-looking, at least?"

"Just ridiculous."

He gasps. "Oh, how you wound me. And here I was, professing my profound affection."

"It sounded more like you just want to eat me."

"Maybe I do want to eat you"—he leans in enticingly close—"in every sense of the word."

There is no mistaking his meaning now, is there?

You want this—you can feel it in pounding heart, and your weakened limbs, and your aching core—you want, you want, you want.

And yet you fear. Fear falling back into the dark depths of doubt, panic dragging you deeper, deeper, deeper down until you're drowning.

But you do not fall for it is Astarion's hands that keep you safe on solid ground.

"Oh, my sweet, lovely, darling girl."

And it is not only his hands, but his voice that soothes, and his eyes that blaze with such fierce certainty that you wonder how you could have ever failed to see just how much he cherishes you.

"Let me state the obvious because it seems obvious is what you need: I love you."

How new to your ears those words still are and yet you already think the sound of them sweeter than any song. You beam at him, because of course you do, and he beams right back, because of course he does, because this, this togetherness, is what you both want, what you both need, what you both deserve.

That look, so full of adoration, beckons you forward, and so you move in slowly, kiss him softly, hold him sweetly. He does the same, at first, an arm wrapping around your back, the opposite hand snaking its way down to cup your backside. Not that you resist. Nor do you resist when, unexpectedly, he pulls you hard against him, laughter bubbling out of you from the surprise and the clumsiness of it. And yet, here you are now in his lap, and here he is guiding your legs to straddle him, and it dawns upon you just how suggestive this new position is.

Even the slightest roll of your hips might have… well, quite the arousing effect.

Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the sneak.

And, if this is how he wants you, then that must mean—

"And," he says before you can finish the thought, "I want to explore anything and everything that loving you means."

Anything. Everything. Never have those two words sounded so sublime, his voice like velvet, his implication indisputable. Your imagination runs rampant, unlimited and unsuppressed, your mind opening itself fully to passion and possibility.

And you hope imagination will blossom into beautiful reality.

Astarion buries his face into your neck, peppering it with little kisses—maddeningly where you know he knows it tickles—revelling in every giggle he draws out of you. Vexing though it is, yes, the levity of it amuses you, calms your nerves.

You did, back in those early days, feel most ease with him whenever you would let yourselves be silly. You remember it well. Perhaps so does he.

And then—when tension fades, when you are limp and pliable in his arms—the mood shifts. Then, he kisses you where it doesn't tickle. Then, those sounds spilling out of you are decidedly not laughter.

His mouth moves to meet yours. A heady mixture of love and lust swirls about in your mind, and you succumb to it, to him, to every brush of his tongue and graze of his teeth. Almost embarrassing how little it takes to make you squirm about in his lap—but his body answers yours just as readily, the twitch of him against you leaving no doubt to his burgeoning desire.

This is really going to happen, isn't it?

"And"—you mourn the loss of his lips—"if all of this is somehow not obvious enough"—but his husky tone has you enraptured—"then let me be clear: I will not be satisfied tonight unless and until I've fucked you thoroughly."

Oh. You stare in stunned silence, mouth agape, as you process the filth you just heard: his lust stated so exquisitely explicitly that you long to press into the hardness you know you will find there, kiss him wildly, pleasure him endlessly.

And that, you decide, is exactly what you will do.

But your affection is too soft and too shy to plunge any deeper without testing the waters first. You kiss him once, then twice, then again and again and again, tentative touches turning tender then teasing as your courage grows. Astarion welcomes it all, wants more of it all, urging you to take this further in all the ways he can: pulling you closer, holding you tighter, kissing you harder. When at last your hips begin to undulate against his, he matches your rhythm, eager for you to feel the full length of him against your wet and wanting core.

With shaking hands you unfasten the singular clasp that had been holding his vest closed. That ever anxious part of you waits a moment for his objection, expects it, dreads it—but it doesn't come. Instead he only gives you his gentle encouragement.

"Go on, love. Undress me. Touch me."

You nod and you smile. Yes, there is anxiety in your anticipation, but so is there desire that drives you, and elation that thrills you, and such deep, overwhelming love for the man before you that how could you not want to devote yourself to pampering him?

Button by button you work your way down his shirt, exposing more and more of him until every fastening is undone. You examine the hard planes of his chest, first with eyes and then with hands, delighting in the way his smooth skin and firm muscle feel beneath your palms. He purrs his approval, rocking his hips against yours with such abandon that you curse your clothes for preventing him from pushing inside you.

Your fingers trail downwards, delicate but daring as they dance towards their destination. When at last you reach to undo his trousers, your eyes dart up to his, one last search for any sign he doesn't want this—but the look he gives you, part lust, part unwavering, undying trust, tells you what deep down you already know.

And it is all the permission you need.

Your attention returns to where he wants it to be. The sight of him, his arousal straining against fabric in his desperation for you, intensifies the throbbing between your own thighs. And so, with eager hands, you set him free.

You know his body well. Studied him with all of your senses. Learned how to glide and twist him into a whimpering mess with only a hand. And yet, practiced as you are in his pleasure, you cannot help the gasp that escapes your throat when you finally set eyes on his cock. To see him so riled and ready, to know it is all because of you—it fills you with awe, and with pride, and with overwhelming desire to put all you have learned to good use.

You start with a stroke of the hand, sliding up and sliding down his shaft, pulling the sweetest of sighs from his lips. Oh, how you love it when he is needy like this, hips moving in time with your every repeated motion. You keep touching him and teasing him, hand gliding up and down and up and down, thumb sweeping across the milky bead gathered at the tip.

But what you really want is a taste.

You lean forward for a kiss—only a fleeting peck, nothing more—and, if the way he huffs and pouts is any indication, it isn't enough. But you have quite a different use for your mouth in mind, don't you? You withdraw your hand, and he opens his mouth in protest, but no words come—for by now he is wide-eyed and mesmerized as you lick your thumb clean, savouring his salty taste. You lower yourself to your knees.

"May I?" you ask, smiling slyly up at him.

"Oh, my love. There are few sights so delightful as your lips wrapped around my cock."

His lewd words bring fresh heat to your cheeks, and he laughs.

"Hmm, I must say that flustered look of yours does have its appeal, too," he says, and you try to maintain your composure as you grab one of the little couch cushions, settling it comfortably beneath your knees. "Especially when it means you're imagining me inside you."

Oh, that unabashedly wicked, aggravatingly arrogant, adorably lovable man. The advantage might be his now, but he won't be the one holding it for long.

"And," he continues, growing more smug by the second, "come to think of it, there are many, many positions that suit you just as beautifully. Like when—"

The words die in his throat as you lick a languid stripe along his length, earning from him a low, pleasured groan. The sound pleases you immensely. But what a shame it would be if he were to leave his filthiest fantasies unspoken.

If he loves to tease you so, then why should you not do the same?

You run your tongue all over him: exploring every inch, tracing every vein, flicking against the tip, but never quite taking him into your mouth. When you have him whimpering the way you like, you pause just long enough to prompt him to say what he failed to before: "Like when…?"

"When— gods—"

Oh dear, it seems language is lost to him again the very moment your lips close around him. You bask in your triumph, sucking him and swishing him with your tongue, watching the way he watches you. And though at times his eyes flutter shut and his head falls back, his gaze always finds its way back to you.

You keep working him, using your hands to pump him and play with him as your mouth performs its magic, rediscovering all the little things that drive him wild. It feels good to make him feel good. It feels even better knowing how much he truly desires this.

"You want to know what I like best of all?" he manages, eventually, his tone dark and throaty; you hum your enthusiastic assent, and the vibration of it sends a shudder through him.

But the words he says send a shudder through you.

"The sight of you lying utterly helpless beneath me."

Oh. Well. You do love this—relishing his pleasure as you bob your head along his length—but you very much love that, too. You remember well how it felt. How letting him have his way with you could awaken either of his extremes. The vampire at his most feral, or the man underneath, a secret softness reserved only for you.

When all was done between you, you used to worry those tenderest moments were only part of his act. But maybe you were wrong.

Maybe they were always real.

"I've been thinking about you"—you ache more and more for your own satisfaction now though you never stop giving him his—"fantasizing about you ever since that night at the party. Wondering what it would be like to have you in my own bed."

And you know at once his bed is soon to be your destination when he leans forward to give you a gentle nudge. You still, letting him slide out of your mouth with a wet pop.

"And, my love," he whispers into your ear, "I intend to find out. Now."

Far be it from you to deny this beautiful man anything he wants.

Astarion rises to his feet, shrugging off his open shirt and pushing off his trousers. To see him like this, so gorgeously and gloriously nude, leaves you speechless.

"Well, darling?" he says, shamelessly eyeing you up and down. "I assure you you'll have much more fun without your clothes."

Needing no further encouragement, you start to disrobe—but your pace is found wanting and Astarion is all out of patience. He steps forward, tugging and tearing at your layers, eager for you to join him in his state of undress. Sure enough you hear a button clack against the floor, fallen victim to his reckless haste.

"Careful!" you insist, but really, you're more amused than annoyed.

Not to mention aroused.

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear. I'll fix that right up for you."

"You'd better."

"Of course. I'm your personal tailor for life now."

For life. This really is it for you, isn't it? You are his, and he is yours, and for however long you both walk this realm, you will spend your days and your nights together.

You wouldn't have it any other way. And neither would he.

When at last you are beaming and bare before him, Astarion takes a step back for a better look at you.

He stares.

And then he strikes.

You are swept into his arms, into his passion, barely conscious of anything but the feel of skin against skin and lips against lips—though it is abundantly clear he is a man on a mission. He pulls you along in his mad shuffle to reach the bed, sacrificing finesse to gain speed, unable to wait a second longer than necessary to have you.

And indeed he wastes no time in lifting you onto the mattress and pushing you flat on your back beneath him.

"Finally," he growls and he grins, and you're already there bucking on the bed before he has even touched you where you need him. "Finally I have you right where I want you. Right where you belong here in my bed. Right here with me."

The thought of this one day becoming your bed—your home—thrills you almost as much as his impatient touches do.

But, as eager as he is, he still recalls exactly how to excite you. Still gives ample attention to all those places most sensitive and secret. Still treats your body like his sanctuary—a sacred thing to be revered, to be relished, to be worshipped.

And, as he settles between your thighs, you know the pleasure he'll, oh, so willingly provide will be nothing short of divine.

He starts with a single lick—one long and languid glide along your slit—and already, all at once, it's too much, and it's not enough, and it's the most wonderfully perfect sensation you have ever known. It pulls from you a shake and a cry, and in turn, a soft laugh from him as he takes pride in his ability to please you. He licks you a second time, and then a third, and again, and again, until his tongue is lapping at you with a steady fervency.

The bliss he brings you is better than you remember. Countless times you tried to relive your memories—desperate to return to him, if only in daydreams—but your fingers always paled in comparison to the way his tongue dips inside your cunt and flicks against your clit.

Although maybe it is better than ever now that you know he loves you.

You grasp for his hand and he grabs it gladly.

And he certainly knows how to work you well. You writhe about, your moans mewling and wanton, your body wanting more, more, more. The pleasure you crave is close now. You glance at your lover—mussed up curls and pink-tipped ears, his attention focused wholly upon your undoing—and to know that Astarion is the one making you feel this way intensifies the heat coiling in your centre.

A little more is all it will take. You ready yourself for it, your grip tightening, your limbs trembling, your feet bracing against his shoulders. And, when he tongues you with the quick, precise flicks you like best, you yield, wave after wave of pleasure crashing into you. Astarion does not relent, continuing to devour you until you are thoroughly sated and spent.

You lie there, panting hard, basking in the pleasant tingle that still lingers in the aftermath of your orgasm. Gods, you haven't felt this good in ages. And, from the smug smile that begins to spread across his face, it seems he knows it, too.

"Well," Astarion says, licking his lips as he sits up. "You look positively wrecked, darling. And all because of me. You want more, don't you?"

Such self-satisfied bravado. Not that it stops your core from clenching at his suggestion. Nor do you deny him when he shifts over you, cock gliding along your swollen folds, ready to push inside.

Oh, you want more very, very badly.

And so you invite him in. "Yes."

Slowly Astarion sinks into your sex until he is buried to the hilt. A perfect fit. You did always take him exceptionally well. He pulls back, and pushes in, and pulls back, and pushes in, coaxing gasps and moans out of you, ensuring you feel each and every inch of him as he makes love to you.

And it is love, this time. Love that underlies the lust in his eyes. Love that fuels the languorous rhythm of his hips. Love that urges him to lavish you with little kisses.

You return his love in every way you can: touching, holding, caressing, kissing, enjoying all that is nostalgic and all that is new. You roll your hips. You cry his name. Surely the extent of your adoration is made abundantly clear—but, if by any chance all this isn't enough, you sing it out loud: "I love you!"

He lets out a laugh, a soft and elated little sound. "I love you, too."

But, for all his sweetness, so is there carnality, frantic and feral and finally free. He thrusts harder, moves faster, pours all of his passion into every motion he makes. Of course you are more than happy to allow him this indulgence. The addictive friction, the lewd noises of bodies colliding, the delight of being filled so completely—every intoxicating detail feeds that familiar heat building within you.

Sensing your impending release, Astarion lifts his head from where it had been nestled in your neck and draws back just far enough to reach a hand between your legs, rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb. You imagine you must be quite a sight—all shivering and squirming under him as you begin your surrender to bliss—but his stare is locked only upon your eyes.

And it is then that you lose yourself to the euphoria he gives you. Then, that your walls clench around him; then, that you let out a keening cry; then, that pleasure radiates from your core to every extremity of your body. And where you go, Astarion is quick to follow, groaning as he empties himself inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, and you pull him into a tight embrace, vowing you will never, ever let him go again.

You missed him so much. Love him so much. And, to be with him like this, so close and connected, makes you feel that all is finally right in this world.

A comfortable and contented silence falls between you.

Until it breaks.

"I wasn't entirely honest with you before."

His words hang heavy in the air as panic takes hold. What if this was too much, what if this was too fast, what if he did not want any of this at all?

But then, when you feel like you might never catch your breath again, he takes your face into his hands and grins devilishly. "What I really like best of all is that I can take a single glance at you and tell just hopelessly in love with me you are."

Oh, that infuriating and wonderful man.

"Don't scare me like that!" you say, scolding him. But, despite his foolishness—maybe because of his foolishness if you're really being honest with yourself—you lunge forward for a kiss. Then another. And another.

When your lips breaks apart, and his eyes are again heavy-lidded with lust, he makes his suggestion: "Perhaps I might… find some way to make it up to you?"

You think a moment. And then you grin. "Why, yes, I do happen to have one idea in mind. About the ball… be my plus one?"

He does not roll his eyes, nor does he complain of the tedium he'd have to endure, nor does he make any attempt at denying you. He answers only with a soft smile and a single word.

"Always."

Tag List: @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @roguishcat, @zozoparsnips, @goodgirlgonebard, @amoremagnificentbastard, @hellethil, @xxnashiraxx, @vividiana, @dramatiquechipmunk (join tag list for future fics here!)

Thank you so much for reading!

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[geminiwritten]

emergency contact ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: rooster exploits having you as his emergency contact to get you away from hangman

notes: okay, i am so sorry if this is rushed but i had to get it out before i start my new job (and maybe won't have so much time to write)... i really hope y'all enjoy it!!! please let me know, i really love all kinds of feedback! (p.s. this is also super lame and cheesy but that’s just my genre now)

warnings: swearing, very poor us navy knowledge (i literally just do some very brief googling), very minor and probably inaccurate medical descriptions, text chat screenshots, use of y/n (which is a warning now?), and a kind of rushed ending

word count: 9129

“Damn.” You stop just before stepping into the sun, tipping your head forward so you can see over the frame of your sunglasses. “I should come here more often.”

Fighter jets line the tarmac in two neat rows, and in the middle under the shade of one of the jets are your friends, the dagger squad. They’re all on the ground, half of them in a sit up position and the other half doing push ups. All looking absolutely fine.

Maverick is talking to someone a little off to your right, but you’re more than happy to wait for him while you ogle the pilots performing their punishments. Hondo is standing over the seven of them, counting repetitions loudly and correcting their forms.

“Hey,” Maverick calls, his voice echoing into the hangar.

You turn to see him tuck his helmet under one arm as he walks quickly toward you. “Hey Mav.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I had a day off, so I thought I’d finally get my pre-enrolment sorted out for my DBIDS card.” You hold up the ID badge hanging on a lanyard around your neck. “You’re my sponsor, by the way.”

He frowns. “Aren’t I supposed to be escorting you, then?”

You hike your thumb over your shoulder toward where you’d entered the hangar. “Warlock vouched for me and said he’d get you to take me back to the VCC and sign everything then.”

Maverick glances passed you, giving a short wave to the rear admiral who had stopped to talk to a couple of other officers. “Well then, I better wrap this lot up,” he says. “Are you alright to wait a bit?”

You nod, letting your lips curl into a smirk as your eyes slide back over to the squad. “I am more than happy to wait.”

His gaze follows yours and he chuckles. “They’ll start showing off if they know you’re here. Why don’t you come over and say hello?”

You push the bridge of your sunglasses further up your nose. “I would love to.”

Mav leads the way to the squad, into the sun and across the hot tarmac. It’s unusually warm today, and you can feel your skin start to perspire after only a few steps out from under the hangar’s shade. Or maybe you’re just starting to sweat because of the scene you’re approaching.

You’ve never seen the squad in their flight suits before. You’ve seen pictures and videos, but you’ve never seen them in person. On a hot day. Half unzipped and tied around their waists. As they drip with sweat.

Your eyes find Bradley’s head of tousled golden-brown locks immediately, and your heartrate ratchets up a few notches, your breath catching in your throat. He’s doing push ups, his dog tags touching the concrete on every dip and his back muscles rippling under the black material of his shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.

Your knees almost wobble when you stop beside Maverick, and Jake is the first to notice you as he comes up for his next sit up. “Hey gorgeous,” he calls out, that signature smirk plastered across his flushed face.

“Hey.” You let your eyes wander over the rest of the group before settling back on Bradley. Your sunglasses slide a little further down your nose and you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down hard to try and distract yourself from the way Bradley’s biceps are bulging and straining.

When he glances up at you, your head spins. His face is flushed and his brows furrowed, but there’s still a small smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “Hey sweetheart.”

“Eyes down, Rooster,” Hondo barks.

Bradley’s head snaps back down, but the next push up he does seems a little firmer and a little lower. Your mouth waters as you trace the outline of his broad shoulders, letting your gaze slide down his back to his butt, lingering there as his muscular body moves up and down.

“Phoenix, you’re done,” Hondo announces, startling you out of your trance.

Natasha lets out a whoosh of air as she finishes her sit ups and falls back against the concrete. She shields her eyes with one hand, squinting toward you and waving her other hand in the air.

You wave back just as Hondo announces, “Hangman, Coyote, you’re done.”

Javy falls back the same way Natasha had, his hands holding his abdomen as he works on catching his breath, but Jake doesn’t stop. He maintains perfect form as he sinks back and sits up, winking at you before lowering himself back again.

Natasha scoffs. “Show off.”

Maverick catches your eye and smirks before taking half a step forward. “What’s your goal here, Hangman? Are you trying to hurt yourself?”

“No sir,” Jake replies, his expression full of steely focus. “Just trying to impress the lady and outlast these chumps.”

Mickey chuckles as he lowers himself into another push up. “Since when is Y/N a lady?”

“Hey!” you exclaim.

Laughter rolls through the squad, and even Hondo cracks a smile as he says, “Bob, you’re done.”

Bob finishes his sit ups with a sigh and wraps his arms around his knees, chuckling softly through his ragged breaths.

You look at Maverick, tipping your chin in Mickey’s direction. “Can I sit on him?”

Mav chuckles. “As much as I'd love to see that, not with Warlock standing twenty feet away.”

You roll your eyes and sigh, turning back to face the group.

“You can sit on me,” Jake says as he rises into another sit up. He lowers himself back with a shit-eating grin before sitting up again. “Later tonight.”

Javy, Mickey, and Reuben snicker as Natasha rolls her eyes, but Bradley stays silent. You can see little droplets of sweat soaking into the concrete below him, and your first thought is ‘what a waste’. Great, you’re officially creepy enough to want to drink his sweat.

“Alright,” Hondo says. “That’s enough, the lot of you.”

Mickey and Reuben groan as they sit back on their haunches and turn their heads up to the sky, breathing in the warm afternoon air, but Bradley keeps going.

“Rooster, Hangman, that’s enough,” Mav says, his voice stern despite the smirk on his lips.

“I can last as long as you can, Bradshaw,” Jake taunts.

Bradley lets out a harsh breath as he pushes himself up again. “That’s not what I’ve heard, Seresin.”

A chorus of ooh’s fills the air as the rest of the squad watch the two stubborn boys, eyes bouncing between them. You have to keep reminding yourself to look over at Jake, to not make it so obvious that half the reason you’re here is to drool over Bradley.

“Come on, boys,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough.”

Neither of them let up, and Hondo chuckles to himself as he strolls into the hangar.

Maverick clears his throat. “Lieutenant Bradshaw, Lieutenant Seresin, that is enough.”

They both stop and quickly get to their feet, their faces red and glistening with sweat. You can’t help but wonder if that’s what Bradley would look like after a good few hours of sex. You definitely plan on finding out one day, if you can ever find the courage to make a move.

“No debrief this afternoon,” Maverick announces. “So, unless anyone has anyone questions, you’re all dismissed.”

Bob quickly pipes up with a question about one of the exercises they performed earlier in the day, but you can barely hear the discussion between him and Maverick. Your eyes are all over Bradley, because seeing him in his flight suit is doing something to you, something more than usual. He’s standing wide, those big black boots planted further than shoulder-width apart, making his legs look even longer and more powerful than usual. His arms are crossed, his biceps straining against the black fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt. It’s clinging to every inch of his muscled torso, tucked into the flight suit that is tied around his waist. The gold in his hair is shining beneath the hot sun, his tan skin is glowing with sweat, and his slutty sunglasses are perched a little too low on his nose. This man is walking sex, and it’s becoming a health hazard because you’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

A voice suddenly breaks through your Bradley-induced trance. “Is that okay?”

You blink a couple of times, refocusing on Maverick who is now standing between you and the squad with his eyebrows raised in question. “Is what okay?”

He rolls his eyes, lips quirked into a small but knowing smirk. “I’m just going to have a quick shower before taking you back to the VCC. Is that okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, of course.”

“Good.” He claps a hand on your shoulder. “You go ahead and get back to that daydream. By the look on your face, it was getting good.”

You scowl at him as he chuckles and walks away, heading in the same direction that Reuben and Mickey are walking. The rest of the squad are still standing in front of you, chatting about something that you assume came up from Bob’s earlier query.

Jake breaks away from the group, stepping toward you with a wide grin. “What brings you out here, gorgeous?”

“Getting my pre-enrolment sorted out,” you reply.

“For a DBIDS card?”

You nod.

“Why do you need to be able to visit unchaperoned?” he asks, that usual cocky glint making his green eyes sparkle. “I’ll gladly be your chaperone whenever you want to visit.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “As much as I would love to be personally escorted by you, Hangman, I thought it would be smart in case I ever need to enact my emergency contact duties.”

He frowns. “Who’s emergency contact are you?”

“That would be me,” Bradley says, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

You bite your bottom lip to keep from smiling so wide as you look up at him, but you know your bright red cheeks are already giving you away.

“I thought your emergency contact was Mav?” Jake asks.

“He was,” Bradley replies. “But then I thought that if I’m ever in an emergency situation, there’s probably a good chance that Mav is in that situation with me.”

Jake nods. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” A beat of silence passes before he turns his attention back to you, that flirty smirk reappearing as he claps his hands together. “Anyway, are we all set for tomorrow?”

“Yep,” you respond. “Are you still sure you want to spend your day off helping me?”

“Of course. Any day with you is a day well spent, whether it involves manual labour or not.”

You asked Jake a few weeks ago to help with the delivery and assembly of your new bedframe and mattress and getting rid of your old stuff, since the last time you did it on your own you nearly ended up in the hospital with a slipped disc. Normally, you would ask Bradley for help with this kind of thing, but your crush has been so stifling the last couple of months that you know it would be counterproductive to have Bradley sweating and moving heavy things in your bedroom. Besides, Jake happens to have the day off because he’s owed an RDO, and he insists that he doesn’t mind helping you out. It’s a win-win situation; you get a new bed, and no one ends up in the hospital with a broken back. Not that you would mind if Bradley broke your back.

“What’s tomorrow?” Bradley asks, his brows pinched into a frown.

“I’m helping her in bed,” Jake replies quickly, his grin downright evil. “I mean, with her bed.”

You roll your eyes at Jake again, before looking up at Bradley. “I’m getting a new bedframe and mattress, remember?”

“Right,” he says, brows still furrowed. “I thought I told you I’d help you with that?”

The way he’s looking down at you is making the butterflies in your stomach riot. He looks like a scolded puppy, wondering what he did wrong to deserve this punishment.

“You did, but Jake has the day off and you’ve already done enough slave labour for me.”

“But I like being your slave,” he says, the corner of his lips tipping up slightly.

It takes all your strength not to groan out loud. He is not making this easy.

“And you will always be my favourite slave, Bradley.” You pat a hand on his chest. “Which is why I need to give you a break every now and then.”

You pull your hand away quickly, immediately regretting the fact that you just felt up his firm chest and damp shirt, because now you’re getting that familiar ache behind your hipbones. The ache that only your vibrator and fantasies of Bradley can satiate, but even that hasn’t been enough lately. You need the real thing.

The sound of your name echoing through the hangar draws your attention, and you look over your shoulder to see Maverick with spikey, wet hair waving you toward him.

“That’s my cue.” You turn back to Jake. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and you”- you look up at Bradley -“on the weekend.”

When you slide out from under Bradley’s arm, it suddenly feels like this very hot day has turned cold. It takes all your strength to keep your feet moving one after the other away from him. You’ve had a crush on Bradley Bradshaw from the moment you first met him, but it’s called a ‘crush’ for a reason, because now it is crushing you. He’s the first thing on your mind when you wake up, and the last name on your lips before you fall asleep.

“Are you alright?” Maverick asks once you reach him, and you know it’s because your cheeks are bright red.

“Yeah, just a bit hot out here.”

He nods as you both start walking toward the door. “It’s supposed to be even hotter tomorrow.”

Back at the Visitor Control Centre, Maverick signs everything he needs to in order to grant you unchaperoned access to the base. After that, he walks you to your car and bids you farewell. You’re more than grateful for your car’s aircon as you take a moment to collect your thoughts, the ones that are running wild with fantasies about Bradley in that damn flight suit.

Eventually, you make your way home and immediately hole yourself up in your room. You spend over an hour in there to trying to satisfy that ache below your belly, but the incessant messages from the group chat popping up on your phone screen make it difficult. Only when your stomach starts to grumble do you give up and head into the kitchen, reading through the messages you’d been trying to ignore.

You hit send on your last message and smack your phone face down on the kitchen counter. Your cheeks are red and your heart is racing, and you’re not hungry anymore because your stomach has twisted itself into one big nervous knot.

You know that whatever it is between you and Bradley is no secret. You assume it’s because you drunkenly confessed to Bob, Mickey, and Natasha one night that you had a huge crush on him, and since then the rest have seemingly caught on. You don’t mind the teasing – at least, you didn’t at first, but it’s becoming more frequent and making you more nervous. Bradley rarely interacts with it, and all you do is tell them to shut up or butt out. You can’t figure out if they’re simply teasing because they can, or if they actually see something between the two of you that is real.

There have been a couple of times when you’ve wondered if Bradley might feel the same way. You even almost made a move once, before chickening out and refusing to look him in the eye for two weeks straight. You know you’re being a little bitch about it, and you hate yourself every day for being like one of those characters in your romance books that pines and pines, despite their broody love interest being obviously smitten. But you still can’t stop yourself from being a chicken. You justify it by telling yourself that it's to protect your friendship and the group’s comfortable dynamic, but you know that deep down, you’re scared. You’re scared that Bradley only wants that one thing, while you’re nothing short of hopelessly in love with the man.

-

You wake up to the sound of your phone vibrating on your bedside table. You know it’s too early for your alarm and way too early for the delivery driver to be calling you, so you’re not surprised when you see Jake’s goofy contact photo lighting up your phone screen.

“Good morning, Hangman,” you say groggily.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he replies cheerfully. “Did I wake you up?”

You sigh and roll onto your back. “Yes.”

He chuckles. “Oops. How’s about I make it up to you with breakfast?”

You sit up quickly. “You’re already on your way here?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter, throwing your bed covers back.

“Just the usual?” he asks.

“Make it a double shot.”

You toss your phone onto your bed before hurrying into your ensuite, quickly stripping down as the shower heats up. You brush your teeth in the shower and scrub everything as quickly as you can before wrapping yourself in a towel and starting to pull all the bedding off your mattress. Just as you’ve finished shoving it all into your already overflowing hamper, your apartment intercom buzzes.

You hitch your towel higher as you step out of your room and press the button on the intercom to unlock the lobby door. There’s an affirmative beep and a click, and then you walk toward the front door and double check that your towel is covering you.

As soon as you hear footsteps, you pull the door open with a scowl. “Since when did I tell you to get here at the ass crack of dawn?”

His green eyes widen as he takes you in, that signature smirk painting his features. “I thought it would be good to get an early start, but this”- he nods at you -“is an unexpected bonus.”

You roll your eyes and step aside, allowing him in. He stops at your kitchen bench and places the cup tray of two coffees down alongside a paper bag filled with deliciously greasy smelling breakfast.

“Give me five minutes,” you say, before walking back into your bedroom.

You quickly change into a pair of exercise tights and an oversized shirt – one that you’re not sure even belongs to you – before fixing your hair and doing a very quick version of your morning skincare routine. When you reemerge into the main area of your open-plan apartment, Jake is seated on the lounge with your breakfast laid out across the coffee table.

You flop beside him and take a hashbrown. “So, what’s the plan?”

He turns to you with a frown. “Why do I have to come up with a plan?”

“I wouldn’t need your help if I had a plan, would I?”

He chuckles softly. “I guess not.”

You spend the next five minutes inhaling your breakfast while Jake asks a few logistical questions. Once you're both finished eating and quietly sipping on your coffees, he pushes himself off the lounge and walks toward your bedroom.

He pauses at the door. “Can I go in?”

You nod, and the door squeaks as he nudges it open. He takes one step in and stops, cocking his head thoughtfully before continuing in. He assesses the area and walks further in, at which point you decide to join him. He’s standing on the opposite side of your bed when you get there, and he’s wearing the type of shit-eating grin that you know comes with some sort of teasing or offensive remark.

“So,” he says, “this is where you touch yourself and fantasise about Rooster every night.”

Your stomach drops and you splutter against the lid of your coffee cup, spraying half a mouthful of it across the room. You can feel your face turning red as you cough, but you know it isn’t just the lack of oxygen to blame.

Jake gasps, laughter bubbling from his lips as he rushes around the bed to you. “I’m so sorry,” he says between giggles. “Are you okay?”

You continue to cough, holding a hand against your chest as you try to blink back the tears in your eyes. It takes almost a minute for you to compose yourself, but Jake takes even longer to quell his laughter.

He sighs loudly and wipes the corner of his eye while you turn to him with a scowl. “Who told you?”

He bats his eyes innocently. “Told me what?”

You hesitate, your eyes narrowed as your mind races to send the right words to your lips. “That I might have a small crush on Rooster.”

He snorts a laugh. “No one had to tell me anything. Any idiot who spends enough time with the two of you can clearly see that you’re obsessed with each other.”

“What? No.” Your frown indignantly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes, still chuckling. “I can practically see you cataloguing your spank bank every time you stare at him.”

Your eyes grow wide and your skin burns. You have to look away from him to stop yourself from smacking that smug smile right off his face.

“You know what,” you say, sparing him only a glance. “I don’t think I want to have this conversation with you, so can we please get back to the bed.”

He sighs wistfully. “If only Rooster heard you say that to me. He’d be ropable.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip from your coffee, ready to turn away from him when realisation hits you. “Wait. Is that why you’re always flirting with me, just to piss off Bradley?”

He shrugs, but his smile is sheepish. “I flirt with you because you’re gorgeous, but annoying Rooster is a small plus.”

“You are unbelievable.” You turn on your heel and walk back out of your room, finding your phone on the couch to check if there are any updates on the delivery of your new furniture.

“Hang on a minute.” He follows you into the living space. “I could help you, you know?”

You scoff. “With what? Moving my new bed in? Because that is why you’re here. Not to make me feel shitty about some stupid, unrequited crush that is apparently pretty fucking obvious.”

He rolls his lips to hold back another laugh. “I could help you make a move,” he clarifies. “Because I’ll tell you this, it is not unrequited. Rooster is as crazy about you, as you are him.”

Your heart stutters, but your walls stay up. “How do you know?”

“Just believe me,” he says. “That man’s right forearm is thicker than his left because of you.”

You frown and cock your head, processing his words until the meaning hits you and your mouth pops open.

“Anyway.” He claps his hands and rubs his palms together. “Let’s get this old mattress out of here and start pulling apart the bedframe. I’ll give you some advice while we work.”

For the next few hours, you let Jake tell you what to do. You hold things, you move furniture, you unscrew things, and you listen to his surprisingly sound advice on what to do about Bradley. The more he speaks, the more confident you feel, because something about Jake’s charisma is infectious. You know you might not feel the same when face to face with Bradley’s big brown eyes and pretty smile, but it at least feels good to talk to someone about it. Even if that someone gags every time you start swooning.

- Bradley -

Today is hot, almost too hot. Bradley has pushed his body to the limit before, it’s basically in his job description, but today feels different. He feels sick. His flight suit is too heavy and his muscles are shaking. His stomach is twisting and gurgling with every sharp move, and his head is spinning.

Bradley is only in the sky – flying like a rookie – for an hour before Maverick grounds him, giving him a brutal workout to do while the rest of the squad finish their drills. Even Hondo has taken shelter in the hangar, watching Bradley complete his exercises from afar with a damp towel wrapped around the back of his neck.

The concrete is hot, and Bradley is pretty sure he’s getting second-degree burns on his palms as he pushes himself up into his twenty-fourth burpee. His flight suit is tied around his waist, and he can feel an excess of sweat gathering in the bunched-up material there. His dog tags are jingling as he jumps up and down, occasionally smacking him in the face when his moves are too jerky.

“That’s enough,” Hondo calls out. “Have a break. Drink some water.”

Bradley stops and swipes the back of his hand across his forehead. He can see the squad getting ready to land now, so it must be time for lunch. He waits for them inside the hangar, his heart beating loudly in his chest even after twenty minutes of standing still. Eventually, the group stroll in and head toward the lockers, grabbing their personal items before going to the mess hall.

Bradley finds a seat while everyone else continues to get food. He’s not sure his stomach can handle anything right now, even his water bottle remains untouched. He pulls his phone out and brings up the group chat that has five new messages.

His insides twist at the sight of Jake in your apartment. It’s not like he hasn’t been there before, but he’s never been there alone with you. Bradley clamps his teeth together and wills that sick feeling in his gut to fuck off. This isn’t the time nor the place to vomit about the fact that the girl he likes is spending the day with one of the most charming men he knows.

“You look pale,” Bob says as he puts his tray down on the table.

“But also kind of red,” Natasha adds, a frown pinching her brows. “You look like you’re trying not to hurl.”

Bradley swallows hard and sits up straighter. “I’m fine, just a little wrung out from the heat.”

The rest of the squad join the table and conversation flows easily. A couple of them reply to you in the group chat, but Bradley doesn’t want to know anything else about what’s going on, so he lets his phone buzz face down on the table. He stares straight ahead at the space between Bob and Natasha’s heads, zoning out and imagining a much worse scenario than what is actually happening at your apartment.

He pictures you both sweating and giggling together, bumping into each other as you move and assemble furniture. Then he sees you both on the new mattress, flopping down exhaustedly after finally sliding it onto the new bedframe. You’d stop giggling with a sigh before turning to face one another, locking eyes, expressions turning serious as Jake’s hand comes up to caress your cheek. You would roll onto your side to get closer to him, and he’d only have to move an inch toward you to press his lips against yours. That kiss would unlock something in you, igniting your attraction to this man and making you climb on top of him. Clothes would be torn off, teeth and tongues clashing, and the bed would quickly be broken in.

“Rooster.” Natasha snaps her fingers in front of Bradley’s face.

He blinks a couple of times before refocusing on the woman in front of him. “Huh?”

“Jesus Christ, dude,” she says. “What is wrong with you today?”

Bradley looks to his left and right before spotting the rest of the squad making their way out of the mess hall. He jumps up from his chair. “Shit, that went quick.”

“Well, you were off with the fairies the whole time.”

He tries not to look her in the eye despite her intense stare. The journey back to the hangar is silent, but he can tell Natasha is studying him, scrutinising his expression until they both approach the rest of the group waiting with Maverick.

Mav takes the floor and announces that today is the perfect day to test limits. He starts explaining the workout that he has planned for the squad, because they may have to face extreme heat on their next assignment, and it’s important to be prepared. Everyone groans in protest, even Hondo, but Mav ignores it. He’s almost excited to torture his lieutenants.

An hour later, everyone is absolutely dripping with sweat. All flight suits are at least half off, some discarded entirely as the squad run, jump, and swerve through the makeshift fitness course Mav set up. It feels more like torture than conditioning, but no one has the energy to even speak up.

“Alright,” Mav calls out. “That’s enough. Take a break, have some water, then come inside and take a seat.”

They all slowly drag themselves toward Hondo, who is handing out towels and cold bottles of water. None of them can muster a single word, they all just huff and puff and groan when they wipe their skin with the wet towels. Bradley is the last to approach Hondo, his gaze fixed on the outstretched water bottle as he wonders when the last time it was that he had a drink.

“Rooster.” Hondo takes a step toward the lieutenant. “Are you alright?”

Bradley blinks slowly, looking up as one Hondo turns into two. His surroundings blur and his limbs start to tingle. His head feels heavy and his stomach sinks, his eyes fluttering shut as his body goes limp.

- You -

“Harder,” Jake grunts. “Push harder.”

You let out a puff of air before tensing your muscles and shoving as hard as you can. The mattress slides along the carpet slowly, making your blood boil with frustration. “Why is this thing so fucking heavy?”

Jake chuckles. “I just assumed you bought an extra sturdy one so you and Rooster can fuck as hard as- woah!”

You push with all your strength, sliding the mattress into an unsuspecting Jake. He laughs as he rights himself and guides the mattress further into your room.

“If I knew that annoying you would give you super strength, I would have started earlier,” he says, leaning around the mattress to show you his cheeky grin.

You roll your eyes. “You’ve been annoying me all day.”

“It’s called bonding.”

“Whatever, just get this thing on the frame.”

After a short argument on how you should manoeuvre the mattress, and a string of cuss words as you heave the thing into place, you finally manage to get the mattress sitting snuggly on the new bedframe. You both fall onto it immediately, facing the ceiling as you work to catch your breath.

“Fuck me,” you sigh.

Jake snorts. “I would, but I think Rooster might flay me alive.”

You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time today. “I wasn’t offering, and I’m still on the fence about believing you, so stop it with the constant remarks.”

He rolls onto his stomach, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Then let’s have sex and see what happens?”

You huff out a half-assed laugh as you sit up. “Like I said, Hangman; I wasn’t offering.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. We shouldn’t play with Rooster’s feelings like that.” He rolls onto his back again and blinks slowly at the ceiling.

It makes you feel better to see a small sign of exhaustion from him, because for most of the day, you’ve been wrecked while Jake has been running off some sort of endless energy reserve. He’s like the human personification of a border collie, a little too keen and full of bounce, and you can definitely see him tearing the lounge apart if he’s bored and locked inside.

You open your mouth to tell him how he reminds you of a herding dog when the sound of your phone’s ringtone cuts you off. You frown, wondering who it could be as you rush out of your room to get it off the kitchen bench.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Mariam. I��m calling from the Primary Health Clinic on North Island Naval Air Station. I need to speak with about Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.”

Your stomach sinks so fast and so hard, you feel like it might have fallen right out of your arse. “Is he okay?”

“He’s in our care this afternoon due to a minor incident, and while he’s doing just fine, we cannot permit him to drive himself home. Would you be able to come pick him up?”

You rush over to the coffee table and pick up your car keys. “Of course.”

“That’s great,” the woman replies, her tone calm and even. “I’ll text our address to this number. Do you require any further assistance locating the clinic?”

“No, that should be fine.” You prop your sunglasses on top of your head. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. We’ll see you soon.”

You pull the phone away from your ear as you hurry back into your room. Jake is sitting up now, his brows furrowed and eyes wide with curiosity. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Something happened to Bradley and now he’s at some health clinic or something.” You’re not surprised by the panic in your voice, if only a little embarrassed. The woman said he’s fine. The last thing you need to do right now is panic.

Jake stands up and rounds the bed quickly, putting a hand on each of your shoulders. “Don’t freak out, I’m sure he’s okay. He’s at the clinic, not the hospital, so he’s probably just tripped on his own shoelaces or something.”

You let out a breathy laugh as you search Jake’s face for any hint of worry. He doesn’t seem concerned, so you let yourself relax and picture Bradley sitting sheepishly in a hospital bed with nothing more than a papercut.

“They said he can’t drive, so I have to go pick him up.”

Jake nods. “You go. I’ll stay here and clean up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go get your damsel in distress.”

You hesitate for a second before throwing your arms around his neck and hugging him. “Thank you.”

He hugs you back with a chuckle before you pull away and practically run out of your apartment. You don’t slow down for anything; you even take the stairs instead of the elevator because you can’t stand still for even a second. You try not to drive like a maniac, but it’s hard not to as your mind swirls with the possibilities of Bradley’s accident.

In less than fifteen minutes, you’re flashing your identification at the front gate and waiting impatiently for them to raise the boom gate. You swerve into the visitor’s parking lot and jump out of your car, legging it toward the health clinic where your phone’s map tells you to go. It only takes a few minutes for you to get there, and you stop a few feet from the door, taking a moment to control your breathing.

The air is thick and the sun blistering. You’re sweating more than you have all day, since you've spent most of the day inside your airconditioned apartment. If Bradley isn’t really hurt, you’re going to actually hurt him for making you worry this much and run in this heat.

Once your breathing feels more regular, you grab the stainless-steel handle and push the door open. The small reception space is painted blue and white, with a couple of plastic chairs on one side and a magazine rack beside a water bubbler on the other. The blonde woman behind the desk peeks up at you through the Perspex shield surrounding her space.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hi.” You step forward. “I got a call about Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.”

To the right of her desk is a hallway leading further into the building. Voices and footsteps echo off the blue walls, and despite the desolate reception area, it seems like the rest of the clinic is rather busy.

“Yes, that was me.” She smiles. “I’ll just get you to fill this out so we can start his discharge, then I’ll take you through.”

You take the clipboard from her and sit in one of the plastic chairs. You barely read the form, skimming quickly over it before answering the few questions and signing your name at the bottom. After you hand it back it to her, you walk over to the water bubbler and fill up a small plastic cup. You drain it three times before she waves you over and starts walking down the hall.

The noises get louder the further you delve into the building, and you quickly realise that this place is something of a mini hospital for minor emergencies to help keep the actual ER from being overrun. The hallway eventually opens up into a larger waiting area with lemon-coloured walls and bigger chairs occupied by sickly officers. One of them is holding a bloody gauze pressed to the palm of his hand, and two others are paper white and dripping with sweat.

“Heatstroke,” the blonde woman says over her shoulder. “We’ve had so many of them today, but your husband was by far the worst.”

You choke on your breath and trip on nothing as you follow her. “M-My what?”

“Oh, sorry.” She turns to her left at the end of the hall. “I just saw you were listed as Lieutenant Bradshaw’s ‘partner’ and assumed. It’s force of habit. I forget that a lot of couples don’t bother with marriage these days.”

Your mind struggles to catch up, half of it rejoicing about the fact that someone thinks Bradley is your husband, and the other half wondering why the fuck he would list you as his partner. Before you can come up with the words to correct the woman, she stops.

“Just in here.” She pushes the door open a small way. “I’ll get his papers sorted and let you know as soon as he can leave.”

You nod, still speechless, and she walks away. You stand still for a moment, your hand on the door and heart racing as you take one deep breath and push.

The room is small, with powder blue walls and the same white linoleum as the rest of the clinic. There’s a stool and tall portable desk in one corner, and one of those plastic waiting room chairs in the other. In the middle of the room is a hospital bed, but there’s no guard rails or bedding, and it's folded up so the sheepish lieutenant occupying it is sitting up straight.

“Hey,” you say, your lips twitching as you hold back a smirk.

He’s hooked up to an intravenous device that has a long tube connected to a bag of clear liquid. His face is flushed and the hair at his neck damp, but otherwise, he looks just as delicious as usual.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

You close the door behind you before approaching the bed. “How are you?”

He shuffles on the crinkly mattress, making room for you to sit. “Never been better.”

"Want to tell me what happened?” you ask as you sit at the foot of the bed.

He rubs the back of his neck, the pink in his cheeks deepening. “Well, it’s hot day, and I forgot to drink water, so I passed out.”

You lose the battle with your maturity and let out a soft laugh. Something about Bradley looking so defeated in a hospital bed amuses you more than it should. That combined with the relief that he isn’t seriously hurt means that you can’t control the elated laughter forcing its way through your lips.

You cover your mouth to try and stop the noise. “I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I was just really worried and now I’m really relieved.”

He rolls his eyes despite the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad my stupidity amuses you.”

“Do the others have a video of you fainting?”

He nudges your thigh with his socked foot. “Even if they do, you’re not seeing it.”

You laugh quietly for another minute, letting your eyes roam is perfectly healthy and incredibly firm body until it sinks in that he is okay. “I’m glad you’re not seriously hurt.”

“Me too. That would have been embarrassing.”

Your mouth pops open to ask him another question, but the thought is quickly usurped by another. The front reception area had been completely empty despite the fact that there are other patients here. You’re the only civilian here, the only emergency contact for an injured officer, and the injured officer in front of you is looking a hell of a lot better than some of the others you’d walked past.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “Did you ask them to call your emergency contact?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, where are the others?” you ask. “Why don’t the guys out there have their parents or partners here to pick them up?”

He shrugs. “They’re probably going to get patched up and sent back to their squads.”

“Exactly.” You narrow your eyes at him. “So, why am I here?”

He shifts nervously, the mattress crinkling beneath his weight. “They said I can’t drive myself home.”

“And you didn’t think to ask one of the other six friends you have that are already on base to drive you home?”

His lips part but no words come out. You can see him struggling, wracking his brain for any sort of excuse, but the longer it takes, the surer you are of the answer to your next question.

“Bradley.”

He looks at you and rolls his lips, his skin turning pink from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears.

“Did you tell them to call me so I wouldn’t be alone with Hangman anymore?”

His eyes widen and his mouth pops open, but so does the door to the room. The same blonde woman as before walks in with a nurse close behind.

“Alright, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” she says, clipboard in hand. “You’re just about free to go.”

You quickly hop off the bed as the nurse approaches, pressing yourself against the wall while she removes Bradley’s IV and check his temperature one last time. She gives him what you assume is not the first lecture about staying safe in the heat before declaring him well enough for discharge. The blonde woman then steps forward and asks him to sign a few forms on her clipboard.

“Is that everything?” he asks.

“Almost.” She takes the clipboard from him and flips to the last form before turning to you. “I just need one more signature from you.”

You nod and take the outstretched pen. “Just here?”

“Yep. Just under your name,” she says, before giggling.

You pause mid-signature, turning to her curiously. Her smile vanishes instantly, and she takes half a step back, holding a hand over her mouth, looking thoroughly embarrassed.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. That was so unprofessional,” she says. “It’s been a long day, and I just remembered that when he was brought in, he kept mumbling your name. I wasn’t laughing at you, I promise. I honestly thought it was really sweet.”

Bradley – who is now sitting on the edge of the bed – groans and drops his head into his hands. You have to press your lips together to suppress your laughter, but you can already feel it rattling in your chest. You sign your name quickly and hand the forms back to the woman, who apologises again before exiting the room.

Silence hangs thick and heavy between the two of you as Bradley laces his boots. You don’t speak, you’re not sure you can, so you simply watch him gather his things from across the room. When he’s finished, he finally looks at you with raised brows and flushed cheeks.

“Ready?”

You nod once, pressing your lips together to keep the giggles at bay. He turns toward the door, and you can swear you see his lips tip up into a smirk, but he walks too quickly into the corridor for you to be sure.

You follow him through the building, not the same way you had come in, but out through a different entrance that you assume is for bringing in the injured officers. The heat hits you the second you step out of the building, and you almost choke on the hot air, but you don’t have time to hesitate because Bradley is already forging across the small parking lot.

He glances over his shoulder, but his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “Where did you park?”

“The visitor’s parking near the front gate,” you reply.

He slows his steps and falls into pace beside you. His mouth pops open as a thought flashes across his face, but he closes it just as quickly, rolling his lips and getting lost in his thoughts again.

You decide to help him out. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He clears his throat, keeping his gaze fixed ahead. “Talk about what?”

“Oh, Bradley,” you sigh, a smirk on your lips. “There are so many things to talk about, but I thought I’d be polite and let you choose.”

His resolve cracks and a smile splits across his face. His cheeks are still bright red, and thanks to the blistering sun, every inch of his exposed skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. You can’t help but watch the column of his throat as he chuckles, his Adam’s apple moving in the most delicious way. It’s probably not healthy how attracted you are to this man.

“I’d barely been awake for five minutes when they asked me who they should call,” he says. “I was still a little out of it.”

“Right.” You nod slowly. “And because you’d just been dreaming about me, I was the first thing that popped into your head.”

He sighs and tips his head back, squinting up at the clear blue sky. “This has to be the most embarrassing day of my life.”

You bite your lip to hold back more laughter, almost stumbling as you come to a halt at the curb. Instinctively, Bradley grabs your hand and laces his fingers with yours, keeping you steady as he checks the street each way for traffic. Little sparks of lightning rocket up your forearm and across your chest, zapping your heart and kicking it into overdrive.

You let him guide you across the street, expecting him to let go once you’re safely on the other side, but he doesn’t. The butterflies in your stomach flap to life, but you refuse to let your nerves get the better of you. You have too many questions you need answered right now.

You clear your throat, peaking up at him from the corner of your eye. “So, just so we’re clear, calling me had nothing to do with getting me away from Hangman?”

He keeps his gaze fixed ahead. “Of course not.”

“Okay, that’s good.”

You resist the urge to smile as you wait for him to take the bait. It takes a few minutes, and you’ve reached your car by the time you notice his brows scrunch into a frown.

“Wait, what do you mean that’s good?”

You walk around the front of the car toward the driver’s side. “I don’t know, I just felt different today. You know? Like, being alone with Jake was nice.”

His frown turns into a scowl. “It’s Jake now?”

You roll your eyes, being careful not to appear too amused as you play with fire. “Yes, and Jake is really sweet. He’s funny too, and really smart and… well, he’s hot.”

Bradley takes half a step back from the passenger door. “So, you like Hangman now?”

You shrug. “I guess.”

His eyes flick down to his boots, his mouth popping open as if he’s going to argue, but no words come out. His lips clamp shut and the muscles in his jaw jump as he clenches his teeth.

“Do you have a problem with that?” you ask, batting your eyelashes innocently.

When he looks back up, his glare is lethal. The warm honey-brown eyes you often love to stare into are almost completely black beneath his furrowed brows. “Do I have a problem with that?”

You roll your lips and nod, keeping your eyes as wide and innocent as you can while watching him take long strides around the front of the car. Your heart thunders in your chest, making your pulse thump loudly in your ears as he walks right up to you.

He towers over you, his body barely inches from yours. “You know damn well I have a problem with that.”

You look up at him through your lashes, finally letting your lips curl up into a smirk. “Why?”

His hands grab your hips and turn your body so your backside is pressed against the driver’s side door. “You know damn well why.” He presses his body against yours and moves his hands to lean on the car either side of your shoulders, trapping you.

Your head spins and you struggle to breath, overwhelmed by every inch of him that is pressed against you. “Why?” you ask again, your voice barely above a whisper.

He groans and pushes his hips harder into yours before leaning down and catching your lips with his. Your hands grip the sides of his shirt and pull, as if he isn’t already crushing himself against you. When you feel him slide a leg between yours, you gasp, and he takes the chance to push his tongue past your parted lips. You grind down on his thigh and a let out a soft whimper. You can feel him grin against your mouth before lifting his knee a little higher between your legs.

The rest of the world melts away as you grind and moan against each other, completely lost in the feelings you’ve stamped down for so long. Only when you feel your car door begin to bend behind you do you reluctantly put a hand on his chest and push him back.

He frowns as he steps back, looking adorable with lust-blown eyes and puffy red lips. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re about to put a me-sized dent in my car door,” you reply with a soft laugh.

“Oh.” His shoulders relax and he steps back toward you, his hands landing on your hips. “So, you were joking about Hangman, right?”

You roll your eyes, resting your hands on his chest. “Obviously.”

“Good.”

You give him a small smile before letting your eyes drop, panic seeping into your bones as your usual doubts begin to infect your thoughts. Did he only kiss you because he was jealous? Does he want more than friendship, or just a few extra benefits?

“Hey.” He crooks a finger beneath your chin to tilt your head up. “Do you want to know why I’d have a problem if you really did like Hangman?”

You nod as you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down nervously.

“Because then it would’ve been too late for me to tell you that I’m in love you.”

Your heart almost leaps out of your chest. “In love with me?”

His cheeks go from pink to red and he quickly averts his eyes away from yours. “Unless you don’t feel the same, then I’m just in love with you like a friend.”

You roll your eyes again and softly smack his chest. “Don’t be stupid, of course I’m in love with you. I thought it was pretty fucking obvious.”

His lips split into a grin before he dips back down and kisses you again. “Thank God for that,” he mumbles against your mouth.

You giggle as he trails his lips across your cheek, along your jaw, and down your neck. “As much as I love this,” you say, “I would also really love to get out of the heat.”

“Good idea.” He steps back and pulls your body with his, turning a little to the side as leans toward the car and pulls the driver’s door open. “Let’s get back to your apartment and test out that new bed.”

Your knees almost wobble as you step toward the car and drop into the driver’s seat. Bradley is around the car in less than a few seconds, climbing into the passenger’s side and reaching one hand across the centre console to grab your leg.

“Let’s just hope Hangman hasn’t decided to take a nap,” you say as you begin pulling out of the parking spot.

Bradley turns to you with raised brows. “He’s still at your apartment?”

You nod. “He offered to clean up when I left.”

“What if he refuses to leave?”

You shrug one shoulder, your lips tipping up into a smirk. “Then he can join in.”

Bradley’s fingers squeeze hard around your thigh. “Not a fucking chance.”

You giggle when you glance at his stormy expression, but you’d be lying if you said his jealousy wasn’t a bit of a turn on. “You’re not into wife-swapping?” you ask.

He tilts his head, clearly confused. “Wife?”

“Well, yeah. I’m your partner, right? Your emergency contact partner.”

It takes him a few seconds to realise what you mean, but once he does, he drops his head into both hands and sighs loudly. “They told you that?”

You almost feel bad for laughing at him again, but you can’t help it. “The woman called you my husband when I first got there.”

When he looks back up, you’re positive you’ve never seen a more gorgeous boy in the world. His cheeks are bright pink, his honey-brown eyes are sparkling, and he’s grinning so wide you can’t help but grin back at him. “Well, they didn’t really have an option for ‘best friend who I really want to bang and eventually marry one day’.”

Your breath catches in your throat and you’re pretty sure your heart stops. “Marry?”

He turns his attention out the windscreen, still smiling, and his hand returns to its place on your thigh as he says more to himself than you, “One day soon hopefully.”

END.

[lotties-ashwagandha]

(nsfw, mdni)

all of my anons got me thinking about being lottie’s younger girlfriend, with an incredible career ahead of you and all of the opportunities in the world, all of which you throw to the side when you hear about an ex cult leader who just tried to kill someone at her commune in the woods.

you’re smart, though — you should know that nothing good will come of agreeing when lottie matthews asks you to keep her company for a night out in the city. but she offers to pay for dinner, and she offers to pay for all of the cab rides you take together, and when she shows up to meet you in a fur coat that costs more than all of the things you’ve ever owned in your life combined, you realize the rumors of her wealth are true. and not that it’s the most appealing thing about being around her, but her riches are welcome when after dinner she takes you back to her penthouse and pours you a drink. it’s when you realize dinner was a formality, and what she really wants is to keep you for the night and discard you in the morning — and you find yourself playing along.

you let her persuade you, let her back you up against some surface that you have trouble seeing with how dimly lit the penthouse is in the night, and you let her pick you up and place you down onto it. maybe you’re on the dining room table, maybe it’s a kitchen island, maybe you’re about to be sacrificed to the wilderness like the rumors about her would suggest. maybe you’ll disappear and never be found, but that doesn’t occur to you when lottie pulls away your clothes inconveniently keeping her from you. any other reservations disappear when she reaches down and starts circling your clit, savoring your gasps and the soft noises she pulls from you and encouraging them with every whispered praise. she tells you how much more perfect you look like this, how beautiful you sound whining at her touch, and she tries to play it off when she slides two fingers into you and gasps at how easy it is. if there’s a next time you meet, she will try to humiliate you for how wet you get for her — tonight, it’s treated as a gift. she needs this as much as you do, she needs to forget.

you become the distraction. her beautiful, clueless distraction that doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t pressure her for more than she wants to tell you about what she’s done. not just for the night, but in the time following. you wake up next to her in the mornings and watch the sunrise over the city horizon, its rays peeking through even when the horizon is blocked by skyscrapers and the ambience below you is honking taxis and the murmur of the city. you get ready with her and listen to her complain about the chaos of the city as she does her makeup and braids her hair. lottie tells you that someday she’s going to rebuild her wellness center. she tells you that you are going to be there with her, and you’ll live in a cabin at the edge of the woods, and you will enjoy the peace of the forest much better than the noise here.

then she gets a bit distant. her voice takes on a different tone, more drained. she has delved too deep into the past again — and you are meant to be distracting her from it, so you help lottie finish the braid in her hair and then you get on your knees and ask her to tell you exactly what she wants from you. and if you do a good enough job she’ll give you her credit card after you fuck and tell you to go out today and buy something pretty to wear for her tonight.

and as for your bright future — the high level career you’re more than qualified for, the opportunities — they can keep waiting. for now, you have all of the money in the world, and all of the love to balance it.

sexy yellowjackets taglist: @webism @ahauandthesun @chaithetics @szczurkanalowy @cassioo @marleymarleymarleymarley

I haven’t checked my google forms since the last fic I posted so if you submitted a form and you’re not on here I will tag you in the next fic because I’m not home!

[wingedhallows]

— LOOSE TONGUES —

CHAPTER THREE

— ₊˚⊹♡ PAIRING ; 3.2k words vi!basketball jockey x reader!ballerina — ₊˚⊹♡ SYNOPSIS : There was something there—something unspoken, something undeniable. But in one careless moment, it all fell apart. Words were said, pride got in the way, and now she’s left with nothing but regret. She wants to fix it. She has to. Now, Vi is determined to fix what she broke. She’ll do anything—everything—to prove she didn’t mean it. But pride is a stubborn thing, and second chances don’t come easy. Can she turn the tide before it’s too late? Or has she already lost what she never had the courage to claim?

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“—and her hair is so soft, god. I’d love to wrap it around my hand while we—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut it.”

Vi scowls into her coffee, stirring it with far more aggression than necessary as she cuts Ellie off, it annoys her how well Ellie’s flirting with Margot is going. The heat licking up her neck has nothing to do with the drink in her hands.

Ellie smirks, tilting her head just enough to make it clear—she’s enjoying this. Mocking her. Dragging it out like she knows exactly how deep this frustration runs.

“No need to be snappy, Vi. It’s your own damn fault your birdie thinks you hate her.”

The words hit their mark, sinking in like claws. Vi’s grip on the cup tightens, jaw clenching as she shoots Ellie a glare—one sharp enough to make anyone else squirm.

But not Ellie. And certainly not Abby, who only grins before taking an infuriatingly slow sip of her coffee.

“Exactly. You couldn’t just admit you’re completely gone for her, huh? Now you get to pine. And grovel.”

Vi exhales sharply through her nose. That one lands too.

Pine. And grovel.

The humiliation creeps up her spine, settling into something ugly in her chest. Her first instinct is to deny it—to lean into her usual stubbornness, let her pride save her like it always does.

But for once, she doesn’t.

Instead, she sighs, heavy and resigned, as if finally admitting defeat. Her fingers absently stir the coffee again, watching the way the liquid swirls, like it might hold the answer to this whole fucking mess.

“Pine and grovel,” she mutters, echoing Abby’s words.

Because she knows they’re right.

She knows she fucked up.

But making you see how much she actually adores you? That’s not as easy as it should be.

In your presence, all of her bravado, all of her confidence—gone. Completely fucking gone. And in its place? Awkwardness. Stammering. A heat that burns high on her cheeks, betraying every last carefully built defense she has.

But, christ—she has to have you.

Her fingers tighten around the cup as she finally, finally lets the words slip past her lips.

“I like her a lot.”

It’s quiet, almost swallowed by the café’s background noise, but Ellie hears it. She hears it and grins like the smug bastard she is.

“Oh, believe me, we know.”

Vi huffs, rolling her eyes as she finally takes a sip of her coffee, the bitterness matching the frustration twisting inside her.

“Laugh it up, will you?” Her tone is dry, but the weight in her chest is very real.

Because what the hell is she supposed to do?

You think she hates you.

And the truth?

She’s absolutely fucking besotted with you.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Vi grumbles, slumping back in her chair, arms crossed tight over her chest. She looks—god, she’s never looked like such a fucking loser before.

Abby and Ellie, the ever-supportive assholes they are, snicker in unison. The sight of Vi—confident, cocky, star player Vi—reduced to a lovesick mess is apparently the funniest thing they’ve ever seen.

“Talk to her, maybe?” Abby suggests, leaning forward with an amused grin, as if the answer is that simple.

Vi scoffs, her eyebrows knitting together in pure frustration. “Oh, sure. Sounds great. Let me just walk up like—Hey. I’m unconditionally and irrevocably in love with you. Fuck off.” Her voice drips with sarcasm, every word spat out like venom, but underneath it, her chest aches.

Ellie completely loses it, throwing her head back as laughter wracks through her. She even doubles over in her chair, shaking with amusement.

“Irrevocably?” She gasps between breaths. “Didn’t even know you knew that word.”

Vi levels her with a glare, scowling deeply.

“Cunts. The both of you.”

But even as the words leave her lips, there’s no real bite behind them. Just an exhaustion, a helpless frustration that simmers beneath her skin.

Because for all her sharp edges and bravado, when it comes to you?

She’s completely, utterly, and irrevocably screwed.

You’re sprawled out on your bed, limbs heavy, staring blankly at the ceiling as Margot sits beside you, rhythmically running her fingers through your hair.

She’s been ranting for the past ten minutes about your refusal to use the conditioner she swore would work wonders for your oh so dry hair, but you’ve barely registered a word of it.

She notices.

“What’s up with you?” Margot finally asks, her fingers pausing for a beat before resuming their soft, absentminded strokes. Usually, you’d fire something back—argue, tease, at least pretend to care about her ongoing hair care intervention.

But right now? You’re dead silent, brows furrowed, lost in the mess inside your own head.

You exhale, long and slow. Fuck it.

“It’s just… Vi.”

Even saying her name out loud makes something twist in your chest, a dull ache that refuses to go away. She’s stuck in your mind, lingering like the last traces of a dream—one you can’t quite shake, no matter how hard you try.

Margot hums knowingly, amusement threading through her voice. “Ah, Vi. She’s got your mind all twisted, huh?”

Your eyes snap to her, narrowing in irritation. Of course, she’s teasing. She always teases. But god, couldn’t she have mercy just this once?

Your heart is in shambles, Margot.

“I’m fucking confused, that’s a start.” Your voice comes out exasperated, laced with something sharp and uncertain.

“I mean, first she tells me I’m not her type—has no problem embarrassing me in front of every-fucking-body—and now she’s all sweet with me?”

Your hands fling up in frustration before falling uselessly back to your sides. Your heart pounds against your ribs, like it’s trying to claw its way out. You wish you could let this go—wish you could stop analyzing every word, every glance, every fucking thing Vi does. But you can’t.

Margot sighs, tugging lightly at your hair as if to ground you. “She’s an idiot, that’s what she is.”

You scoff, closing your eyes for a moment. She’s not wrong.

Vi is an idiot.

Because if she liked you, she could just say so. Right?

You’re sprinting across campus, your heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs. Late again.

Margot and her damn gentle hands, lulling you into sleep like some enchantress—she’s to blame for this. Laurel is going to kill you. No, worse—she’s going to make you practice in hell, barefoot, forever.

You round the corner at full speed, barely registering the presence of someone else before you collide, hard.

The impact sends you tumbling to the ground, your palms scraping against the pavement, your white tights now a canvas for green grass stains. Fucking great.

“Oh—shit, I’m so—”

The voice cuts off abruptly, and you don’t even need to look up to know who it belongs to. You’d know that voice anywhere. It lingers in your thoughts, in your bones, in the goddamn marrow of your existence.

Still, you lift your gaze, and—yeah. Of course, it’s her.

Vi stands before you, jersey clinging to her frame, hair damp, flushed from exertion. She must’ve just finished practice.

She looks good. Too good. Unfairly good. Heat blooms in your chest, rising up your throat, and you swallow—hard.

“I’m okay,” you manage, reaching for the hand she extends toward you. The moment your fingers touch, something zips through your veins, electric and dizzying.

Vi doesn’t let go immediately.

"Let me," she murmurs, voice softer than usual. It lacks the bravado she carries with others—feels gentler, like something meant only for you.

She bends down, effortlessly picking up your bag, and you pretend you’re not blatantly staring at the way her biceps flex with the motion.

(Christ.)

You take the bag from her with a quiet, “Thanks,” and step back—because god, she’s too close, and your brain is turning to static.

Her eyes drag over you, slow, lingering, and she wipes her palms on her shorts like she’s trying to rid herself of nerves. She’s staring. You know she’s staring. And you know why.

Your ballet outfit.

It’s practically indecent under her gaze, or maybe it’s just the way Vi looks at you—like it’s some kind of sin, like you’re something holy and untouchable and achingly tempting all at once.

She hesitates, just a moment, before exhaling sharply—like she’s shaking off doubt—and gathers every ounce of courage she has left.

“Are you free later today?”

The words come out low, almost too smooth, but she can’t stop the way her hands fidget at her sides. She bites her lip, heart hammering.

What if you say no? What if you tell her to fuck off? What if this is just another moment where she embarrasses herself and—

“I am, yes.”

Your voice is soft, almost nervous. She notices.

Her pulse spikes. Yes. Fuck, yes.

“We’re hanging later,” she continues, keeping her tone even (or at least trying).

“Share a blunt, maybe. Wanna come?”

She watches you closely, hoping to hell her ears aren’t turning red, but the way you look at her—like you’re considering this, like you might want this too—makes it so much harder to keep her cool.

“Umh… sure. When?”

Vi drinks in the sight of you, the slight tilt of your head, the way your lips part just slightly.

God, your eyes.

They’re going to ruin her.

“Whenever.” She blurts it out too fast, too eager. Fuck. Smooth. Real fucking smooth.

She clears her throat, desperate to save herself. “Just come over whenever you like.”

You give her a small nod, and then—

“Alright, I’ll come. See you later, Violet.”

And then you’re off, sprinting away before she can even process what just happened.

Vi stands there, rooted, a dumb, lopsided grin tugging at her lips. Because one—you said yes. A big fucking plus.

And two—

You called her Violet.

No one calls her by her full name. Usually, it’d piss her off.

But the way it sounds from your lips?

It makes her knees weak.

Later that day, after what felt like an eternity of convincing, you finally managed to drag Flint along to the "get-together" at Vi’s dorm.

You’ve been here before—many times, actually—but tonight feels different. Your pulse hammers against your ribs as you climb the stairs, each step making your nerves tighten just a little more.

“You should’ve worn the skirt,” Flint teases, nudging you with his elbow.

You roll your eyes, scoffing.

“Yeah—so I can flash the entire room when the weed hits? Genius plan.”

You nudge him back, and he just shakes his head, laughing softly before raising a fist to knock on the door.

It swings open almost immediately, and Abby greets Flint with that typical frat-boy handshake—clasped hands, a shoulder bump like they’re part of some exclusive club.

Then her gaze shifts to you, and her expression softens. Like always, you greet her with a hug, the familiarity grounding you for just a moment before she steps back to let you both in.

“Don’t bother with the shoes,” she says, shutting the door behind you and leading the way to the living room.

The space is filled with scattered laughter and the low hum of music. A few familiar faces lounge across the couch and floor—Ekko, Powder, two girls you don’t recognize.

But Ellie is missing, and it doesn’t take long for you to guess that she’s probably off somewhere with Margot.

And then—your eyes land on her.

Vi is sprawled out on the couch, cap pulled low over her pink hair, and for a split second, the entire room fades away.

Your breath catches. Your heart leaps. You swear you feel the ground shift beneath you.

The moment Vi notices you, her entire posture changes. She straightens up, stiffens like she’s been caught off guard.

Her head goes completely static, like she’s trying to figure out what the hell to do.

A handshake would be too impersonal. A hug, on the other hand—fuck it.

Before either of you can think, she’s already moving.

Her arms wrap around you, firm and secure, and suddenly you’re pressed against her. She smells like leather and something faintly floral—an intoxicating mix that seeps into your lungs, making you want to drown in it. Her body is solid, warm, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you let yourself lean into it.

“Hey.”

The word slips from her lips, quieter than you expected, as if the rest of the room no longer exists. It lingers in the space between you, charged with something unspoken.

You barely manage a breath before she pulls back, her arms reluctantly falling away from you.

“Hey,” you echo, voice softer than you intended.

And just like that, the air between you shifts—tighter, heavier. But before you can process it, the moment is gone.

You settle beside Vi on the couch, crossing your legs as casually as you can manage.

But the moment you do, doubt creeps in—are you too stiff? Too tense? Before you can spiral, Vi holds out a blunt, and you silently thank the gods for the distraction.

The conversation hums around you, a background blur of laughter and chatter. You take a slow drag, the smoke burning its way down your throat, sitting heavy in your lungs.

If your mother could see you now…

Vi, on the other hand, is losing her damn mind. The moment her fingers brush yours as you take the blunt, something electric shoots through her veins, igniting every nerve. It’s ridiculous how much a single touch affects her, but she can’t stop herself—she’s been waiting for an opening, for any excuse to keep the momentum between you going.

“How was practice?” Her voice is softer than before, meant only for you. Her stormy gray eyes lock onto yours, and she tries—tries so damn hard—to appear unfazed, like your presence doesn’t unravel her by the second.

You exhale slowly, the smoke curling between you as you hum in thought. Vi swears every tiny sound you make sets her heart hammering against her ribs.

“Horrible,” you finally admit, a quiet chuckle slipping from your lips. “Laurel made me do extra drills because I was late.”

Vi’s brow twitches at that—the ballet bitch had it out for you?

“Because of me.” Her jaw ticks, irritation flickering across her face. “I should’ve looked where I was going.”

You shake your head, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “No, I was late to begin with.”

Vi takes the blunt back from you, bringing it to her lips, and for some reason, your head spins as you watch her take a drag. The way her lips wrap around the paper, the slow pull of her inhale—it’s too much. You look away, pulse skittering in your chest.

“Vi, beer?”

Ekko’s voice cuts through the haze, and you glance up to see him standing from the floor, his head tilted in question.

Vi nods, but before she can even respond, Ekko smirks. “And your birdie?”

Everything stops.

A sudden, suffocating tension grips Vi’s chest.

No, no, no—not that.

Ekko nods toward you, and you blink at him, an eyebrow arching. “What?”

Vi stiffens beside you, her heart lurching into her throat. She panics, speaking before thinking. “Leave her alone.”

Your eyes flicker between them, mild confusion crossing your face. Meanwhile, Ekko raises his hands in mock surrender, amusement dancing in his expression. “No need to get your knickers in a twist over your crush.”

Vi freezes.

A hot wave of dread rushes up her spine, spreading like wildfire beneath her skin.

She can’t move, can’t breathe—can’t even look at you.

A few hours later, Flint announces your departure, and you silently thank the heavens.

Ever since Ekko so graciously outed Vi’s feelings for you, she’s been stuck in this awkward, jittery mess, barely able to meet your gaze.

Not that you’ve been doing much better. Your thoughts have been spiraling, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum.

Because Violet fucking Lane has a crush on you.

You barely register Flint chatting with Abby near the door when Vi shifts beside you, exhaling softly—like she’s working up the nerve to say something.

Then, finally, in a voice quieter than you’ve ever heard from her, she speaks.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Your breath hitches, eyes flickering to hers. She’s not looking at you, but you can see it—the hesitation, the nerves tight in her posture. You give a small nod, and that’s all she needs before turning on her heel, leading you down the hall.

The moment you’re away from the others, Vi leans against the wall, inhaling deeply, like the words are lodged in her throat and she needs to steady herself before prying them free.

“I’m sorry about Ekko.” Her voice is low, the weight of her words pressing between you. “He’s an idiot.”

She still won’t look at you, her eyes fixed somewhere near the floor, and you swear you can see her hands twitch—like she wants to shove them deep into her pockets but is fighting the urge.

“It’s okay, I swear.” Your voice is softer now, watching her carefully, hoping to ease the tightness in her frame.

Vi finally dares to glance up, and at the sight of your small smile, you watch the tension in her shoulders loosen, just slightly.

“Yeah?” she murmurs, almost like she doesn’t quite believe it.

You nod, hands clasped together in front of you to keep yourself from fidgeting.

God, she’s so pretty.

Vi takes a step forward—slowly, carefully—like she’s afraid she might scare you off. Her eyes search yours, drinking in every detail, every shift in your expression.

She’s looking for something—anything—to tell her this isn’t one-sided, that you might want her just as much as she wants you.

And you do.

Your lips part slightly, breath stalling in your chest as she reaches out, hesitating just for a second before her fingers brush against your cheek. Her touch is featherlight, careful, reverent.

A quiet gasp catches in your throat as warmth blooms beneath her fingertips, and she feels it—feels the way you lean into her palm, how your lashes flutter just slightly.

Vi swears her heart is going to give out.

“Can I?” she whispers, her lips now just inches from yours. You can feel the warmth of her breath, smell the faint trace of mint and something distinctly her.

It’s barely a nod—just the smallest tilt of your head—but it’s enough.

Vi doesn’t hesitate this time. A quiet, shaky exhale leaves her just before she closes the space between you, her lips pressing against yours in a rush of heat and longing.

Your hands instinctively grip her shoulders, fingers grazing firm muscle, and god, you wish you’d done this sooner.

Her other hand finds its way into your hair, tugging you impossibly closer as she angles her head, deepening the kiss.

Her lips move against yours in a slow, careful rhythm—like she’s savoring every second, like she wants to commit this moment to memory.

And for the first time all night, the world feels right.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ TAGLIST *ੈ✩‧₊˚

( @foralltheprettygirls ; @sawaagyapong ; @jivimatcha ; @majuia ; @uhmidkmuch ; @savedforlaterr ; @baylegend6 ; @elle-girlylesbian @dazevi @paymeinkash , @jupitism , @lostsouls-mxli ; @xseraphine ; @tdawg2012 ; @norwayromanoff ; @caffeine-pup ; @tuliptu ; @killuomi ; @lin-elizabeth ; @sillyloafff ; @hitmehardmommy ; @cloudy-fay ; @powpowjinxlife ; @antobooh ; @horde9 ; @mikellie )

[dearlenore]

hiiiii

Tim Bradford x reader where she's pregnant. and nesting. Tim would be all over that I feel.

This has gotta be my favorite thing ever I’m obsesseddd🥹💋 this one might be the fluffiest I’ve written too❤️

HELLO BABY • T.BRADFORD

SUMMARY: Tim comes home to an unexpectedly motivated reader, cleaning, building and painting the nursery for their little girl

PAIRING: SAHM!reader x Tim Bradford

tags: PURE FLUFF, reader wears ‘feminine’ clothes, mentions of pregnancy , nesting mentions, Tim is very confused

a/n: first time writing Tim so be nice to me please…

w/c: 1.1K

Tim Bradford was exhausted. Thirteen hours on shift, three foot pursuits, and one particularly annoying rookie later, all he wanted was to come home, take a shower, and collapse into bed with you. He’d been looking forward to it all day—the feeling of your body curled against his, the scent of your shampoo, the sound of your voice reminding him he was more than just a cop with a badge.

But the second he stepped into the house, he knew something was off.

The scent of fresh paint hit him first, sharp and unmistakable. Then came the sound—faint music Sabrina Carpenter from your phone, the occasional shuffle of movement, and the distinct thunk of something being assembled. Tim frowned, toeing off his boots as he followed the noise down the hall.

And there you were.

Eight months pregnant in overalls, standing on your tiptoes, rolling paint onto the nursery wall. A half-assembled crib lay in pieces beside you along with your nightgown, instructions crumpled but ignored. A screwdriver sat on top of a pile of screws that definitely should have been in the furniture instead of scattered across the floor.

Tim stared. Blinked. Rubbed a hand down his face before speaking.

“What. The hell. Are you doing?”

You startled at his voice, turning to look at him over your shoulder. A streak of light pink paint ran across your cheek, your hair was a mess, and yet you had the nerve to smile at him like you hadn’t just been caught red-handed.

“Preparations.”

Tim exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can see that. But you’re supposed to be resting, not turning the nursery into a DIY disaster zone.”

You huffed, placing the paint roller down. “I was waiting for you to get home, but you were working late, and I had all this energy, so I figured I might as well—”

“No.” Tim stepped forward, hands settling on your waist as he guided you away from the paint tray. “Babe, you’re carrying our kid, not a whole-ass toolbox. You should be lying down, not climbing on step stools and putting together cribs.”

“I wasn’t climbing,” you defended, avoiding his knowing stare.

Tim arched a brow. “You sure about that?”

You pursed your lips. “Okay, maybe a little.”

He sighed, shaking his head as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You need to slow down or you’ll be the death of us both.”

You grinned. “But you love me.”

“I do,” he admitted, voice soft. “Which is exactly why you need to let me handle this stuff, okay?”

Your hands came up to rest on his chest, fingers tracing absent patterns over his vest. “I just wanted everything to be perfect before she gets here.”

Tim’s expression softened. He knew how much this meant to you. He’d seen the baby books on your nightstand, the way you planned every little detail down to the crib sheets and wall decals. But you didn’t have to do this alone—not when he was here.

“She’s already got the most perfect mom in the world,” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours. “So how about you let me take over, and you sit down before I have to arrest you for reckless endangerment of my pregnant wife?”

You snorted, rolling your eyes but relenting. “Fine. But I’m supervising.”

Tim chuckled. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

As he helped you settle onto the nursery rocking chair, he grabbed the screwdriver and eyed the crib parts with determination. He might’ve spent the last thirteen hours chasing bad guys, but apparently, his real challenge was about to be assembling baby furniture with no instructions.

Tim had faced shootouts, car chases, and criminals twice his size without breaking a sweat. But as he sat cross-legged on the nursery floor, staring down at the disassembled crib like it was an active crime scene, he was starting to think this might be his toughest challenge yet.

You, comfortably perched in the nursery’s new rocking chair with a glass of water in hand, were thoroughly enjoying the show.

“You know,” you mused, watching as he flipped the instruction manual upside down, “I did start putting it together already.”

Tim shot you a look, then gestured to the mess of screws and wooden panels scattered around him. “Yeah, and I’m trying to undo whatever chaos you unleashed before I got home.”

You smirked, shifting to get more comfortable. “I was making progress.”

“You put two of the legs on backward.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Details.”

Tim sighed, running a hand through his hair before glancing back at you. “You really should be in bed.”

“I was in bed. Then I got bored.” You sipped your water, giving him your most innocent look. “Besides, if I went to sleep, I would’ve missed this.”

“This?”

“The rare sight of Tim Bradford struggling.”

He pointed a screwdriver at you. “Careful. I could make you finish this yourself.”

You laughed, the sound light and easy, and despite the exhaustion still clinging to him from his shift, Tim felt the tension in his body ease. It didn’t matter how tired he was—being here with you, working on something for her, made everything else fade into the background.

A comfortable silence settled between you as he focused on assembling the crib. Every so often, you’d make an observation (“Are you sure that piece goes there?”), and he’d remind you, gently, that he knew what he was doing. (He didn’t.)

Eventually, after some cursing under his breath, an unnecessary amount of re-reading the instructions, and one incident where the crib almost collapsed on itself, he finally tightened the last screw and sat back with a victorious sigh.

“There,” he declared, brushing his hands off. “One fully operational crib, courtesy of your incredibly capable husband.”

You grinned. “I don’t know, I think she’ll have to test it herself before I give you full credit.”

Tim rolled his eyes, pushing himself up to his feet before walking over to where you sat. He rested a hand on your belly, feeling the soft movement of your breath beneath his palm.

“She’s gonna love it,” he murmured, voice softer now. “And she’s gonna love you even more.”

Your eyes glistened, and you covered his hand with yours. “We built a crib today, Tim.”

He smirked. “Correction. I built a crib today. You provided comedic relief at best.”

You swatted his arm, but your smile stayed. “First of all, my comedic relief is amazing and helpful. Second of all I can’t believe we’re really doing this.”

Tim leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before dropping another one to your belly. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice full of something so deep and unshakable it made your heart squeeze. “Me neither.”

[rafeovermorals]

CRUSH - RAFE CAMERON PT. 2

he looks like he works with his hands, and smells like marlboro reds it makes me so, uh, and i can’t get enough of it

pt. 1

content: inspired on the song crush by ethel cain. mechanic!rafe au. reader isn’t from obx but she would be considered more kook. includes smut, fingering, oral (m recieving), p in v, creampie, mean!rafe, degrading, age gap (reader is eighteen), MINORS DNI!!!!!

word count: 2.5k

a/n: this is the last part to this mini series (at least for now)! but next i want to work on a dbf!rafe series or a vampire!rafe series. if anyone is interested in either one of those stayed tuned xo

“come by the shop tomorrow, it’s time for you to pay up.”

the call ended with a click. no goodbye, no time to meet. rafe didn’t bother to ask you, no, he told you.

he didn’t feel like he had to, he knew you would show up. you were the type to listen to your elders.

you laid in bed with disbelief, fingers still coated in your slick post orgasm. it didn’t take you long to drift off thinking about him— the raspiness in his voice, his dirty words repeating back in your head,

“do you normally get off on strangers talkin’ to you like this, hm? lettin’ them cum to your sweet lil’ voice over the phone?”

you stirred in your sleep as you dreamt of him. rafe was rough around the edges with eyes of a predator— the type that should tell you to run— yet you wanted more.

maybe that’s why he picked you. the perfect prey, too sweet and dumb for her own good.

rafe was nothing like the boys back home. your last boyfriend was a gentleman, clean cut and charming, but he was probably just as clueless as you. he wouldn’t know the last thing about changing out a tire, and certainly didn’t know how to please you the way rafe just had.

just from your short encounters with him, you could tell he had experience well beyond your years. he came from a different world, one that consisted of labor intensive, twelve hour work days— while you had just finished high school, barely ever lifting a finger of your own.

you were restless until the sun came up.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thankfully, today your alarm did wake you up, and you had plenty of time to get ready.

you wore your favorite yellow babydoll dress for the occasion, the one with dainty frills at the skirt that paired perfectly with your brown cowgirl boots. you had matching bows in your hair, clipped at the end of two braided pieces in the front while the rest of draped past your shoulders.

you wanted to look extra pretty for rafe since he caught you so off guard the day before, though you hoped it didn’t look too obvious

butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you went up to the rusted doors of his shop, business card folded in hand.

‘Cameron’s Auto and Body Repair’ was spelt on the glass in aged, faded lettering surrounded by dilapidated brick. you began to wonder how long he’d been there for considering the buildings clear wear and tear, which then led you to question— how old was he?

you hadn’t thought to ask for his age, or really anything else beyond what was on the business card. guess you weren’t too worried about that when he was helping you cum last night.

you walked in, a bell ringing as you did so. even with multiple cars in the lot, the shop itself was empty of customers. there was one person propped up against the checkout register, scrolling on his phone until you spoke, “excuse me?”

“are y’ pickin’ up or droppin’ o— oh.“

his eyes tore away from the screen, bored expression quickly leaving his face as his gaze landed on you. he was suddenly interested, straightening his back and pushing his device off to the side. “sorry about that, how can i help you?”

you let out a giggle at his silliness, standing across from him behind the counter. you would assume he’s close in age with you based on his appearance— youthful face and golden locks peaking from his hat. you saw he had a name tag printed to his coveralls, jj.

“hi, i’m just here to make a payment, actually.”

he stared at you for a bit, eyebrows knitted and chin rested his hand. “and you’re sure you’ve been here before? i would’ve remembered a cute face like yours.”

a blush crept to your cheeks, shaking your head. “no, but i did have some work done yesterday.”

he fumbled through the visitor log, briefly scanning the pages of signatures. “hmm, and what’s your name?”

you weren’t sure if he was asking to actually check or just wanted to know for himself— probably the latter. “i don’t think it’ll be there but it’s-“

you stopped at the sound of a loud slam, finding the source to be rafe standing on the other side of the room. your breath hitched, seeing his eyes bore into you. he was not amused, you could tell.

“flirtin’ with our customers again, maybank?”

jj looked like he was caught red handed, swallowing in his throat. “umm, no, she uh— said she had an invoice and needed to pay. that’s all.” he responded nervously, looking at you with a plea to back his word.

“yes, i wasn’t sure where to go.. i just got here.”

jj flickered between the two of you as the tension was rising in the air. sure, his boss was a jackass, but he could tell he was missing something.

rafe hummed, gesturing his head to the door behind him with arms crossed over his chest. “you can come with me. and jj, go to fuckin’ lunch.”

you gave the younger boy a small smile. you could tell he wanted to speak up— maybe stop god knows whatever was about to happen— but he held his tongue. rafe didn’t take back talk very well, something you would learn soon.

you followed in rafe’s direction where he led you past the bay and into his office. it was a tiny space, smelled of oil and gasoline with just enough room for a few file cabinets. it also had a desk, scattered with various papers and a few tools that weren’t put away.

“sit.” he referred to the worn chair in front of him, leaning on the edge of his wooden desk.

he was wearing a tank top, what used to be white but was now brown from being covered in dirt. it had ripped at the seams from its overuse, making it more like a scrap of fabric. dusted blue jeans hung low on his hips with a belt, his grease stained arms flexing at his side as he looked down at you.

you felt yourself getting warm just by looking at him.

“i brought your payment, sir.”

he smirked at your words, raising a brow as he waited and watched you.

you reached into the cup of your bra, feeling around until you pulled out a wad of cash that you had stuck there earlier. you unrolled the paper bills, handing it over to him.

he counted it out with a low chuckle. “sixty dollars. you think that’s how much i’m worth, sweetheart?” he teased.

you turned red, fiddling with your bracelet from anxious habit. “i wasn’t sure how much something like that costed, ‘s all.”

“i already told y’that i don’t want your money.” he stood up, setting the cash aside. “i have other ways that i would prefer you to pay me back.”

he towered over you, filling in the compressed space. you were eye level with his crotch, the print of his cock made itself known to you through his pants. you could smell him with his proximity— a blend of sweat and cigarettes and musk that made your head spin.

“get on your knees, darlin’.” he told you with that thick, honey southern drawl.

for a moment he took you by surprise, but you didn’t hesitate to slide off the chair and onto the tile floor in front of his feet. you shouldn’t want this. you should want a nice boy, someone your father would approve of, or at the very least take you on a date before he fucked you. yet here you were, cock desperate and mouth agape— practically begging for it.

he started to take off his gloves. “thought you would’ve texted me when you were on the way, i could’ve washed up f’you.”

“i meant to.. i must’ve forgot.”

“it’s okay, sweetheart.” his voice was smooth, but condescending. he began to work his belt free, slow and deliberate as he held eye contact with you. “now you’re just gonna have to suck me clean.”

he tugs his jeans down with his boxers, cock springing out with authority. you nearly whimper at the sight, taken aback.

he was more than just big— he was longer and thicker than you imagined— the weight heavy in your hand has you held it. his tip was flushed, a needy pink that was inviting you in.

your lips brushed the head, giving him a kiss at its slit. he let out a restrained grunt, bringing a hand to your head and grasping at the scalp. “not in the mood for teasing, baby.”

your tongue grazed his shaft, licking up from the base until he directed himself into your mouth. he tasted like a hard days work, sweat and salty precum whelming your tastebuds.

you pushed deeper for more, bracing your free hand on his thigh for support. he guides you, inch by inch into until he hit the back of your throat. you choke, pulling away.

“fuck,” you gasp out, jerking your wrist on his length while you catch your breath. he weaved his fingers through your hair, giving it a tug.

you take him in again, bobbing at a steady pace— not too far or fast— but just right.

he held his other hand on the corner of a cabinet, keeping his balance while you swirl your tongue around the tip.

“you like the taste of dirty cock in your mouth, sweetheart? i’m sure y’daddy’s real proud of you, huh?”

you moaned in response, making him buck his hips further. you could feel his legs trembling as he fucked your mouth, signaling that he was close. you relaxed your throat, ready to take his load.

but he stopped, releasing his hold on you and taking you off.

his once blue eyes were black, dark with lust and something almost evil.

“not finished with you yet, sweetheart. think i deserve a little more after that stunt you pulled out there.”

“w-what- what do you mean?” you asked, your voice soft and uneasy. you could hardly speak, let alone think.

he tisked, snatching you by the arm to get you on your feet before bending you over and pressing you down to the desk. he cleared it off with one smooth motion, stacks of paper and metal clanks hitting the floor.

“wanna act stupid now? throwin’ yourself at my employee’s, that’s what.” he growled, hands riding up your dress and grabbing at your ass. you stifled a whine as he kneaded the flesh, thumbs digging into your skin.

heat radiated off of both of you, his chest twice your size folded against your back, your cheek smushed to the wood.

“it wasn’t- ah- like that.” you breathe out as his fingers find your panties, swiping over your clothed clit.

“so what was it like then? hmm?” he nudged his knee between your thighs, parting your legs for better access. he rubbed tedious circles, your arousal soaking through the cotton.

“i came here for you.. just you.” you answered in a moan.

“just me.” he agreed, tugging off your panties and tucking them into his pocket. he slipped his middle finger past your folds, sinking into your cunt.

“shouldn’t even be stretchin’ you out first, think you did enough of that when i called you.”

he curled the digit, hooking and flicking it inside you in a spot that makes your knees buckle underneath him. you bite down on a lip to silence yourself.

rafe was impatient. he’d already had a bad day— behind on some repair that should’ve been finished weeks ago— then his lazy ass staff had the audacity to make a move on you. he needed you now.

maybe if he was in a better mood he would’ve taken care of you first, given you an orgasm or two with his mouth— but he didn’t think you deserved that— not today at least.

his cock wedged into your entrance, no mercy with a full thrust. you winced, crying out as he rocked into you, the mix of your spit and slick still not enough to relieve the pain of his girth. you were so tight, your walls gripping his cock as he fucked himself into you.

“such a good girl, takin’ me so well.”

the burn eventually wore off, his thrusts that started off slow began to speed up. you were still squeezing around him, splitting you open farther than you had been before.

your search along the desk for something to grab, getting him to hold both your wrists behind your back. you balled your hands into a fist, your whimpers getting louder as he picked up the pressure. harder, controlled.

he was slamming into you now, the slaps of his thighs meeting yours while he grunted into your ear. “look so fuckin’ pretty today, darlin’, makes me wanna put my babies in you.”

you couldn’t reply, he knew it too. you just had to lay there and let him use you— for pay back.

this was exactly what he wanted. your pussy was so wet and warm, practically untouched. it was as if you were created for him.

you clenched around his cock, like an animal in heat you found yourself matching his movements, your body accepting its purpose.

you were cock drunk, words inaudible as the legs of the desk shifted with each forceful thrust. he was pounding into you hungrily, both of your faces screwing up in pleasure.

he knew he grazed that sweet spot in your walls when you fluttered around his length, stickiness pooling at the base of his cock.

“wanna watch you cum on my cock.” he grumbles, releasing your wrists as he pulls away, flipping you over to be face to face.

he picked up where he left off, plunging into you as he met your hips with sloppy, frantic thrusts. you were so weak by that point he had to hold your legs up, toes curling when his tip connected with your cervix.

“gonna cum- please, rafe- fuck, right there.” you were a babbling mess, mewling like a kitten.

he brought one hand to your mouth. stuffing his fingers in to shush you like a pacifier. his other hand went to your swollen clit, rubbing the sensitive bud to help get to your climax.

he coaxed you through it. “cmon, just like that. i know you’re almost there, sweetheart.”

he rammed into you a few more times, watching his bulge outline your little tummy as you took him.

your core eventually snaps, releasing the flood as you squirm and shake— too much to bare.

“too much! too much!”

“nuh uh. be a big girl, and take it.”

he started to stutter, eventually spilling his load inside of you. your cunt pulsated as you felt him fill you up, like it was trying to collect all of his seed.

rafe moved aside, zipping up his jeans while you flattened your dress. he gave you a kiss on the cheek, like one you would give to a child, patting it afterwards in approval.

“now we’re even.”

[paucubarsisimp]

Would you ever write a Hector fort fic of him and reader playing the game where he has to guess the names of makeup products and their use and it’s just hilarious 😂

Have a great day/night 💙

makeup challenge

pairing: hector fort x reader

summary: in which hector tries to guess your makeup products

warnings: none

a/n: sry this took so long to come out! i couldn’t think of anything but @paus-princesa helped me (i love you sm girl)

tagged: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay, @joaosnovia, lmk if you want to be added to the taglist!

it was one of those perfect, lazy afternoons in barcelona, where the sun was just starting to dip and the world seemed to slow down a little. you were sitting at your vanity, preparing to do your makeup when hector, who’d been lounging on the couch, suddenly sat up with an idea.

“oi,” he said, his voice full of that familiar mischief, “let’s do something fun. i’ll try guessing your makeup products. i bet i can figure them out.”

you raised an eyebrow, amused. “seriously? you know nothing about makeup.”

“exactly,” he grinned. “that’s what makes it interesting. come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

you chuckled. “fine, fine. but i’m not going easy on you.”

“no problem,” he said, a confident smile on his face. “let’s do this.”

eyelash curler

you handed him the first item: the eyelash curler. hector took it in his hands, inspecting it from all angles, clearly confused.

“what is this?” he asked, frowning at it. “it’s like a little clamp?”

you giggled. “it’s an eyelash curler. you use it to curl your lashes before putting on mascara.”

his eyes went wide, and he turned it over in his hands like it was a dangerous weapon. “wait—so you curl your eyelashes with this? how do you not poke your eye out?”

you laughed. “no! it’s actually really easy once you get the hang of it.”

he held it up to his eye, looking at you nervously. “i don’t know… i’d probably end up poking myself. i think i’ll stick to football—much less dangerous.”

eyebrow brush

next, you handed him the eyebrow brush. he stared at it like it was something straight out of a science experiment.

“so… this is for your eyebrows?” he asked, genuinely confused. “why do they need a brush?”

you couldn’t help but giggle at his confusion. “well, yeah. it helps keep them in place and shapes them. you don’t want them looking wild.”

he ran his hand over his own eyebrows, still baffled. “but mine are fine. they just grow, and that’s it.”

you smiled. “it’s not just about growth. trust me, brushing makes a difference.”

he shrugged, still not convinced. “i’ll take your word for it. i’m happy with my ‘natural’ look.”

you giggled. “one day, i’ll show you. you might change your mind.”

beauty blender

now it was time for the beauty blender. you handed it to him, and he immediately began squeezing it, fascinated by how soft and squishy it was.

“okay, this is actually fun,” he said, squishing it in his hand like a stress ball. “what’s it for?”

“it’s a beauty blender,” you explained, watching him continue to squish it. “you use it to blend foundation. you dampen it first, so it’s softer.”

he gave it another squeeze, nodding slowly. “this feels like something i should have in the locker room. imagine how relaxed i’d be before a match.”

“i think your teammates might find that a bit distracting,” you teased.

he shrugged, still amused. “i mean, it’s like a little squishy toy. how could anyone resist?”

you laughed. “maybe we should get you one for the next match.”

lip gloss

finally, it was time for the lip gloss. hector picked it up, giving it a once-over, clearly intrigued.

“okay, so what’s the flavor of this one?” he asked, his voice suddenly serious. “i’m going to guess…”

you raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “go on, make your guess.”

he tilted his head, looked at you for a moment, then grinned. “cherry. i’m going with cherry.”

you stared at him, surprised. “wait, seriously? how did you guess that?”

he smiled smugly. “what can i say? i have a sweet tooth. plus, you taste like cherries, so it felt obvious.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, feeling your cheeks flush. “you taste me?”

he shrugged, unfazed. “had to make sure. it’s all part of the challenge.”

he leaned in and kissed you, just a quick, soft peck on the lips. when he pulled away, his grin was wide. “yep, definitely cherry. tastes like summer in a tube.”

you blinked, trying to hide your smile. “wow, you really went for it, huh?”

he grinned. “what can i say? i’m thorough. i like to win.”

by the time you both slipped on those adorable animal ear headbands—one with bear ears and the other with bunny ears—you were both laughing so much it was hard to focus on anything. hector looked ridiculously cute, and you couldn’t help but steal a few kisses as you went along with the challenge.

he kept sneaking little kisses on your cheeks, forehead, and even your nose, each one making you giggle. every time you’d pick up a new product to use, he’d kiss you and distract you, making it harder to keep a straight face.

“okay,” he said, pulling you onto his lap once the challenge was over, “now it’s my turn. do my makeup. let’s see if you can make me look good.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you really want me to do your makeup?”

“yup,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “let’s see how well you can handle the challenge. but don’t make me look like a clown.”

you smiled, grabbing your makeup products. “no promises.”

as you started applying makeup to his face—carefully, since you couldn’t stop laughing at how ridiculous he looked—you felt a warm, silly joy bubble up. he kept looking up at you with that mischievous grin of his, clearly enjoying every second.

“you know,” he said, his voice soft and teasing, “i think you might be onto something with this whole makeup thing. maybe i should start wearing it more often. i could be the first football player with makeup.”

you giggled. “maybe you should, though i think the team would have some words to say about it.”

he laughed, pulling you close for one last kiss. “well, at least i’d look good while making history.”

you both ended up laughing, your makeup supplies scattered around, but feeling closer than ever. there was no challenge too silly or moment too small for the two of you to enjoy together.

don’t forget to leave a request!

[sourplumtext]

My New Bodyguard Watches Me Sleep!

Synopsis: After an incident with a stalker, you decide to hire someone to stand guard while you sleep. Sylus is willing and able.

Tags: bodyguard, domestic, sfw

(A/n: I just wanted to write something a little domestic today. I also would like to fashion my titles like those manga/manhwas with long titles. Also i would like to accept requests for what to write. I think it would be fun, though I'm very new to writing here.)

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

You had already explained your situation to the head dispatcher before, but you went over it again during the meeting. "I understand the hours are an inconvenience, but I'm willing to pay a higher rate if-"

"Miss. Please don't worry. The rate is already at a set price. And besides, the hours suit Sylus well."

"They... do?"

Sylus had been sitting there silently the whole time, his eyes focused on you as you explained your situation. It was a little intimidating to have such a man fix his gaze on you. "Yes," he said. His eyes were piercing and unrelenting, like a hawk. "I prefer nights."

Maybe it was even the way he dressed, in a black button down shirt and pants, with shoulders so broad and muscles so thick that they subtly filled out the sleeves of his shirt even at rest. You were sure he would be good at warding off not only people, but even the ghosts of your old apartment building. But could you really allow this man into your home?

The supervisor pulled out a set of contracts. "Good. We're all in agreement then!"

•••

Sylus arrived shortly after dinner for his first shift. He was dressed in the same clothes as when you met him, all black from his dress shirt to his pants to the shoes he slipped off when he entered your home.

He held up a plastic bag, the contents making a clinking noise as he brought it to your attention. "Before you sleep, drink this."

You accepted the bag and opened it to see a few glass bottles inside. "Milk?" You frowned. "I'm not a child."

"I'll heat it up if you want to shower."

"N-no, I showered already." Who said anything about showering? It was a little disarming for you to be treated so casually by someone you just met.

You both stood at the doorway a bit awkwardly before you moved first out of sheer embarrassment. "I'll ...warm it up then."

Sylus looked around your apartment while you busied yourself in the kitchen. You could see him from where you were and he made no effort to conceal what he was doing.

"Do you keep your curtains closed at night?"

"Yes, I feel a little... safer... that way."

He nodded and pulled at the glass door to your balcony, the door offering resistance since you kept it locked at all times. "Has your stalker been through here before?"

You looked up to see Sylus' gaze on you, just the same as when you first met him. Steady, unrelenting. "He... he's come in twice. Once through there and then... I think it was the front door that he..."

"I only ask to be sure of where-"

"I know, it's fine," you reassured him. "I don't know. I was asleep when he came in."

Sylus didn't ask anything after that.

After you drank the milk, you settled into bed while he sat on a seat nearby. You didn't thank him for it, and he didn't make any indication that you should have.

"What if you get tired?"

"I won't."

The silence of the night slowly overtook the conversation as you got comfortable in bed. That being said, it was still your first night with him. There weren't many ways you could get customer reviews about his capabilities since a night guard wasn't easy to come by. Could anyone really blame you for doubting-

"Do you not trust me?"

You didn't know how to respond.

"I wanted to ask it before."

"It's just... my first time sleeping while someone watches over me..."

"Shall I look away then?" After you had hesitated too long in your answer, Sylus moved on his own, his chair moved slightly so that he was naturally at an angle to you. He could still see you in his peripheral, but at least you could catch a break from that glare of his. "Better?"

"Mm."

"Then sleep."

You closed your eyes. Eventually though, you couldn't help but shift in your bed. First, rolling over to your side, then to the other, then onto your back again. Sylus hadn't said anything, but you knew he was watching you all the same.

"Do you not have a girlfriend?"

He smiled a little at the question. "Are you hoping my answer will bore you to sleep?" You opened your eyes and turned towards him, now expecting an answer. "Then, no."

"I figured."

"Why, because I work night shifts?"

You laid back down. "Your personality."

He let out a huff, clearly amused by the answer. "I could say the same about you." You couldn't hide your smile even in the dark.

You sat back up. "I-"

"Sleep," he said. "Or else my being here is for nothing."

"You can't expect someone to sleep easily when someone else is sitting awake beside me."

Sylus sighed. "Lie down." Disappointed by his bland response, you followed his instruction. "If you want to talk, stay still and keep your eyes closed."

"I don't get it."

"If you stay still for fifteen minutes, you'll fall asleep."

"How did you learn that?"

He sighed. "Just do it."

There was a short silence again as you tried to keep still under your covers. "Tell me a story, then."

"I thought you weren't a child."

You took a deep breath and let it out dramatically, trying to get yourself to relax a bit more. "I feel sad for your future girlfriend." He didn't ask why before you started to explain yourself. "What good is a boyfriend if they won't indulge you?"

"And what good is a girlfriend that lets another man into her bedroom to watch her while she sleeps?"

You laughed. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Keep your eyes closed."

"They are."

"Why don't you have a boyfriend?" You thought about it for a minute, but you couldn't really come up with an answer. He took the liberty. "Your personality, maybe."

He braced himself for the pillow you threw at him. Even with your eyes closed, you could still guess where he was sitting. "Maybe when my stalker goes away..."

You had to admit that he knew a thing or two about falling asleep. You were starting to slow down, your body feeling as if it were sinking into your bed. You were trying very hard to be good and let yourself fall into unconsciousness, but for the moment you could still speak.

"Sylus..."

"Mm."

"...Sure you won't fall asleep?"

"I won't."

"....Promise?..."

"Yes, I promise."

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(A/n: It would be interesting to have a dead dove version where Sylus was her stalker all along, but I don't feel called to write it . If someone else wants to write that, I would love to read it so please tag me if so ... )

[angelluv16]

Rumor Has it⁶

✩: Kaia Jenner, the youngest Kardashian-Jenner, is an up-and-coming actress. When F1 driver Charles Leclerc casually calls her his favorite actress, the internet goes crazy. What starts as rumors turns into a whirlwind of drama, chemistry, and public scrutiny.

Part 6

faceclaim: Cindy Kimberly, girls from Pinterest

Want to be added to my taglist?: Click here

pairing: Charles Leclerc x Jenner!reader

request: no!!

warnings: Hate, fluff, Angst, Language,

previous part | Main Masterlist | next part

f1wagsgossip

liked by flavybarla, kellypiquet, kyliejenner, username19, iamrebeccad and 12,829 others

f1wagsgossip: Charles Leclerc's rumored gf Kaia Jenner was seen entering the Las Vegas Poddock and walking into the Ferrari garage, especially a particular Monégasque driver's garage.

tagged: @charlesleclerc @kaiajenner

comments are turned off

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Las Vegas. Bright lights, flashing cameras, and the kind of energy that makes everything feel ten times more dramatic than it actually is.

Kaia had been to Vegas plenty of times before mostly for work, sometimes for fun but never like this. Never as a guest at a Grand Prix. Never with him as the reason she was here.

Her heels click against the pavement as she steps into the paddock, sunglasses shielding her eyes from both the sun and the dozen cameras snapping photos of her arrival. She knew this would happen. The internet had been going crazy ever since people started speculating she’d show up. She ignored most of it because, honestly, it was none of their business.

Her phone buzzes in her hand.

Charles: Didn’t know Vegas had a new main attraction this weekend.

She scoffs, shaking her head as she types back.

Kaia: Aww, you noticed? Thought you’d be too busy being a very serious racing driver.

Charles: I am. But I’m also very good at multitasking.

The smirk tugging at her lips is impossible to fight. It’s been like this for weeks now—conversations that toe the line between friendly and something else. She still wasn’t sure what to make of it.

A paddock worker gestures toward the Ferrari garage, leading her inside before she can overthink it too much. The energy shifts the moment she steps in—loud chatter, mechanics moving around in a perfectly organized chaos, the smell of burning rubber lingering in the air.

And then there’s him.

Charles is leaning back in a chair, still in his Ferrari team kit, hair slightly messy from taking his cap off. His eyes flick up the moment she steps in, and for a split second, he looks surprised. But then, his lips curl into a smirk.

“So you made it.”

Kaia shrugs, slipping off her sunglasses. “Figured I’d see what all the hype was about.”

Charles chuckles, standing up and running a hand through his hair. “And? Impressed yet?”

She tilts her head. “Meh. I don’t see what’s so hard about driving in circles.”

His jaw drops slightly, and then he’s shaking his head with a laugh. “You didn’t just say that.”

“I did.” She grins. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Charles squints at her like he’s actually considering his options. “I could put you in the car and show you how difficult it is.”

Kaia holds up her hands. “Oh, no. I think I’ll stick to watching.”

A mechanic calls his name from across the garage, and he glances over before looking back at her. “I should go. But—” He hesitates for a beat, then reaches for something on the table behind him. When he turns back around, he’s holding out a Ferrari team cap. “Figured you should have this.”

She stares at it for a second before taking it from him. Their fingers brush, just barely, and she ignores the way her heart stutters at the contact.

“You just want me to wear this so the whole world knows I’m in the Ferrari garage, don’t you?” she teases.

Charles grins, unbothered. “Maybe.”

She rolls her eyes but still pulls it on, adjusting it over her hair. “Happy?”

He tilts his head, eyes flickering over her face before landing on the logo now sitting on her forehead. “Very.”

She huffs, but she’s smiling as she turns away, walking toward the exit.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

kaia.jenner posted on her story

{caption 1: I like to see cars go in circles}

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

liked by charlesleclerc, carlossainz55, scuderiaferrari, kyliejenner and 12m others

kaia.jenner: What happens in Vegas... Stays in vegas

tagged: @scuderiaferrari @charlesleclerc @carlossainz55

view all comments

username37: KAIA IN THE FERRARI GARAGE??? WE WON TODAY!!!

username38: At this point, Kaia is the team principal

username39: Vegas GP? No. This is Kaia Jenner’s weekend featuring Ferrari

kyliejenner: Vegas looks GOOD on you, babe!

charlesleclerc: you should wear red more often

username40: Not her looking like the main event of the Vegas GP

username41: nother celeb using F1 for clout

username42: Ma’am, did you go to watch the race or to distract Charles? Be honest

username43: She went to Vegas and left with Ferrari’s entire fanbase

username44: Kaia at a Grand Prix while I struggle to afford F1 TV. Life is not fair

scuderiaferrari: one down, rest of Charles career to go

username45: Kaia in the Ferrari garage? Meanwhile, my team can’t even give me a free sticker.

redbullracing: Come to us next

scuderiaferrari: HAHAHA no back off🤺🤺🤺

mclaren: WE WANT HER

williamsracing: We win we have lily and Rebbeca

kaia.jenner: Guys guys I will come to everyone ESPECIALLY to williams so I can see my girls

scuderiaferrari: but but we have roscoe and Leo

mclaren: and we have the other lily

redbullracing: We have a 4-time world champion 💅💅

username46: I did not expect to see 4 team admins fighting for kaia

redbullracing: She's just that girl

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The bass pulsed through the club, there was a steady vibration in Kaia’s chest as she moved to the music. The room was drenched in neon lights, casting blues and purples over the crowd. Charles was somewhere behind her, he had been watching her all night.

She knew it.

She felt his gaze every time she laughed too hard at someone else’s joke, every time a hand brushed against hers that wasn’t his. It wasn’t like they were anything there was no reason for him to act possessive but that didn’t stop the flash of something dark in his eyes when she flirted with the guy who had bought her a drink.

Kaia turned, and just as she expected, there he was. Leaning against the bar, jaw tight, eyes flickering between her and the guy standing a little too close.

He looked good. Too good. The dim lighting cast shadows over his sharp features, and the open collar of his black button-down did nothing to help her focus.

“Not having fun, Leclerc?” she teased as she finally made her way over to him, her lips curving into a smirk.

His eyes flicked down to hers, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “Depends.”

“On?”

He leaned in, his voice low. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Kaia hummed, tilting her head. “I was…” She let the words hang, watching the way his fingers tightened around his glass. “Why?”

Charles exhaled a laugh, shaking his head, but she caught the way his jaw clenched. “No reason.”

“Sure,” she drawled, setting her to drink down and stepping even closer so close she could smell the faint scent of his cologne, something woody and warm. “You look a little jealous.”

His hand found her waist, fingers splayed against the silky material of her dress. He didn’t deny it.

“I don’t like watching you entertain other men,” he admitted, voice rough in her ear.

Kaia’s breath hitched. She wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or the way his fingers pressed just slightly into her hip, but suddenly, the club felt too hot, too loud, too much.

She looked up at him, lips parting, ready to say something that would probably be a mistake

But then someone bumped into her, breaking the moment, and just like that, the tension shattered.

Kaia exhaled, shaking her head with a small laugh. “You’re impossible.”

Charles smirked. “And yet, you’re still here.”

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

Taglist: @anamiad00msday @Ale-522 @sarx164@gottalovesae@meadhbhcavanagh@fulla02@fanficfanatic77@ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3@golden-hoax @poolclaws @hadidsworld@perfectmenarefictional@lottalove4evelyn@edgyficuselastica@nebarious@mbioooo0000@fanny2811@greantii@norstappenvibes@mary-op81@jiggly-puff-12 @Karmahnicolas @ana-23-03 @nichmeddar @nebarious

[foreverlqrk]

I feel like something no one talks about is how little Peeta valued his life throughout all three of the books

In the first book when he gets reaped. He is so focused on saving Katniss’s life that he had no thoughts to save himself. He was willing to take on Cato and risk loosing his life when he very much could have ran to save himself. Just so that Katniss could live. Later when he and Katniss team up he is determined to not let Katniss risk her life for him. Bc he can’t stand the thought of her dead and him alive. Then after it’s announced that only one victor can win. He without a second thought. Takes a knife and tries to k1ll himself. And Katniss has to shoot it out of his hand. Then he tries to undo his tourniquet to he can bleed to death. And Katniss is trying to tie it back up into order to save Peeta from himself.

In catching fire when it’s announced that the victors will be forced to go back into the arena. The first thing that Peeta thinks of and wants is to go back into the arena to save Katniss. And in the meantime, ending his life. He was legit begging to Haymitch to let him die in the arena to save Katniss, and Haymitch himself. Showing how little he Cared for himself. And don’t get me started with the scene on the beach now I feel like everyone thinks of this scene as a cute Everlark moment (don’t get me wrong it definitely is) but also Peeta says in this scene that “no one needs me” like imagine a 17 year old boy with the constant thought in his head that no one needs him and he should just die to save the person he loves. Like it’s absolutely heartbreaking to see how little he cares abt his own life

And don’t even get me started on mockingjay. During that one scene where he was able to fight the brainwashing, does he fight to escape and fight for his own life. Nope. He warns Katniss and district 13 abt the bombing. Not caring what letting go of this information does to him. Which we know in the books was a very brutal punishment for Peeta. Again showing how he cared more for others than himself. during the time where Katniss was plotting to kill president snow where Peeta was forced to tag along. Even though he wasn’t fully recovered. Does he hate on Katniss when he doesn’t go all mutt. No instead he hates on himself. He begs the group multiple times that he is just a mutt and they need to kill him. He believes that he would be better off dead and him being alive would slow the group down. I’ll remind you all that HE WAS 17 AND WAS CONSTANTLY WISHING HE WAS DEAD. He also was actively h4rming himself when he was digging his hands into the cuffs which in the end risked him getting blood poisoning. and during the stay with me always scene. Peeta is screaming at the group to leave him and that he is a mutt and nothing else. It’s Katniss who saves him from himself when she asked him to stay with her. And when Peeta says always. It gives us the impression that maybe Peeta can find something to live for after all. Katniss was able to show Peeta all throughout this book series that his life was worth it. So yeah I will never stop arguing that everlark is the best couple to ever exist.

So overall is honestly so heartbreaking to see how Peeta valued his life so little throughout these books. Caring about everyone else before himself. Again this mindset could have come from his mother who after years of telling Peeta that he was useless (she called Peeta a useless creature🥺) this could have had major affects on him (I hate Mrs. Mellark with a burning passion)

Im so glad that Peeta got the ending he deserved and found a reason to live.y BBY truly deserved the world 🥺

[reixona]

Yuu's Daily Life: A Mishap with the 2 of Spades

Third and last update to the series for the Week!!!!

It's tiring, but also fun!!

Hope you guys are liking it, if you do, feel free to follow the tag #Yuu's Daily Life

Happy Reading!!! or not

============

In the Night Raven College's potion classroom, the air was thick with the scent of herbs and simmering liquid in the cauldrons.

Shelves lined the walls, stocked with jars of dried ingredients, murky liquids, and suspicious-looking powders.

The atmosphere was tense because potion classes were never easy, and with Crewel watching over them, mistakes were not tolerated.

Yuu adjusted their gloves and let out a sigh, glancing at Deuce, who was carefully measuring out powdered moonstone. His brow was furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Alright, Deuce, let's try not to make anything explode today, yeah?" Yuu teased.

Deuce shot them an indignant look. "I don’t always make things explode!"

Yuu raised an eyebrow. "What about last week when you accidentally added too much salamander tail and nearly set the cauldron on fire?"

Deuce's face turned red. "That was…a minor miscalculation. I’ve been practicing, okay?"

Before Yuu could respond, Professor Crewel’s sharp voice cut through the murmurs of the class. "Puppies, today we will be brewing a Mist Draught. It is a delicate potion that requires precision, not brute force. I expect nothing less than perfection."

A collective groan rippled through the class. The Mist Draught was notoriously tricky, requiring the exact timing of ingredient additions and precise temperature control. One mistake, and it could turn into a noxious gas or, worse, an explosive mist.

Crewel snapped his fingers. "Get to work!"

Yuu and Deuce exchanged glances before turning to their cauldron. The recipe on the blackboard listed the steps:

Heat the water to exactly 70°C.

Add three pinches of powdered moonstone, stirring counterclockwise.

Crush and add a single porcupine quill.

Simmer for exactly four minutes, then add 3 drops of hellebore syrup.

Stir twice clockwise, then twice counterclockwise. (this ingredients came from that famous Wizard and Witches Books, iykyk)

Simple enough,

if they didn’t mess up.

Deuce grabbed a thermometer and dipped it into the cauldron. "Seventy degrees celcius, got it!"

"Okay, adding the powdered moonstone now." Yuu said as they added three pinches of a silvery powder to the bubbling water, and then a thin purple mist rose from the potion's surface as it hissed.

Deuce mumbled, "Looks right so far," as he reached for the porcupine quill. "I’ll crush it."

Yuu observed him using a mortar and pestle to carefully grind the quill. Deuce's hands were stable because he was adamant about getting better. A bluish-green glow shimmered in the potion as he dropped the powder into it.

"Nice!" smiled Yuu. "Now we just have to simmer for four minutes—"

They were drawn to a startling noise coming from the nearby table. Together with Grim, Ace had somehow produced a viscous, black muck that was bubbling menacingly.

"Oi, Ace! What did you do?" Deuce called.

Ace held up his hands in mock innocence. "Nothing! I just followed the recipe!"

Grim waved his paws, coughing. "It smells awful! Maybe we added too much porcupine quill??"

Crewel was on them in an instant, pinching the bridge of his nose."This is why I tell you to pay attention. If this explodes, you’re scrubbing cauldrons for the rest of the week."

Yuu and Deuce quickly returned their attention to their own potion as the lecturer reprimanded them. The clock was nearly up.

"Alright, stirring time," Yuu said, gripping the ladle.

Deuce nodded. "Two clockwise, then two counterclockwise, right?"

"Yup. Easy."

Or at least, it should have been.

Just as Yuu began to stir, a stray spark of magic from Ace’s bubbling disaster flew across the room and hit their cauldron and a ray of turquoise light flashed from their cauldron.

"Oh no—"

Deuce took Yuu by the arm. "Wait—!"

However, it was too late. With a gentle snap, the potion burst, and then a heavy fog surrounded them both as a thick mist burst from the cauldron.

"Ack! I can’t see anything!!" Yuu coughed.

"Neither can I!" Deuce sputtered. "Is this supposed to happen?!"

Crewel’s voice rang out. "Who was responsible for that mist?!"

Ace immediately pointed at their table. "Them! Definitely them!"

"ACE!" Yuu and Deuce shouted in unison.

Crewel sighed, waving his wand to clear the fog. As the mist dissipated, the classroom came back into view—except something was…off.

Deuce blinked. "Why do you look taller?"

Yuu stared at him. "Why do you look shorter?"

A horrifying realization hit them both at the same time. They scrambled to the nearest reflective surface—Yuu’s polished potion ladle—and gasped.

They had swapped bodies.

Deuce—now in Yuu’s body—stared at his reflection in disbelief. "No way. No. Way."

Yuu—now in Deuce’s body—groaned, rubbing their temples. "I swear, if this is because of Ace’s magic backfire, I am throwing him into a cauldron."

Ace was doubled over laughing. "Oh man, this is gold! Deuce, you look hilarious with Yuu’s scowl!"

Deuce (Yuu?) growled, clenching their fists. "This is not funny, Trappola!"

Crewel massaged his temples, looking utterly done. "You two. Stay behind after class. We need to fix this disaster."

Deuce (Yuu?) sighed. "Great. Just great."

Yuu (Deuce?) groaned. "I knew PE class was the lesser evil…"

[shinycrybaby]

put a veil and mourn for me - gojo satoru x reader

Genre/Tags: Angst, No Curses AU, one sided love

Warnings: Character death, Not proofread sorry :((

Word Count: 802 words

A/N: please don't come for me. will add satoru's pov soon. basically this is like a 2 part short fic :3c

also i wrote this during like,... a few days before my period saur... yeah my emotions were all over the place so i decided to put it all in a fic

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

For the longest time, you’ve been in love with Satoru. Ever since high school, the moment his bright eyes and warm smile met yours as he pointed to his seat back when you moved school, you knew you were hooked. He didn’t know you, yet he showed kindness and warmth, unlike some people you’ve met throughout your life.

Throughout high school, Satoru has been a constant in your life. He was there to be a shoulder to lean on when your other friends in the group weren’t available. He had shown you love and care without even asking for anything in return. Even until college, he made time and effort to hang out with you and the others, despite being in different universities.

But after an incident that took away his friend’s life, everything changed. No. His friend was alive. Suguru was alive. It’s just that he wasn’t the same as before. The woes of having his friend’s memories vanish into thin air had left him hanging, just like the very man himself. Satoru mourned for the loss of a life despite being that life being alive.

And for the most part, even after being one of his close friends, you couldn’t give him the peace of mind he wanted. He needed. You clawed your way from the pits of darkness just to give him the happiness he deserves, and yet you find that you can never make someone who mourns happy.

Even so, in the littlest of ways, you try your best to do the calmest to the most ridiculous things to do just to see at least a laugh from him. It’s small, but it’s enough.

Today was no better, but this time you opted to just watch the stars from the rooftop of your childhood home. Having been close to him since high school was enough to have him invite himself over to your place just to spend the night studying or  playing games, eating chips and then passing out.

Tonight, like any other time during your teens, you snuck through the window and climbed up to the roof through the ledge on your window and the low hanging branch of a tree conveniently beside your bedroom window, making for an easy leverage.

“You know we should have brought, like…drinks. Maybe my dad’s wine.” You spoke in a hushed tone before making yourself comfortable – although it’s hard – on the roof.

“We’re both lightweight. What are you talking about?” Satoru snickers in reply. Amusement is very much evident in the tone of his voice.

“You’re right. But wine tastes good. The sweet ones, I mean. The dry ones, though, I hate those.” You eyed the constellations above, trying to look for one as you two playfully talked.

“Yeah, I like sweets,” Satoru mutters back.

For a moment, there was only peaceful silence. On the one hand, it’s good. On the other hand, it wasn’t. With silence and darkness going hand in hand, it’s only natural to give birth to negating thoughts, ebbing their sharp claws in your mind. Suddenly hit with an overwhelming feeling of sadness, your eyes stung from the onslaught of tears piercing the corners of your eyes.

“It’s so deep and scary.” You whisper, breath catching in your throat.

Satoru turns to look at you, curious. “What is?”

“The sky. When it’s dark.” You observed the stars twinkling and the planets that shined steadily. “Crazy how everything is truly dark. Like the sun is but an illusion to keep humans calm and comforted. But you go into space, and you’ll just be met with total darkness. There’s light…but nothing to keep you grounded. Everything is miles and lightyears away.”

“You, okay?” He asked, now concerned.

“Yeah. Just midnight thoughts.”

Another silence and another tear slip past your eyes. He hasn’t been talking much since everything that has happened. You didn’t know what to do anymore, you’re running out of options to save him from drowning.

In a pained whisper that you so badly wish he doesn’t take note of, the words are uttered, “It’s really beautiful.” You smile sadly at the starry sky. “I want to shine like them too.”

“Yeah...” Satoru mutters in reply. You look back at him, there’s that unreadable expression on his face once more. The only thing recognizable was the distant look in his eyes. Almost like regret.

You avert your gaze from him once more, this time settling to close your eyes instead of welcoming a new kind of darkness, one devoid of light.

“It’s peaceful.” You hear him muttering and the shuffling of his clothes that made it sound like he was turning on his side.

You let silence override your senses, the only symphony in the night being the sound of breathing and the cacophony of the crickets’ chorus.

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

A/N:

Yippie! I am so happy I am getting back on my writing groove :] it's not much but after the burn out I had for years during college, i'm just so happy to get back to writing whenever I feel like it. i'll probably open requests if i find a comfortable pace with writing, otherwise this is okay for me right now!

again, likes and reblogs as well as comments are very much appreciated!

© February 2025, shinycrybaby. All rights reserved. Reposting is prohibited.

[voidinmybrain]

HE'S NOT ALWAYS MEAN

summary: Sometimes you have your doubts when it comes to your relationship with Hotch. Then again... ✤ pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader ✤ wc: 0.8k ✤ tags: fem!reader, swat!reader, dark!Hotch, AU with a little different timeline, toxic relationship, takes place during his SWAT days.

Despite being together for about seven months now, you still don’t feel like you’ve earned the right to call him Aaron. Using his first name would be personal. Almost intimate. To you, he’s Hotch, whether you’re at work or in his bed. 

But hearing someone call him Aaron so casually, the name rolling off their tongue without any kind of restraint… 

Sometimes it truly hurts, just for a fleeting moment, and it makes you question everything. 

How come other girls get to call their partners by their first names, while you are restricted to use either his last name or the nickname based on that? 

Is it normal to have his hands roam your bare skin, his mouth leaving wet marks as they move south from that sensitive spot near your ear when there’s an invisible wall between you? 

You should run. 

You should run to get out of his gravitational field, you might as well start a new life far away from Seattle, far away from him. That would be the sensible thing to do, to leave and not look back.

Then again, you love Hotch. It’s the kind of love that maybe makes you a little stupid sometimes, but that’s okay. He’s right, you tend to be a little naïve every now and then. You tend to be reckless. You tend to be insecure, in need of his control. 

At work, though? There you’re a completely different person, all thanks to his rigorous training. Over the years in SWAT, he taught you everything there was to know to reach your full potential, all while following protocol and regulations.

When you feel his fingers wrap around your wrist before moving down to lace your fingers, you can’t help but look up at him, searching those warm brown eyes to see the traces of emotions of any kind. Emotions meant for you, and only you. 

But there’s nothing. He’s focused on the man you’re talking to, jaw set, eyes narrowed, and he has that accusatory look on his face. If you didn’t know any better, you would suspect this guy is a complete stranger, not an old friend from his lawyer days. 

Yet, the way he’s holding onto you, his fingers wrapped around your hand tightly as if you were about to disappear if he didn’t, tells you exactly how protective he is of you. Or could it be the sign of something else? Like possessiveness?

“Is he treating you right, darling?” the man asks, drawing your attention back to him. “I know he can be a little… harsh sometimes.”

“Not with her,” Hotch is quick to interject.

Once again, he’s taking control of the conversation, speaking for you as if you were mute. You don’t really know why he’s doing that, why he feels like you aren’t capable of putting coherent sentences together. 

The man seems to notice this, because he flashes a smile at his friend, then turns to look at you. He’s expecting an answer, this time from you, which prompts your boyfriend to let out a scoff next to you.

What could you say, though? Sometimes he’s treating you right, like a real gentleman, a loving partner. Then again, other times he can be a little mean, a little cold, keeping just enough distance that doesn’t make you run away.

With a gulp, you force a pleasant smile on your face. “He’s harsh sometimes, sure, but only at work. That’s okay, we need him to be like this.”

Out of the corner of your eye you notice the satisfied smirk, which tells you the answer was perfect. His validation, his silent praise sends a wave of warmth through your body. It’s pathetic, really, you shouldn’t be this happy simply because he told you that you did something right.

The man says goodbye when his wife suggests getting another glass of champagne, and Hotch uses this opportunity to lean down and place a kiss on your forehead. He does that every time you do something right.

“You’re such a clever girl,” he whispers to you with a smile.

There it is again, the usual, unintentional reaction to his praise. Your heart’s beating faster, your breathing quickens, and this carnal need to go somewhere quiet at the station so you can please him is getting stronger and stronger with each passing second while he’s watching you.

You will never be free of him, he will always be there in your mind, he will always be your favorite person in the entire world. Because you love him. You love him very much. 

Despite the red flags you’re painfully aware of, you simply can’t get yourself to leave him. 

[ellienlaraskid]

𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

(One shot where you keep giving her mixed signals)

Based on: 𝐃𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 - 𝐊𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫

I mean, you guys’s relationship was confusing you tell her when you’re going out and where exactly, but if she wants to tag along you always tell her that she can’t meet your friends. What the fuck?

She was clueless, this thing between you two caused her sleepless nights, she was wondering if there was even a spark between you two or if she was just trying to comfort herself. She wanted you to like her back, but every time she got close she always told herself that it would make things weird. I mean, maybe you weren’t even a lesbian or this was just a casual friendship for you.

You was kind of treating it as if she were your secret girlfriend or something, even though you two never kissed.

“Fuck it.” She grumbled to herself, opening her phone.

She was gonna do it, she was gonna ask you, until she saw a chat bubble appear from you. She started deleting her message.

You: “Hey, Els!! I think I’m drunk af rn, like I actually feel like I’m gna piko mysplf.”

You: “OMGGG I mean like pajw maesolof.”

You: “Ughhhh u should come. I wanna see u.”

You: “Pls??”

She sighed, she didn’t want to make you feel used while you were drunk, but she also didn’t wanna say no. She started typing.

Ellie: “What abt ur friends?? Who u never want me to meet??”

Ellie: “Like I get that ur drunk but if u were sober rn u wouldn’t be spewing shit like this, besides it’s late.”

You: “Come onnnnn!!”

You: “Please, baby??”

Ellie just stared at her screen, she threw her phone away and just gave herself a second to cooldown, she knew going to this party would be a mistake, and honestly? The picture you sent her of you in that dress would make her wanna act impulsively and act on her fantasies.

Trust me, she’s thought about it a lot…

She got off her bed and picked up her phone, deciding to type her final decision.

Ellie: “Kat, ur drunk, accept that my answer is no.”

You: “Ugh loser”

You: “Anyways I’ll text u later bye Els 💋”

And now, just pain, again. She should’ve gone, ad least that’s what her heart was telling her, but if her brain said no, she thought it was better not to. She honestly felt like she was imagining something that wasn’t there and she hated that, she hated it so much.

And, in the end she decided to do this…

Ellie: “Fuck u, where’s this party at??”

You: “Oh, she changed her mind??”

Ellie: “Yh shit like that happens”

You: “Well it’s at [address], I’m waiting for u 😉”

Ellie: “U better make it worth it 😒”

You: “Ofc I will js come on”

Ellie: “Omw”

[cece693]

mmmore personal bodyguard.. OHhh i love this old man!!! ohh i love tony stark please.. would you make more of male reader and Tony..

I also love that old man. So, I was thinking of what else can he and his hunky bodyguard get up to and then DING! What if the bodyguard takes his job so seriously that he takes a hit meant for Tony and we get an overprotective Iron Man?

Personal Bodyguard Pt. 2

pairing: tony stark x male reader tags: overprotective Tony, Tony has feelings, reader is over it, he was a military man for fucks sake, my man be stressin, reader is set to prove a point, fluff

You stir awake in the gleaming medical bay of Stark Tower, blinking under the fluorescent lights. The drug-induced fog makes your thoughts sluggish, but the unmistakable sting in your shoulder reminds you exactly why you’re here. You shift against the pillows, wincing at the dull throb of pain.

Across the room, a small army of medical personnel are quietly conferring, flipping through charts and checking vitals. You hear the beep of machines and soft murmurs. It’s overwhelming, and you’re not the only one who thinks so. “Everyone out,” comes a familiar, commanding voice. “Now.”

Tony stands at the entrance, hair mussed, tie undone, brow etched with anger and worry. His voice cuts like a knife through the room. The doctors and nurses exchange glances, but none dare contradict him. They file out in a subdued rush—some clearly concerned, but none wanting to challenge Tony Stark when he’s in this mood.

“And before anyone complains,” he adds, glowering, “I’ve got the best AI in the world monitoring him, so scram.”

Moments later, the door slides shut with a quiet hiss. The only sound left is the steady pulse of the heart monitor by your bed and the faint hum of the Tower’s ventilation system. Tony crosses the room in long strides, practically radiating anxiety. He stops at your bedside, eyes darting from the bandages on your shoulder to your face, to the monitors, and back again. It’s like he can’t decide what to focus on—he just wants everything to be okay.

“Are you comfortable?” he demands, reaching to adjust your pillows. “Do you need a different angle? More medication? Less medication? You look like you’re in pain. You should’ve said something—didn’t the doctors tell you to—?”

A weak smile tugs at your lips. “Tony, breathe. I’m all right.” But he’s not listening. He keeps fiddling with the bed’s controls, trying to find the perfect angle, cursing under his breath when the motor jerks your injured shoulder.

“Sorry,” he mutters, pulling back like he’s burned. “God, I’m screwing this up.”

“Hey,” you say, voice soft, “it’s fine. Really.”

He sighs, frustration etched across his features. “It’s not fine. If it were fine, you wouldn’t be in a hospital bed with a bullet wound.” His hands ball into fists at his sides. “I’ve been over the security tapes a hundred times, trying to figure out how I could’ve—how we could’ve—prevented this.”

The chair next to you squeaks as Tony sinks into it, his exhaustion evident. He rubs a hand over his face, and you see the shadows under his eyes. You suspect he hasn’t slept since the incident. “I can’t—” Tony starts, then stops, words hitching in his throat. “I can’t just sit here and watch you get hurt because of me.”

You let out a careful sigh. Even that small motion makes the pain spike. “Tony,” you say, voice steady despite the discomfort, “it’s not your fault.”

He makes a strangled noise and gestures to your injured shoulder. “Yeah, ’cause getting shot while protecting me is totally just a random coincidence.” He’s spiraling—has been, ever since the bullet meant for him hit you instead. You try to catch his eye, but he’s jittery, like a live wire about to spark.

“Look,” Tony says, voice cracking, “maybe you—maybe you should go. Quit. Or—or I should fire you. I’ll give you a severance package that’ll make CEOs weep with envy. You can do literally anything else. Anything safer.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Fire me?” There’s a stab of hurt under the shock, but you force yourself to stay calm. “That’s one hell of a ‘thank you for taking a bullet for me.’”

He flinches at your words, but his gaze hardens—a brittle, desperate resolve. “If it means you never have to bleed for me again, then yeah. I’ll do it.”

A flurry of emotions churns in your gut—annoyance, exasperation, and a surprising surge of affection for the panicked man in front of you. You carefully push yourself upright, ignoring the twinge of pain, and pin Tony with a firm look. “You can’t do this.”

“Fire you?” He scoffs, but the sound comes out choked. “I can do anything I want, remember? Billionaire with an army of lawyers.” A shaky hand runs through his hair again. “I could relocate you to—oh, I don’t know—Switzerland. Buy you a nice chalet in the Alps or something. You’d never have to see a bullet in your life.”

You can’t stop the small, exasperated laugh that escapes you. “A chalet in the Alps. Fancy. I’ll keep that in mind for retirement.” You pause, letting the joking tone fade. “But until then, no deal.”

He looks incredulous. “Why not?” he demands, voice cracking again. “Why on Earth would you want to keep doing this?” His eyes flick to the bandages peeking from your hospital gown, as if they’re the most damning evidence in the world.

You tilt your head, the ghost of a wry smile tugging at your lips. “Because you hired me to protect you, genius,” you say, letting a bit of humor slip in. “I got shot, yeah, but guess what? You didn’t. Mission accomplished.”

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “I’m sorry—what part of you being shot is an accomplishment?!”

“The part where the bullet didn’t go through you.” You soften your tone. “Look, Tony, I know you hate that this happened. But injuries are part of the job, and I accepted that risk the moment I signed on.”

He slumps forward, elbows braced on his knees, face buried in his hands. “Well, I didn’t sign on for this.”

You reach out with your good arm and place a hand on his forearm. “Tony, look at me,” you coax. Slowly, he drags his hands away from his face, eyes red-rimmed. “This injury isn’t as bad as it looks. I’ve had worse in basic training.” (A slight exaggeration, but hey, you’d say anything to calm him right now.)

Tony tries to scoff, but it comes out more like a choked laugh. “Basic training had bullet wounds?”

You shrug with your good shoulder. “Not me, specifically, but some guys I knew.” You press on before he can argue. “Point is, I’m okay. Sore, but okay. So, you’re not firing me.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you fix him with a look. The “don’t even try it” kind that makes even a billionaire genius back down.

“Let me make this clear,” you continue, voice gentler now but unyielding. “I appreciate the concern, really. It means a lot that you care about what happens to me. But this is my choice. I’m not walking away, and you sure as hell aren’t pushing me away. If we keep doing this dance, the only thing you’ll accomplish is driving yourself crazy—and me right along with you.”

He sucks in a breath, eyes glimmering with fresh tears, though he blinks them back rapidly. “I just…I don’t want to see you hurt again. Ever.”

Your lips curl into a small smile. “That’s not how this works, Tony. If I’m with you, there’s always a risk. You’re Iron Man, for crying out loud. Trouble follows you like a lost puppy.”

A strangled half-laugh, half-sob escapes Tony. He scrubs at his face again, clearly embarrassed by his own display of emotion. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, still not meeting your gaze. “I’m…I’m a wreck.”

You inhale, letting your fingers drift from his arm to his hand, lacing them together. “Yeah, you are,” you agree, tone gentle but with a fond edge. “And that’s okay. But you don’t get to fire me. I’m tougher than I look, Stark.”

He starts to argue, but you give his hand a firm squeeze. “Seriously,” you insist, making sure he hears every word. “I’ve been thrown out of planes, shot at, and gone through obstacle courses that make grown men cry. A little bullet in my shoulder? Not enough to scare me away from you.”

A hint of incredulity flashes in his eyes. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I do,” you say, jaw set. Before he can argue further, you shift your legs off the bed. Pain flares through your shoulder, but you grit your teeth and push yourself upright. Tony bolts to his feet like you’ve just threatened to jump off a cliff.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demands, voice shrill with alarm. “Hey—easy, easy!”

You wave off his concern. “I’m standing,” you say through clenched teeth, mustering a cocky smirk despite the pain. “You need proof I’m still in one piece? Well, here it is.” Tony’s eyes dart from your unsteady legs to your bandaged shoulder. He looks ready to catch you at any second. But you square your stance, heart pounding, determined to show him you’re stronger than he thinks.

He reaches out, as if to gently guide you back onto the bed, but you seize the moment. Sliding an arm around his waist—ignoring the painful protest in your shoulder—you pull Tony close. Then you press your lips to his in a firm, grounding kiss.

It’s not the smoothest kiss—your balance is off, and you’re pretty sure you’re leaning on him more than intended. But Tony’s body goes stiff for a split second before he melts against you with a quiet, desperate sound at the back of his throat. For those few seconds, the throbbing in your shoulder blurs into the background. All that matters is Tony’s warmth, the faint scent of cologne, and the taste of desperation on his lips.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. One of his hands is splayed across your lower back, the other hovering near your bandage as though he’s too scared to touch it. “You idiot,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “You should be resting.”

“Probably,” you admit, wincing slightly as you shift your arm. “But you needed to see I’m still here. Really here.”

He draws in a ragged breath, eyes flicking over your face. “I see you,” he murmurs, voice tight with lingering fear. “But if you pass out, I’m going to strap you to that bed myself, understand?”

You huff a faint laugh. “Sounds kinky.”

A brief spark of amusement flashes in his eyes, followed by relief. “God, I hate you,” he jokes, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Don’t ever do that again.”

You card your fingers through his hair, feeling how tense he still is. “Can’t make promises, boss. Besides…” You pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “I’d do it all over again if it meant keeping you safe.”

He exhales shakily, and the hand on your back tightens. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” you concede. “But you love me anyway.”

A hesitant, watery smile curves across his lips. “Yeah,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours. “I really do.”