#there is only one THAT ONE FIC in my repertoir

[mrpenguinpants]

I love ur posts sm! Can you do kazuha, xiao and arlecchino (separately) w a reader who apologies a lot? (Hcs) Ty!!!!! If u dont want to it's fine :) also do you write for every character??? Because Ive checked ur rules but there wasnt a list (or I didnt looked very well...) Anyways, BYEEE :D

I'm just going to answer this early but yes, I write for every character except the children-looking characters (ex. Qiqi, Diona, Nahida, etc.) Even if it's platonic, it feels weird writing about a kid no matter how old they're supposed to be in game. That doesn't mean I won't include them, so if you want to use them as a plot device (like Klee with Albedo), I'm all for that. As long as your requested character is someone else, it's totally cool with me.

[wanderingpages]

NO BCZ i can see you by taylor swift fits for rockstar au (for the prologue timeline), dark au, the professor au one shot fic and the step brother cardan fic it's insaneee!!

OH MY GOD NOT THE PROFESSOR AU

[ramp-it-up]

Knock You Down: II

Summary: James Bucky Barnes is an avowed bachelor and one night stand artist. But when he meets you, he finds out that sometimes love comes around, and it knocks you down. Bucky has to answer some hard questions on date #2.

This is a follow up to Part I

Word count: 3 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (mob boss) Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: This fic was in part inspired by Seb Stan's latest pics and this press run 🫠, and partially inspired by an old song by some problematic people, lol. This is the result. As usual, I am Basil Exposition, so this is broken into parts.

Part III will be posted on Sunday, 10/13. I think it will be the final part. 😓

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Slow burn, cursing, mutual pining, daydreams of: oral sex (f receiving), marking, edging, & overstimulation. High potential for phone sex? Narrowly missed masturbation; a pet name in google translate Romanian; voice kink; drunk messaging/calling; Bucky has you under surveillance; AAAAngst. The heat is ramping up, but still no sex!

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

———-

Bucky woke with his lips tingling for want of you.

After your first date, sleep had been elusive. His thoughts of you led to a physical condition that he was used to taking care of right away, one way or another.

He decided that only you could solve his problem.

You had him as hard as a rock and Bucky knew that your soft curves were both the culprit and the cure

In his dreams, he had been eating you out, the smell in his nostrils a mix the your natural scent and perfume on your wrist as he went down on you. He couldn’t actually taste you, but he just knew that you were delicious.  

Knowing that he would be distracted all day, Bucky tried other means to work out his frustration. He got up, worked out, and concentrated on not being a simp. 

Unsuccessful.

At the stroke of 8 am Bucky sent you a good morning text and inquiring about your sleep. He hoped that your dreams were as full of him as his were of you.

Bucky chuckled as he pressed send. Good morning texts were not in his repertoire, quite the opposite. He was a pro in dodging follow up texts from his conquests.

After 10 minutes, he put his phone down, because he realized he was staring at it waiting for your response. In the shower, the stream of cold water was meant to calm the lava in his veins at the thought of you still asleep in bed. He needed to stop thinking of waking you up with his head between your legs because then his erection would never go down.

Back in his bedroom, Bucky saw that you had responded. His heart was in his throat at just the notification of not just a text, but an image sent on his screen. He had to sit down.

I had sweet dreams.

Image sent from Y/N

The image was a pic of you in your bed, hair tied back and no makeup. The morning sunlight on your skin was everything and the soft smile on your face looked so kissable.

It appeared that you were wearing a tank top. He could see your neck and the tiniest bit of cleavage, but it was enough to have him raging hard again. 

The highly rational urge to mark you up as a punishment for torturing him came to him like a bolt of lightning.

God, the thought of punishing, maybe edging you all day, or better yet, having you beg him to stop making you cum as he overstimulated you sent his hand to his dick under the towel, but his other hand was reaching for your contact. 

He groaned when he realized what he was doing. One hand had to stop. He wasn’t going to do this.

Bucky unhanded himself and sighed as your phone rang, then his stomach dropped as he realized you probably wouldn’t pick up. 

“Hullo? James?”

Your morning voice. The fantasy of how to wake you up took hold again.

“G-,” Bucky cleared his throat, but it didn’t help much.

“Good morning Frumoasă.”

Damn, his voice. Yeah. You had a voice kink. You felt the urge to ask for a picture of him.

And you knew where that would lead.

The rest of your day depended upon not revealing how much of a slut you were for him already, so you decided to crack a joke.

“Fumosa? What does that mean? You calling me fugly or something?”

Bucky laughed, and the sexual tension was broken. You were so fucking charming. He was definitely feeling you.

Bucky wanted to do so much more than to just be physical with you; he wanted to just be with you.

“Far from it, Y/N. Frumoasă means beautiful in Romanian. Ești foarte frumoasă. You are so beautiful.”

You could hear his smile as he replied.

“Hmmmm. Well. Good morning to you too, James. And thank you.”

Bucky smiled at his bedroom wall, reclining on his unmade bed, not caring that he would be late for work. But he was the boss, so it didn’t really matter. He wanted to hear that moan-hum thing you did again, so he repeated himself.

“Ești foarte frumoasă.” 

You were shook. When Bucky spoke in Romanian, his voice lowered an octave or two. It left you squirming.

You stifled another moan and Bucky shifted, his towel moving again.

This phone call was getting dangerous. 

“James…”

His heart beat double time when you said his name, as if you were asking for so much more than just his attention. One word from you and he would would make you see stars over the phone.

Damn, he was hard as a rock.

“Yes?”

The way his voice broke over that one little word left you speechless, trying to make a wise choice of words. Now was not the time for phone sex, no matter how much you wanted his voice to talk you through it. This man had you caught up, but you were trying to chill.

“See you in a few days.”

Bucky smiled again. You were constantly changing the game, a Queen to his Knight. But he was determined to capture you.

“See you in a few days frumoasă. I can’t wait. Have a great day.”

—

After that, you two stayed away from phone calls, subsisting on texts and anticipation for the next four days. 

But you couldn’t get away from thoughts of Bucky, especially since Nat showed up at your favorite coffee shop that morning. She claimed that she lived nearby while hinting that Bucky liked you a lot. You just smiled and tried to be enigmatic, not the blushing schoolgirl that you felt inside.

Hungry for more pictures of you, Bucky followed you on Instagram. You didn’t habitually reveal a lot of skin, but what he could see of you made him want more. 

You noticed his follow, (accompanied by several gossip rags) and took note as you blocked them and made your page private. James Barnes gave no fucks who knew about you. You smiled all day long at that knowledge.

On Wednesday, he noticed that you posted girl’s night out, apparently to celebrate your friend Sydney’s engagement.

You looked good, skin glowing, body giving, and those brown leather pants making him dizzy just by staring at them through a screen. He knew he’d be feral if he saw them in person.

Bucky fantasized all evening about you coming home to him that night.

When Bucky liked the post your heart rate increased and you felt like you were in a race.

“I’m winning!” 

You whooped it up with your friends and ordered another bottle. That’s when you saw Sam out of the corner of your eye. You invited him over for drinks, much to the delight of your friends.

Your drunk text to Bucky when you got home and the following exchange had him grinning as he went to sleep that night. Friday evening would be interesting indeed.

You woke up Thursday morning, wondering why you had a picture of a shirtless Bucky Barnes as the lock screen on your phone.

Your eyes almost fell out of your head as you opened your messages and saw this exchange:

Hey James. I want to fuck your voice. Especially when you speak Romanian. 🫠

But I can’t fuck until date number 3 sooooo

*Voice memo from James

*Voice memo to James

Image sent from James

Thank you Daddy. 💋

You are welcome, Frumoasă. 😏

You threw your phone.

You called him Daddy????

And you told him about the three date rule.

You were out of control.

You immediately sent him another message.

Good Morning, James. I apologize for last night. Please, burn your phone and destroy all messages from me. Have a nice life. 🫣

Good morning, Frumoasă. Last night was harmless fun. 😉 Have a wonderful day. See you tomorrow evening.

You grinned because although you were embarrassed, he was right. And also because he was a chaotic, but harmless gentleman. He just gave you what you asked for and didn’t take advantage of the situation. And his left arm tattoo sleeve was sexy as fuck.

What a man.

——-

When Steve and Sam caught him staring your picture during an auction that morning, Bucky just grinned as his best friends razzed him. He realized that you were worth it as he serenely endured them busting his balls. 

Later that day Sydney sent you some very interesting articles about Bucky Barnes and his business and called to check up on you. Your heart sank as you assured her that you were okay and thanked her for being a friend.

There was a different vibe for you now; James Barnes might not be the perfect guy. But you tried not to overreact.

Everything that was posted online wasn’t necessarily true.

You decided to exercise to clear your head, but lo and behold, when you looked to your left at SoulCycle, there was Steve Rogers, Bucky’s best friend. You managed to dodge a conversation by rushing off to work.

You were looking forward to your date, because James Barnes had a lot of explaining to do.

—----

When Bucky picked you up on Friday, you opened the door and quickly retreated to get your coat and purse as soon as he entered.

“Hello James,” you said from across your living room. 

Buck couldn’t put his finger on what shifted, but something had. He raised his eyebrow at you as you stood out of his reach and he felt the chill in the air.

“Hello, Frumoasă.”

He didn’t hide his admiration at your dress as he bit his bottom lip, positive that he could probably just flip up the hem and slip his… Bucky forced his eyes back to yours.

Damn, he looked good in the brown suit and black crew neck shirt. His eyes were everything on those colors. You noticed him checking you out and you looked down at your mustard dress.

“I hope this is okay. I wore this to work. Got out a little later than I expected. Billie, my assistant, and I were setting up for the opening tomorrow.”

Bucky smiled.

“You look amazing. And I can’t wait to see the exhibit.”

You cleared your throat. 

“About that. Are you sure you want to come?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at you.

“...Yes. We agreed when I conceded to your price on Monday. What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing, we’ll talk about it later. Are you ready to go?”

Bucky let you have whatever space you were needing at the moment.

“Lead the way.”

You chose the venue of this second date, a Harlem Renaissance exhibit in the eponymous borough. Bucky remained the perfect gentleman, taking your hand as he helped you into the car, but keeping his distance as you rode uptown.

If it were not for his all consuming stares and the desire in his eyes, you would think he wasn’t attracted to you. But you couldn’t let your libido have you make a terrible decision. You were deep in thought the entire ride to Harlem.

—---

You were in awe of the exhibit as much Bucky was in awe of you. You caught him admiring you instead of the art more than once, but you just smiled and launched into a conversation about the pieces, discussing the merits of the exhibit.

“That’s very astute. So good. Beautiful and smart.”

Bucky’s proximity to you during your banter was not helping your resolve. His voice in your ear cooing praises was making you weak. But you had to be strong. When he took your hand again as you walked to dinner on Frederick Douglass Boulevard, the thousand butterflies which had taken residence in your stomach on Monday afternoon fluttered their wings. 

Damn. He had you down bad.

After you were seated, Bucky tried to break down the wall that you’d seemed to throw up between you.

“Alright, Frumoasă. Tell me. What is going on in that beautiful brain of yours? You’ve been in your head all night.”

You looked around, trying to avoid those perceptive blue eyes of his, and noticed that the rooftop terrace seemed to be deserted except for the two of you. You had been so caught up in your inner turmoil that you hadn’t noticed the surroundings.

“James…”

He was staring at you again, mouth open, and that tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“Yes, Frumoasă…”

“Did.. did you reserve this rooftop just for us?”

Bucky smiled and leaned back, clearly pleased with himself. He took a sip of wine before he answered.

“I may have called in a favor of the owner.”

“It’s Friday night! That is quite the feat.”

“Someone as striking as you deserves to be surrounded by beauty. Always.”

You shook your head at him.

“I’m serious James. I’m not your type. We come from two different worlds. You can have anyone you’d want. What would you want with me?”

Bucky sobered up, sensing your anxiety. He moved his chair closer to yours.

“I never make a promise that I can’t keep. And I don’t string women along. I try to make sure that everyone knows what it is with every encounter. Most women know that what happens is a one time thing.”

He stared at you with the ocean depths that were his eyes.

“And I hope you understand that you are not most women. Remember what I said Monday night?”

You nodded, remembering the rush of feelings and wild thoughts. 

“That was the first of many dates. I haven’t been on a second date in… I honestly don’t know how long.”

You digested what he was saying, really wanting to like him, and more. But you had to clear the elephant from the room.

“Speaking of honesty. What do you really do for a living, James?”

Bucky looked at you strangely.

“What do you mean? I-”

“James. You have one chance to tell me the truth.”

Bucky digested the look on your face; he knew you were serious.

“It seems that you have read some things. Or someone has said something to you.”

You shrugged and said, “Both.”

You were anxious and relieved that he didn’t insist on the lie.

“Okay. Then.”

He sighed and looked at you carefully with those eyes, giving you a minute. After he told you the truth, there would be no going back.

“I’ll give you the cliff notes version: 

When we moved to America when I was 10, my dad Jimmy fell into the family business, which was crime. He always expected me to take it over, training me from a young kid. Steve and I grew up together. Nat and Sam came along later. I dove in deep as soon as I was old enough and brought them with me, thinking that's what I wanted."

Bucky shook his head at his own miscalculation.

"It took five years to realize that it was no way to live. When my father died seven years ago, I could finally see a way out. I started the art business because it really is what I love, and I can divest myself of any connection to illegality be completely legitimate in a little over three more years.”

You sat back and crossed your arms. His explanation was too neat and tidy.

“You have a timeline to be done with crime?”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but yes. I had a ten year and a five year plan. I’m working the plan with the help of my friends. And I’m doing it for them as much as for me. And if I'm thinking about a future with someone...."

Bucky reached over and took your hand as he stared at you.

"I'd be doing it for my own family as well."

You wanted to melt, but remained strong, pulling your hand from his.

“So you’re saying you aren’t a dangerous man? That I won’t be putting my reputation, my employment, and my life on the line by dating you?”

Bucky sat back as you posed your questions. He had never had to consider them before. He had never ‘dated’ anyone before. He just got what he wanted and they were safe because he never saw them again.

But now that what he wanted was you, and for far more than a one night stand, he was terrified.

“Y/N. I told you. I won’t lie to you. Yes. I am still a dangerous man. And yes, being associated with me can be dangerous. But I want you, Frumoasă. And I will stop at nothing to protect you."

You saw the ferocity of his emotions and you thought of all of them these past few days.

“Nat, Sam, and Steve. Those weren’t coincidences. Were they?”

Bucky gave you a wry smile and dropped his gaze. His voice got soft, as if he were chastened.

“No. They weren’t coincidences.”

Suddenly, you felt stifled, that there was no air avaiable. Even though you were outside.

“I- I need to think. I want to go home.”

“Come. I’ll take you.”

You rose and stepped away from Bucky.

“No. I need some space. I‘ll call a rideshare…”

“Nonsense. Nico is outside. He will take you. I can call Steve to pick me up.”

You looked up into Bucky's sad eyes.

“O-Okay.”

You fought the urge to bury yourself in his arms, and in a few minutes, Bucky put you in the car and you were rolling toward Brooklyn before you realized it.

——-

It wasn’t until you were in your tank top and sweats on your couch having made your head hurt with all of the thoughts for an hour, when you realized you never ate dinner and were starving.

You sighed and picked up your phone.

In just about another hour, your favorite takeout was on its way, comfort for a tumultuous evening. When you answered your door, your stomach flipped at the delivery person clad in white t-shirt, grey sweats, and a backwards ball cap.

You smiled at Bucky.

He grinned back.

“So. Is this date number three, orrrrr?…”

You rolled your eyes at him.

“You can drop the food off in my kitchen. This way, James.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, the heat in your gaze unmistakable.

Bucky smiled and thanked the heavens as he followed the sway of your hips into your home.

——-

Please let me know if you like it! 😊

Next part here.

[pomefioredove]

If the flirty prompts are still open, can I ask for Sebek with the prompt, "Your lips would look so much better on mine." Like the thought of him reading and accidentally saying that out loud with us around, has my brain turned to mush.

Drink some water, eat a snack, and get some sleep.💚

one more sebek fic for the fans 🫡

summary: "your lips would look so much better on mine" type of post: short fic characters: sebek additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

It'd only been a week since Sebek's birthday, and he'd already devoured every book he'd been gifted.

It was as if everyone knew exactly what to get him this year. History editions, magic analyses, training guides...

It was nothing short of a perfect repertoire.

And, soon, he was left with just one he hadn't read yet.

"How unthoughtful,"

In form, it was a nice book; hardcover, with a minimal cover illustration and engraved text, thick but not overbearing. It would make a nice encyclopedia.

Instead, it was a book of love poems.

He supposed he should expect nothing less from the vice housewarden of Pomefiore, but, still. What interest did he have in such things?

But it was all he had left, and he was not in the mood for conversation when he visited you today.

"I'll go put on some tea," you say, starting to get up from your seat. Silver stands first, though, and waves you back down.

"Please, I can do it myself. You've already been a gracious host,"

Sebek rolls his eyes, but says nothing. Silver leaves, Grim circling around him in hopes of getting a treat, and the door closes with a heavy thud.

Sebek returns to his book.

He's only about a third of the way through, and, thus far, it's been nothing but humorous. How the written word pales in comparison to fae oral traditions, he thinks.

This poem is particularly entertaining. He snickers.

"Your lips would look so much better on mine," how ridiculous.

"What?"

"What," Sebek repeats, looking up from the book at last to see your widened eyes.

The horrific realization sinks in like a slow-acting poison.

"I WAS READING!" he says, his own face going red. "I WAS READING ALOUD! THIS DOESN'T CONCERN YOU!"

You blink. "Oh,"

The door opens. Silver's eyes widen at the scene he's returned to, and he sets down the tea tray.

"What's happened?"

"He said my lips would look better on his," you hum, taking a warm cup from the tray.

"He what?"

"I DID NOT SAY THAT!"

"He was reading out loud," you whisper.

Silver sighs, and then nods. "Ah, I see. You should be more careful with your words, Sebek,"

"HOW DARE YOU SCOLD ME!"

"You should be glad it was only me and the prefect and not f-Lilia. He would never let you hear the end of this,"

As much is true. Sebek shuts his mouth, and Silver hands him a cup of tea to occupy himself with.

He leaves the book at Ramshackle, open on the page he was reading from.

You frame it in the guest room.

[adascore]

The Golden War

pairings: alexia putellas x lyonnais!reader

warnings: swearing. for culers the ‘22 uwcl final ig. jona is kinda mean in this.

author’s note: this is the same reader from my ‘one for the money, two for the show’ fic of the lionesses!captain. reader is basically ada hegerberg lolsies :) will be turned into a series.

masterlist

•••••

Turin, Italy - May, 2022

''The final has been dubbed as a duel between you and Alexia Putellas, do you experience it as that?''

The Lyon captain fought the urge to roll her eyes at the question, despite having expected it. ''It is a final between Barcelona and Lyon, nothing more than that.'' She answered, diplomatically- the way they had rehearsed it.

''Lyon is the underdog coming into this final- FC Barcelona has been unbeatable so far. What do you need to do in order to beat them tomorrow?'' Another reporter asked, a pen ready in his hand to take notes.

There was a slight change in her expression as the question left his lips, the man succeeding in poking through her stoic expression. ''Well, we have never lost to Barcelona- I don't know if you remember 3 years ago or even last year,''

Lyon had comfortably beaten the Spanish club in 2019. In that Champions League Final, Y/N had become the first player to score a hattrick in a UWCL final. Their last meeting had been in 2021, in the pre-season, where Lyon had won 3-2, the Lyon captain again putting one in the net.

''We have won this competition many times. There was football before Barcelona, and it was being played by us.''

Her last sentence of the quote had struck a nerve with the Barça captain.

''She acts like she has already won the whole thing.'' Alexia remarked as she read a transcript of the press conference.

Patri and Mapi glanced at one another, a knowing look in their eyes. ''Technically, there is nothing wrong about what she said, Ale. How many times has she won this competition now? 6? 7?'' The defender said, not having a problem with the opposition's words.

''She's just pissed that everyone is talking about us now.'' She ignored Mapi, continuing berating her opponent.

The rivalry between the captains of the two top teams had been something made up by the media, seeking a female counterpart to the famed Ronaldo-Messi rivalry. Both Alexia and Y/N led Europe's premier clubs, won the Champions League, captained their national teams, and earned the Ballon d'Or. This fueled incessant comparisons.

Alexia and Y/N hadn't given it much thought at first. There were also many differences between them; Alexia is a midfielder, while Y/N is a striker. Despite their similar ages, their careers took diverse paths. Alexia remained in the Spanish league, while Y/N gained experience across various countries.

Over time, an unexpected shift occurred. They began caring about each other's achievements. Yet, they knew the comparison wasn't fair.

Despite being younger, Y/N dominated women's football for longer, winning the Champions League seven times – twice with Wolfsburg and five times with Lyon. In contrast, Alexia secured one with Barcelona. Neither had won anything major with their national teams, though she had come close with England a few times. Furthermore, on the accolades side of things, Y/N led with a repertoire that most players could only dream of.

For a long time, it hadn't bothered Alexia. She had watched in admiration as the younger player became the first recipient of the Ballon d'Or, a huge step in women's football. Y/N's advocacy for the sport also didn't escape the Spanish player.

However, her admiration had turned into envy.

The turning point came in the 2019 final against Lyon. She had observed the way the English striker had celebrated with her entire team- how the Lyon squad immediately ran to her once the whistle blew and how Y/N bathed in all the (rightly deserved) glory. Alexia wanted that for herself. For years, Y/N had been the nail in Barcelona's coffin, scoring the goals that made sure they couldn't continue in the competition- in the captain's opinion, the striker had made a joke of her team for years, even if she didn't meant to do that.

Their interactions over the years were limited to polite handshakes before or after matches. Occasional encounters outside the pitch were rare and brief, seldom extending beyond a few sentences.

Alexia's surprise peaked when Y/N congratulated her on winning the Ballon d'Or through both private and public Instagram messages. Despite her reservations about comparisons and rivalry, receiving praise from someone she admired as one of the best in the game left Alexia with a positive feeling.

''No, I think she's just not a fan of being referred to as an underdog.'' Patri defended the Lyon striker.

This explanation didn't sit well with Alexia, evident from the displeasure on her face. ''Whatever,'' she retorted, looking forward to settling matters on the field that Saturday.

Saturday, May 21, 2022

Excitement, adrenaline, nerves, and tension permeated the tunnel of Juventus Stadium as Alexia, tightly gripping her pennant, stood at the front of her lined-up team, awaiting the opposing captain.

The sudden hush among the Barcelona team signaled the arrival of their counterpart. Turning around, Alexia frowned at her teammates' fascination with the approaching striker.

This is not the time to be fangirling, she thought to herself, as she saw most of her players' eyes following the striker's figure.

As the two top players faced each other, uncertainty lingered about whether they should exchange greetings. Y/N broke the silence, deciding to offer some acknowledgment. ''Hey, you alright?'' Her charming English accent filled the air.

''Yeah, and you?'' Alexia almost cringed at her own quick response, not giving her brain time to think.

''I‘ll see in about 90 minutes.'' The younger one grinned.

I'll wipe that smirk off your fucking face, Alexia said in her mind, not a fan of the confidence the striker was oozing.

Ten minutes later, the referee blew the whistle, signaling the start of the highly-anticipated final.

Lyon applied intense pressure right from the start, managing to create two goal-scoring opportunities within the first three minutes of the match.

However, the audience were offered their first initial glimpse of the rivalry in the 6th minute of the game.

Y/N positioned herself strategically, eyes fixed on her teammate readying a precise pass to her. The ball zipped across the pitch, and in a heartbeat, both Y/N and Alexia were locked onto winning it for themselves.

The striker, a master of timing, surged forward. Simultaneously, the midfielder closed in on the target. The collision was inevitable.

Both players fell with a thud, groaning at the contact with the ground. Despite the force of the clash, they both showed resilience as they wanted to use the momentum to their advantage.

They were momentarily entangled, fighting for control of the ball. It was a brief display of the rivalry that had brewed between them.

Y/N rose swiftly from the turf, eyes filled with determination. The collision had only fueled her competitive fire. With the ball firmly at her feet, she accelerated away from the mess, leaving Alexia behind.

The crowd erupted in gasps and cheers as Y/N, now in open space, scanned the field. Seizing the opportunity, she unleashed a powerful strike from well outside the box.

Time seemed to slow as the ball sailed towards the goal. Panos's desperate dive was in vain as the ball found the back of the net. The roar of the crowd echoed through the stadium, a symphony of cheers and applause for a goal that showcased the skills and spirit of the Lyon captain.

A fleeting scowl crossed Alexia's face, frustrated at the missed opportunity.

Y/N turned on her heels as the net rippled, ready to embrace her teammates who were rushing to her.

''Vamos!'' She roared, the Spanish word escaping her lips like a battle cry.

Yet, she found herself face-to-face not with the familiar sight of Lyon jerseys but with the intensity of Alexia's determined gaze.

Her expression froze for a quick second, confusion adorning her features. Y/N's eyes widened in realization, and for a brief instant, the two captains locked eyes in an unspoken exchange.

The celebration continued around them, teammates engulfing Y/N as they screamed with delight at their captain's prolific opener. The air was filled with jubilation, but within the chaos, the tension lingered between the two captains, adding an intriguing layer to the unfolding drama on the pitch.

The match unfolded further, Barcelona grabbing a few opportunities of their own, but not being clinical enough to score an equalizer. The Spanish squad remained calm, showing no signs of panic in their play, despite being behind.

Selma and Melvine played a great one-two with each other, and the young defender shot a beautiful cross towards the box. Anticipating the trajectory of the ball, Y/N skillfully pulled away from Leon, who undoubtedly had the impossible task of marking the striker.

The ball connected with Y/N's forehead, falling perfectly into the mesh. The scoreboard illuminated with Lyon 2, Barcelona 0. The narrative had shifted as the favorites stomped the ground in frustration, while the ''underdogs'' celebrated another goal from their captain.

The first half flew by. Y/N managed to assist Catarina to make it 3-0, but Alexia found the back of the net to get one back.

3-1.

The second half saw more scoring opportunities for Barcelona, but no one managed to finish the job.

After contact with Martens, Griedge cited experiencing a cramp and asked for treatment- a request that the Barcelona side was not having. Y/N, understanding the frustration of time-wasting, especially when behind in a match, stood aside.

However, the Lyon captain didn't appreciate the scolding she received from the opposition's coach. ''Tell your player to stop the comedy, what a shit job!'' Jonatan exclaimed to the English captain, who observed the scene from the sideline.

Y/N didn't budge, paying him no attention, knowing it was all tactics. She gave an unimpressed look toward the referee, who had been observing the one-sided interaction.

The official ran up to them, pulling a yellow card from her pocket and holding it in front of the manager. ''Step back, please. Don't talk to the opposition.'' she instructed him.

The match eventually resumed. In extra time, Paredes almost managed to pull off a header, but it went flying over the post.

In the last minute of the game, Y/N teamed up with Eugénie to score a last-minute beauty, but the volley slammed against the post.

The piercing sound of the referee's whistle resonated through the stadium, marking the conclusion of the final. Lyon emerged triumphant for a record-extending 8th time.

Overwhelmed by her own emotions, Y/N fell to the ground as the whistle echoed in her ears. It didn't take too long for her teammates to rush up to her, colliding in a chaos of hugs, kisses, and jubilant shouts.

They had done it again, proving once more why all the records were tied to their name.

''Y/N, you're a fucking legend!'' Lindsey yelled in her ear, kissing her cheek multiple times.

As her teammates slowly got up from their celebratory cuddle with the ground, they formed a protective circle around their captain. Hands reached out to help her rise from the grass, and she found herself enveloped in a symphony of gratitude.

Eventually, she shook off her glorious daze, a wide grin etched on her face.

Y/N turned her attention to the defeated Barcelona players, spread out across the field with tears and disappointment staining their cheeks. She approached them, offering a helping hand to those still on the ground and sharing comforting words. Acknowledging the effort they had brought, she assured them that they gave her team a greater fight than the scoreline implied.

Before the Lyon squad embarked on their victory lap to greet the traveling supporters, Y/N's gaze fell on a heartbreaking scene. Across the field, the Spanish captain, Alexia, was cradled in a comforting embrace by a Barcelona staff member as tears streamed down her face.

Y/N hesitated, caught in a ''should I or shouldn't I'' moment with herself.

She chose to make an attempt to resolve whatever tension had built up between them.

Tears glistened on Alexia's cheeks, a testament to the intensity of the match and the dreams left unfulfilled. The Barcelona staff member, offering solace in the face of defeat, glanced up as Y/N approached, and let go of her.

''Alexia,'' Y/N greeted her softly, putting her arm around the Spaniard, ''thank you for the great battle.'' She hadn't prepared what to say, because what do you say against someone you feel like you are supposed to hate? What do you say against someone you've been constantly compared to for over a year?

To the striker's surprise, Alexia reciprocated, feeling an arm on her lower-back. ''Congratulations, you deserved the win. You played phenomenal.'' The midfielder told her, a forced yet genuine small smile making a way onto her face.

''Don't let this hurt you. You are literally one of the best players I have played against- your team is amazing. Use this, like in 2019.'' Y/N advised her, not particularly caring if the opposing player would take it or not.

''We will. I hope we can play many more finals. You make me- you make us grow.'' Alexia stuttered.

Y/N nodded. ''I hope so too. It's been fascinating to see the growth you guys have made these last years.''

The stadium now bore witness to a quieter exchange between the two captains. Almost every camera lens and watchful eye fixated on them.

As Y/N and Alexia exchanged words of mutual respect, their moment of shared understanding was abruptly disrupted by the Barcelona coach.

''Congratulations on the win, Y/N.'' He acknowledged briskly, his gaze quickly turning toward Alexia. His extended hand to her seemed more like a formality, but Y/N accepted it.

Almost forcibly, he placed a hand on Alexia's shoulder, a non-verbal cue that spoke volumes. ''Come on.'' He declared, his tone leaving little room for negotiation and they were off to wherever he needed her to be.

Alexia casted an immediate glance back at Y/N, a mix of emotions played across her face- gratitude for the moment, and frustration at its abrupt end. She hadn't responded to her words yet.

As the Spaniard was led away, Y/N's eyes lingered on the departing figure, a tinge of melancholy in her gaze.

The brief encounter had sparked a momentary connection- a bridge attempting to break through the perceived rivalry and show praise for a strong opponent. However, Jonatan's swift intervention acted like a pair of scissors, cutting through the threads that held that connection.

In Y/N's mind, Alexia had seemed appreciative of the opportunity to have a genuine conversation. She figured there must have been a good reason for her to have been pulled away like that, especially by the head coach.

The Barcelona captain had reacted with a hint of irritation when her coach suggested to the Lyon player to remove her arm from Alexia's shoulder. She tried asking Jonatan why he had coaxed her away, but she didn't receive a proper answer.

The whole thing had left a bitter taste in her mouth. The potential for a more extended, sincere exchange was cut short, leaving Alexia with lingering frustration. There was a desire to understand Y/N beyond the competition, but it was cut short.

She hoped her last glance had worked as a silent acknowledgment of what could have been.

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

IS THERE A VERSION OF JOEL MILLER I WOULDN'T FUCK?

[a case study in how thirsty i am for this man.] [aka fic recommendations]

Unfortunately, in my extensive research on this topic, I have found some pretty damning evidence against my sanity.

dad's best friend!joel miller x fem!reader

Your Summer Dream [masterlist] by @swiftispunk It is a scientific fact that if you place Joel Miller on a beach he becomes 100x hotter. I don't make the rules, I just report them.

Creep it Real! by @swiftispunk I am a puddle. I melted and I'm a shallow pathetic puddle. Cowboy and Angel. I just hnnnnnggggg. I need him to ruin me pls dear god.

*I'm realizing if i include all the DBF!JM i read this will get very long, very quickly, and i think i have revealed enough of myself on this blog to highlight my very obvious daddy issues

**speaking of daddy issues...

stepdad!joel miller x fem!reader

Don't Be Cute, Be Nasty by @cockslutpadalecki i'm pretty sure this was the first stepdad!joel miller anything i read and it awoke something in my soul. it's always fun to reach new levels of my daddy issues and BY GOD was this just 🫠

Bad Girl [part i of many] by @seventeenpins he walks in on her while she's watching stepdaddy porn and good lord it gets filthier and filthier in the best kind of way.

boyfriend's dad!joel miller x fem!reader

Lost in the Dark [masterlist] by @iamasaddie i expected to be a slut reading this but then it made me an emotional slut out of nowhere i am obsessed. there is nothing i love more than being drawn in by my thots only to be hit by an emotional bus out of nowhere.

Thigh's Out AU [masterlist] by @toxicanonymity not only is this a boyfriend's dad AU, but said boyfriend's dad is a hot and slutty. just like i like my dilfs.

father-in-law!joel miller x fem!reader

Pink [masterlist] by @netherfeildren holy fuck. that's all. just holy fuck. this altered my genetic makeup.

Help, I'm Stuck! by @nosesitter spoiler alert: he takes her wedding ring off before dicking her down and I-- 👀 send help.

***i didn't think i had a lot of significant other's father!joel miller in my repertoire, but i had to stop myself again from listing them all on this one otherwise we'd be here all day. shit, i'm learning things about myself 🤡

dark therapist!joel miller x fem!reader

Session 1 by @elvinaa i think this only highlights how badly i need an actual therapist (as does this entire list actually).

sleazy gas station clerk!joel miller x fem!reader

Meet Me in the Back (1) & The Night is Dark Enough ... (2) written by @atticrissfinch It does not bode well for me that this version of Joel Miller made me so fucking feral. In no way, shape, nor form should a sleazy gas station clerk make me feel this way AND YET HERE WE ARE.

tattoo artist!joel miller x fem!reader

Honeyed [masterlist] by @softlyspector This one absolutely hits too close to home for me, but that's probably why I'm so obsessed with it. My touch adverse yet touch starved ass ate this up and left no crumbs😌

chiro!joel miller x fem!reader

Say Yes to Heaven by @pascalisbaby i thought the medical side of my brain would cringe at the doctor/patient dynamic but as it turns out my depravity knows no bounds 🥵

frat dad!joel miller x fem!reader

The Old College Try by @proxima-writes i didn't even know this was something i needed in my life until it came into my life. blessings🙏🏼

ceo!joel miller x fem!reader

Sex on Fire [masterlist] by @macfrog i don't think i need to harp on what that sugar daddy vibes do to me🤤

mafia!joel miller x fem!reader

Divine Dynasty by @cavillscurls Remember when I said putting Joel by a body of water makes him 100x hotter? The same applies to a Mafia AU. I can't explain it. I have no sound reasoning to support my claim other than "he hot tho".

pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

I Know it When I See it [masterlist] by @bageldaddy 🔥🔥🔥 that is all.

maintenance man!joel miller x fem!reader

Maintenance Man [masterlist] by @gracieispunk toolbelt. say less.

slasher!joel miller x fem!reader

Slasher [masterlist] by @toxicanonymity i thought for sure, FOR SURE, this would be blind, pure, detached smut that i could enjoy with no emotional ties whatsoever. and then all of a sudden i'm feeling things??? he just loves his mom so much😭 mama's boy wants to be happy. JAIL. real jail for murderer joel miller. horny jail for me. and audacity jail for toxic b/c how dare you make me feel things for a serial killer😩

as i said previously, the evidence speaks for itself. i have yet to find a version of joel miller i could not immediately fuck. i'm actually planning (i have a lot of plans and no time smh), to go through all these on my recommendation blog w/play by play commentary so everyone can know just how unhinged i am for this guy.

but now!! you guys have a syllabus for my insanity!!

now, excuse me while i go find a therapist (a real one, not a hot/dark joel miller version of one) (although beggars can't be choosers right?👀)

dividers by @saradika

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

just a girl 1

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible cheating, low self-esteem, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: you move in with your sister when your luck turns for the worst.

Characters: Walter Marshall, possible Andy Barber

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

It isn't your proudest moment. You don't have many of those. There is little remarkable about, nothing of note, nothing admirable. You might stand a bit taller than most but it's rarely given as a good thing. 

You never expected much of life. You resigned yourself to living in the shadows. In particular, you knew you would always bet outshone by your sister's light. You can't hate her for it; it's your own shortcoming. Besides, no one can hate Riannon, she's just that nice. 

You are dark smear on the family name. It's why you didn't even think to ask your parents for help. You didn't even ask your sister, she offered, insisted really. You could never deny her and in this instant, you couldn't afford any other option. 

It’s just for a while, you keep telling yourself. You’ll find a new job and a place soon. For now, you’ll just stay out of the way. It isn’t very hard; you take up much more room than your few possessions. 

You keep yourself holed in the guestroom as you settle into your second day. You have your laptop on your thighs as you scroll the job boards. You have the experience but you expect your reference would be any good. You didn’t exactly end on cordial terms. Starting from square one, though the industry isn’t exactly even ground for men and women alike. 

You hunker down to search through the various postings within your purview. Every classification is ticked off, even the years, it’s just that little note about contacting your previous employers that makes you nervous. Well, you at least have to try. 

A knock comes at the door as you edit your cover letter once again. You sit up and close the computer. You slide it aside and get up. You cross the room and crack the door open. You sister smiles from the other side. 

“Am I making too much noise?” You ask as your music plays music from its tiny speaker. 

“No, no, not at all. Um, so you know Andy is out of town for the day so it’s just us,” she rocks, “and there’s a barbecue down the street so... I thought you could get to know the neighbourhood.” 

You look down at her, the offer catching you off guard. You were prepared to spend the whole day hidden away and poring over job listings. Even when you had your own place, you tended to spend most of your own time inside. 

Still, she is doing you a huge favour and it would be rude to say no. You shrug, “okay.” 

“Great, I have some potato salad I'm bringing,” she chirps.  

“Uh,” you look at her blue checkered capris and pristine white blouse, “should I change?” 

“It’s up to you. I'm just going to get packed up. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.” 

Her excitement is palpable. She probably expected you to say no. You don’t want to let her down again. You’re tired of that feeling. 

You close the door as she bounces away and you retreat to search through your still unpacked suitcase. Your clothes hang over the sides. You pick out a band shirt and a pair of dark grey jeans. You don’t have any shorts and you know your repertoire of dark colours only draws in the sun’s fury, and like of the vaunted HOA, but you don’t have many options. 

You emerge with a pair of converse in hand and head into the kitchen. Rhiannon snaps the lid onto a big bowl as she beams up at you. You don’t understand how you share the same blood, she’s so different than you. Where you’re tall and gangly, she’s small and dainty; where your dour and reticent, she’s bright and bubbly. Your parents even kidded that you must’ve been switched at the hospital. 

“Ready?” She asks. 

You nod and look down at yourself. 

“If you want to borrow a skirt or something, it’s pretty hot out.” 

“It’s fine.” 

You don’t take her offer as any comment on your choice, only genuine concern. If it was your mom, you would know it was more than that. To be fair, your mother is very direct with her critiques. Besides, even if her clothes would fit you, you don’t want to risk ruining any of her things. 

“Alrighty, well, Marge will kill me if I’m late again,” she sings and sweeps around with the bowl. “It’ll be nice to get out, huh?” 

“Mhmm,” you grumble and follow her down the hall to the front door. 

She steps into her wedged sandals as you sit to pull on your converse and lace them up. You stand and get the door for her as she prances towards it. She thanks you and you trail her out. The sun hits you like fire. It’s so hot, though you think some of the heat comes from your own self-consciousness. 

As you catch up to your sister at the bottom of the steps, you slow down to keep from outpacing her shorter legs. Even with her platformed soles, she’s still ahead shorter than you. You turn down the sidewalk as you shy away from the strange faces headed in the same direction. 

“You want me to carry that?” You offer. 

“Hey, I might be small but I can handle a salad,” she chirps. 

“I know, I wasn’t--” 

“I’m teasing. It’s fine, I got it,” she assures you as she hugs the bowl to her stomach, “I just want you to have a good day. Don’t think about everything else, okay?” 

“Mm, okay,” you keep your head down as you slink next to her jouncing steps, “sorry, I'll try not to be too grim.” 

“Whatever, you’re awesome,” she nudges you with her elbow, “you just be yourself and I know you’ll find some good friends around here.” 

You try to smile but it hurts. She always sees the best in others, even when it’s not there. You keep pace with her and turn up another curated lawn. The walk is perfectly laid and the blossom tree sways overhead. 

Rhiannon is welcomed through the open gate by one of those blonde women she has her book club with and you shuffle in with your hands in your pockets. You feel the woman’s harsh gaze and peek up. She looks at you the same way your mother does. Her name is Marge and her friend is Callie and there are dozens of the Stepford-like figures posted throughout the yard. 

“Come, let’s put your salad out,” Marge insists. 

Rhiannon looks at you and you chew your cheek, “go, I'll be fine.” 

She looks reluctant but you’re already walking away. You ignore the smell of sausage and beef rising from the barbeque and the splash and laughter of children from the pool. You aren’t going to find any friends here. That much is clear. Housewives and little kids, you don’t really fit the bill. 

You find your way to the far end of the lawn and stand by a tree you might just blend into. Or maybe you might bury yourself in the rose bushes. You pull your hands from your pockets and hook your fingers into your belt loops, swaying as you watch a bumble bee hover over the grass. 

“Foo Fighters, huh?” A low drawl brings your head up as a man approaches with a beer bottle in hand. 

“Um, yeah,” you look down at your shirt, tugging on the hem. 

“You go to a show?” He asks as he stops near you, drinking from the bottle as he waits for your answer. 

“Never been to one,” you cross your arms, “but I listen to them.” 

“Ah, yeah, well, they put on a hell of a show,” he wiggles the bottle as he talks, “lot more fun than these things.” 

You look up the yard towards the mingling of voices and sound. Despite your efforts to hide in a corner, you must have stuck out like a sore thumb. Shoot, maybe he thinks you’re trespassing. 

“I came with my sister,” you point and shift towards the party, “sorry, um, Rhiannon. I didn’t... I was just looking at the roses.” 

“Not my party,” he scoffs, “I don’t care.” 

“Oh,” you blink and look at him. He's about your height, dark curly hair, and vibrant blue eyes. His dark beard is thick and stubble prickles along his neck. He wears a plain white shirt and jeans; the bare minimum. “Right, er, well...” 

“Not a bad idea, hiding behind a tree,” he remarks, “but you're missing the key ingredient.” 

He stops and stares, crooking a brow as if you should know what he means. 

“Alcohol,” he raises his bottle, “they got a keg even. Probably the only good part about these bull—these things.” 

“I don’t drink,” you mutter, “but thanks.” 

You put your head down and stare at the grass around his shoes. You don’t know why he’s bothering you if it isn’t to make you leave. Obviously, you don’t belong. 

“Never too late to start,” he snorts and stays as he is. 

You don’t know how to make him leave you alone so you say nothing. The bee dips into a tulip’s mouth and you turn to watch it. Maybe he’ll take your silence as a hint. 

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

what do you think is funnier: Selûne rifling through her list of clerics to set her daughter up with someone Appropriate bc she knows Aylin is a huge lesbian and will go helm over greaves as soon as she likes a girl (and setting up a meet cute once she picks Isobel) or Aylin coming home to the astral sea like MOTHER I HAVE LIT UPON A MATE MOST GLORIOUS and Selûne's realization she has been privy to some incredibly private prayers recently that have indeed been about her daughter

This ask is hilarious and I love it. I am adding "helm over greaves" to my repertoire immediately.

Now I'm imagining a secret third option where Selûne is getting a bit frustrated and sad that her daughter is sort of stuck in a rut, being entirely too serious and duty-focused to the exclusion of allowing herself actual good things and worldly/mortal experiences, stubbornly erring on the side of the divine and such. Maybe this is her twentieth recent moon-blessed meet-cute setup attempt and they just keep not clicking, and Selûne would never push things because free will and all that, you know? But alas, an awful track record for the goddess whose portfolio once used to include love and marriage! Then going all divine proclamation "AYLIN MY BELOVED DAUGHTER MY MOST LOYAL KNIGHT I HAVE A LOFTY DUTY OF GREAT IMPORT FOR YOU" and she sends her to yes, sure, watch over this entire super-devoted region and long family line, but have you seen that sweet and very talented cleric who seems lonely, too? (Sune eating holy popcorn in the background.)

Man, all this just makes me realise I crave some fluffy shenanigans with these two. Yes, their storylines are super steeped in tragedy and bittersweet and doomed mortal/immortal stuff but there's also so much hilarity potential there. Starting with, but not limited to, "the god I am a cleric of is my mother-in-law". And then maybe throw in some courtly love knight/lady trappings in there. Delicious.

You've reminded me of swear i was born right in the doorway which is a really funny fic that has a bit of Selûne going "Isobel you're very nice but please stop praying about my daughter to me". Also gonna drop a quick shoutout to Five easy steps to successfully kidnapping your very own peasant wife! (um, actually, she’s an angel?) which is a newly posted one that seems to be deliberately going in those romcom-y tropey directions and I dig it. I hear there's only going to be one bed at the inn! Hard to beat that.

[sotwk]

Cinder Girl (Fíli x unnamed OC)

Summary: The Crown Prince of Erebor faces the dilemma of losing his heart to a lovely yet humble palace servant.

Word count: 2.4 k

Content: Fluffy, tropey romance and comfort, Durins Live AU, post-BotFA, class division, love confession, Pining Prince Fíli

Rating: General (no warnings apply)

To Read on AO3: Link

Dedication and Inspiration: Thank you to the Anon who inspired this concept long ago by sending me this message! <3

Also for my friend, @guardianofrivendell, a true Fíli aficionado with an incredible repertoire of fics of our beloved Dwarf Prince. You probably don't remember, but this fic fulfills the "Love Confessions" request you made from my Valentine Event in 2023! Better late than never? Welcome back! <3

Cinder Girl 

The Reclaimed Kingdom of Erebor

Third Age 2945

What to do, what to do? The proper thing, of course. The decision should be that simple, and it usually was so for Fíli.  

Except now. Except when it came to her. 

The young dwarf lord tugged on the beaded braid of his mustache and leaned forward in the cushioned bench on which he sat. He made a motion to stand, only to plop back down again with a frustrated grunt. He had been dithering that way for the last ten minutes, at least. 

And he had spent twice as long sitting there, only half ashamed of allowing himself to enjoy the sight that surprised him when he returned to his chambers following a day-long council meeting. 

I am just looking, is all, Fíli reminded himself, desperate to excuse his poor manners. He knew the right thing to do would be to gently wake her, assure her that she was in no trouble, and allow her to discreetly exit the room she should never have been caught in. 

Surely this was a sign. A gift from Mahal himself, to force his stubborn, weak arse into action. Yet there he was again, he who was hailed as the Lion of Erebor, one of the bravest warriors in the kingdom, just sitting there stupidly, staring as he always did, because he could never find neither strength nor courage to do anything else in the presence of this dwarrowdam that stole the very breath from his lungs. 

Even as she lay there on the lush fur rug by the fireplace, in a cozy warmth that likely had lulled her to sleep, her presence paralyzed him. She was that very rare gem, found only once in a generation, exquisite in itself without need for cutting or polishing, or settings of gold, or other fine stones to accompany it. 

"Beyond beautiful," Fíli thought, and his chest filled with both longing and wonderment of how utterly she had ensnared him with so little effort, with such little awareness of the effect she caused.

She had dazzled Fíli the moment she cast her first smile and first spoke his name, and from then on the prince was blind to all others. When she laughed, Fíli finally understood why his brother Kíli constantly acted the fool just to earn that sweet sound from his own lady’s lips.

And so Fíli neglected to mention the titles that accompanied his name, and as a result he was able to enjoy hours of conversations with the newcomer from the Blue Mountains, basking in her uninhibited laughter and open stories and playful touches.

But the ruse would not last even a month. When she finally discovered that the new “friend” who had welcomed her to Erebor was actually King Thorin’s heir, next-in-line to the throne of Durin, an invisible wall rose between them. She never laughed in the same way around him again. She remained friendly and kind, yes, but every action toward him was suddenly restrained by prim courtesy. Their once animated conversations were dampened by measured, cautious responses. Even her beautiful smile was dimmed by a strange sadness, as though the knowledge of his royal identity disappointed her. 

"Please, you don't have to…" he said, when he once tried to stop her from bowing to him as they passed each other in the hall. 

"It is only proper, my lord," she murmured, keeping her lovely eyes lowered to her feet, only doubling Fíli's frustrations. "I bid you a good day, Prince Fíli."

And she hurried away with her cleaning pail in tow, before Fíli could offer to help, before he could muster up the nerve to invite her to dinner, which was why he had come down to the servants’ hall in the first place. All he had succeeded in doing was send the tongues of the palace domestic staff wagging. 

Eventually Fíli's despair grew heavy enough that he sought Balin's counsel, daring not to broach the topic with the one person who could completely relieve him of his fear: that no future was possible between the Heir of Durin and a dwarf not only from a different clan, but without rank or advantages. 

Balin remained silent while Fíli laid out his entire predicament--during the prince’s impassioned speech, and a long while after. Too long, so much that the thoughtful calm Fíli usually admired in his sagacious old cousin only set his teeth on edge.

“I must say this is troubling news to hear indeed,” Balin finally spoke, tugging thoughtfully at his beard.

“Troubling?!” Fíli exclaimed. “How could you already deem it as such when you have not yet met her? What matters her lack of status when she is the sweetest and gentlest soul to ever bless me with her company?! That is, until she decided she could no longer tolerate my presence,” he amended glumly. 

“Calm yourself, boy.” Balin chuckled between sips of his ale. “You have only ever raved this passionately about very few things before, and never about a bonnie lass. For a moment I thought I might actually be speaking to Kíli.”

“That isn't close to either the comfort or counsel I was hoping for, Balin.”

“Harrumph. That is because I have neither of those things for you, lad! What you need is to be slapped back into your senses!” Balin shook a stout finger at the dwarf-prince. “Have you so little knowledge or faith in your Uncle that you could not bring this matter straight to him?”

Fíli drew back, eyebrows lifted in bewilderment. “I thought he would scoff at the frivolity of it, before declaring my desire for her as unsuitable.”

“Because the girl is common?” Balin snorted when Fíli nodded. “It would wound Thorin so deeply to hear this, that I shall not even bother repeating your words to him.” He reached across the dinner table to grip Fíli’s arm. “Your Uncle risked his life, risked everything to take back this Mountain for you, my boy. To give you the future that he felt you deserved. Do you think that future is all about gold?”

Balin smiled and slapped Fíli gently on his slack-jawed face. “It is about choice, and freedom. The freedom to chase whatever dreams you wish. Go and speak to Thorin. It appears there is much he needs to clarify about his expectations of you as the realm’s prince and his heir.” 

Fíli had genuinely intended to heed Balin’s advice to discuss things with his uncle. But after failing to quickly gain an audience with the chronically busy king, he let his nerves conquer him yet again, as he put off pursuing that conversation. And so day after day passed with him stuck in the plight of his own making… leading at last to that evening, when the source of his agony literally lay right before him inside his own chambers, demanding to be dealt with.

The more time passed with him just sitting and staring at the sleeping chambermaid, the longer each minute seemed to stretch, and the more ridiculous Fili felt in his inertness. 

Just when his frustration came to its peak, and he felt unable to tolerate himself any longer, the prince rose quietly and stepped towards the figure on the fur rug. 

A pounding knock barely gave him any warning before his chamber door swung wide open and Kili barreled inside. “Did you not say you were starving, brother? What is taking you so--??”

Kili stopped short, his wide-eyed stare darting between Fili and the lady that had stumbled to her feet, disheveled and disoriented. It was impossible to tell who looked more mortified by his arrival. 

“Have I… am I interrupting something?”

“I am so very sorry, milords!” the maiden blurted out. “I didn't mean to, I---I am so--!” Her ashen face suddenly colored by the violence of her embarrassment, she grabbed her cleaning pail from the hearth. The contents rattled inside the metal bucket, so badly did her hands shake as she gave a hasty curtsy to the royal princes.

“N-no, no wait, please… h-hold on for just a moment--” Fili began, when his tongue finally came unstuck from the roof of his mouth, but it was too late. She rushed across the room and straight out the open door without ever lifting her gaze off the ground. 

“Brother, I am sorry, I didn't know--”

Fili brushed aside the apology and scrambled past Kili to fly out into the hallway. Panic had broken through his earlier paralysis and suddenly he could not move fast enough, his body acting beyond the constraints of his judgment. 

He called after her; the sound of her name and his footsteps chased her down the empty corridor. But to Fili's dismay she did not stop or even slow down, and just as she was about to turn a corner and descend the stairs leading from the palace wing, a desperate shout escaped containment, partially strangled in the tightness of his throat, but still too loud to be ignored. 

“I love you, all right?! I love you!!”

The frantic clatter of the metal pail ceased, and all Fili could hear against the ensuing silence was the roar of his pulse beneath his ears. In several strides, he closed the distance to come before the maiden. She stayed rooted to the spot and motionless, apart from the heaving of her bosom as she chased her breath. 

“This was not how I wanted you to find out.” The calm in his own voice surprised Fili, as did the confidence that drove his words. “But I also do not wish to take it back. Hiding from the truth has gained me nothing but pain.”

“I appreciate your candor, milord, and I regret your pain.” She continued to address him, but her eyes remained firmly lowered towards her hands, white-knuckled in their grip around the pail handle. “But what am I to do with these fine words you offer? How can a peasant be worthy to receive the affections of a prince?”

“Worthy?” Fíli repeated in distaste. “What causes you to believe that you must be worthy to--?”

“You are the future King of Erebor.” She spoke loudly over him, as though she had not heard him at all, or was determined not to. “The blood of Durin the Deathless runs in you! I am just a nobody from a Broadbeam village in the Blue Mountains--” 

“I was born in such a village, same as my father!” Fíli cut her off with matching fervor. “And you are certainly not ‘just a nobody’ to me.”

Something in his words finally reached her, for at last she raised her bowed head ever so slightly, just enough for her gaze to meet his, and the tears that shimmered in her eyes wiped away the last of his hesitation.

“We are not different, ghivashel. Not in any way that matters.”

Her smile that bloomed at that word, one that proclaimed her more precious than any treasure in Erebor, revived a light in him that had gone out in the long weeks of her absence. 

When Fíli reached out to relieve her of the cleaning pail, she did not resist. Grasping her wrist, he rested her open hand upon his. He swept his thumb back and forth all across her palm, over the red scrapes and dirt-streaked calluses that made her all the more beautiful and admirable in his eyes.

“Not long ago, I spent each waking day with my face smeared in soot, my arms and hands burnt from the blaze of forge fires, aching to the bone after hours of back-breaking labor.”

He pushed up his tunic sleeve to show her: the patches of discolored skin from old burns, the countless scars that littered the entire length of his arm, almost to his elbow. 

“But I would always go to bed happy, and proud of my honest living, of the smith that I was.” He shook his head and corrected himself. “The smith that I am. Whatever titles and additional duties I may now carry as a consequence of my inheritance, I am still that same soot-covered dwarf.”

He sealed her hand between his two and lightly kissed the fingertips that peeked out from the cage of his palms.

“All I ask is for a chance to show you that,” he said softly. “With the hope that you might come to love what you see in me. For I have already, absolutely, fallen in love with everything I see in you.”

Her silence filled the entire length of the passageway, all the way up to the high ceilings. Under the crushing weight of its persistence, Fíli’s hope started to falter. But as the fear of his failure to convince her started to creep in, his grip all the more tightened around her hand. He couldn't let go. He did not know how he could ever let her go.

“From the first day we met,” she finally spoke. “I already loved everything I saw in you…Fíli of the Blue Mountains.” She tipped her chin up and squared her shoulders, face set with resolution alongside her gentle smile. “I think that love can bring me the courage I need to let the other side of you, Prince Fíli of Erebor, into my heart as well.” 

Fíli’s entire being swelled with such relief and unbridled joy he thought he might catch flame. His arms found themselves around her waist, drawing her close to his desire to demonstrate the feelings he had restrained for too long.

Alas, a sudden and deafening crash rang through the hall to cut off Fíli’s eager quest.  “Sorry, sorry!” yelped a guilty voice in the shadows.

Fíli groaned, then chuckled, and settled for another chase kiss upon his lady’s hand. 

“Would you care to have dinner with my brother and I?” he asked her, nodding in the direction of the ruckus as Kíli struggled to straighten up the decorative suit of armor he had knocked over. “An unrepentant snoop he may be, but I can assure you he is otherwise harmless and actually quite pleasant company.”

“It sounds like a wonderful start to getting to know the rest of you,” she said, eyes bright from their shared laughter, free of even a speck of her earlier doubts. “Because I very much would like to know everything, Fíli. To discover and delight in every wonderful bit of you.”

“And you shall have that,” Fíli vowed, brushing his thumb over the curve of her cheek, over an ashy mark of the fireplace cinders that had brought her back to him. “You already do have me, but I shall also endeavor to give the whole world to make you happy.”

“You are already the whole world,” she declared, and rose on her toes to do what he could not, sealing their confessions with a sound kiss.

For more SotWK Fanfiction: Fanfiction Masterlist

Other useful links:

Introduction to SotWK

Headcanon Masterlist

[househrt]

Seeing as you have an amazing repertoire of house md fanfictions in your collection, would you happen to have any good ones where House is vulnerable or submissive? Asking for a friend.

YES here's a selection (I didn't know if you meant vulnerable or submissive in a sex way or a not-sex way so I gave you both, though turns out most of my fav vulnerable!House fics are hurt/comfort so that's the bigger list) below the cut bc this post is long

submissive/vulnerable in a Not Sex way:

Unintentional touches from Wilson made House realize just how touch-starved he was, but he’d be damned if he ever showed it. Wilson catches on and cares for House when he starts to spiral.

"You don't take personal da -" Wilson begins, scoffing, and then does the math. "Oh, shit. House." House spends the first anniversary of his father's death on Wilson’s couch.

House has a particularly bad pain day and hasn’t been able to move for over twelve hours. But just as he thought, his day would go like this, with cramps tormenting his leg and him laying helplessly in bed in his own pee and puke, Wilson suddenly appears at his apartment and helps him to get through. Because even if Wilson doesn’t have to take care of House, he wants to. And sometimes a comforting hug can be more effective than a large dose of morphine…

House finally registered two hands holding his face so softly it was like they were afraid he’d break. He wasn’t just staring at the bathroom tiles anymore, either. Now there was a body in front of him; rumpled shirt, slacks, dress shoes. A familiar tie he remembered hating. He hadn’t even heard the front door open. He held himself back from yelling. It’s not as if he didn’t want Wilson here. Christ, House thinks he’s the only person besides maybe Cuddy who he’d tolerate at that moment. But seeing him ached. — aka what if it was Wilson who showed up at the end of 6x22? and also what if there was even more pining and near missed kisses?

After the events of One Day One Room, House makes a drunken confession. Wilson turns to Chase for advice.

“What?” Wilson muttered with as much annoyance and exasperation as House expected at that hour. Briefly, he wished he could twirl around his cane to give his hands something to do. Too bad it was a whole two parking spaces away from him. “Come get me.” Wilson sighed deeply. “Where are you? It better be a ditch or something. Are you drunk right now? You sound sober enough to drive yourself home.” “I’m in the hospital parking lot.” A long moment of silence passed. Well, it would have been silent, but House heard Wilson shuffling around. Hopefully getting his ass out of bed and getting back to work. “House, I’m tired.” Or: Sometimes, accidents happen.

What happens after House tells Cuddy he's not okay.

A brain-eating amoeba has swept the halls of Princeton-Plainesboro, moving impossibly fast and striking seemingly at random. As House investigates, he realizes that this disease does not have a natural cause. There are two geniuses living in Princeton: one a cranky misanthrope with dubious morals in love with his best friend, and the other a mad genius who has developed an obsession with Gregory House. Wilson and House leap into action to find a cure, but the mysterious James always seems one step ahead... and he will stop at nothing to catch House's eye.

Unrelenting by l57371 [I hit the limit of links lol]

The pain is too much, Wilson tries to help.

submissive/vulnerable in a Sex way:

Maybe the reason Wilson lets House spend all his money is because he likes it.

^ this is tagged "Accidental (sugar) Baby Acquisition" and that's all you need to know

Gregory House had the bad luck to present as omega in a country where omegas had little rights. After his first heat ended, he was chemically sterilized. This is over thirty years later.

[the-100-days-of-junkan]

Day 47

. . . 

Okay so i’m gonna level with you here. I think i’ve been underselling the degree of brainrot this ship was giving me. Like sure, drawing 100 fucking days worth of art and then some is pretty brainrotted, but I really don’t think that gets the point across.

This, and technically the last piece (which I now have thoughts on, because comedy) are the very first times I have EVER drawn Angsty Shipping art. If you’ve seen me draw Angsty Ship art (which i’m certain I haven’t done outside of this ship, but I also have a very bad memory), it was after I made this. 

I’ve lived a life basking in fluffy romantic content, I would occasionally read Hurt/Comfort fics, but never pure hurt fics. And still I would almost always gravitate more towards fluff. And this of course reflects in my art, for as long as I have drawn art of girls kissing, it has always been cozy, wonderful fluff. 

And then Junkan happened. And slowly, slowly it was chipping at my mind without me realizing, and then something fuckin snapped in my brain. And then I drew this, an angsty Junkan comic. Is it any good??? That’s for you to fuckin decide, me personally I’m still happy with it but I also have very little to work off in my repertoire to say whether I know what the fuck I’m doing or not. 

I don’t know if I had a full concept in mind for what was going on in Junko’s mind when I drew that pic. But what eventually came to me was the idea of Junko having to grapple with one of the aspects of feeling love that I imagine she wouldn’t be geared up. In the very first Junkan pic, which I don’t consider angst personally, I talked about how I liked the idea of Junko being scared of feeling love, I didn’t elaborate on it too much since I was still getting used to writing these posts. 

I think Day 46 makes for a great example of that. 

The thought process I had was that Junko having just come to feel real romantic feelings for Mikan, would have to realize she could at any point lose Mikan, and just having to contemplate that.

And this comic is the follow up, partially inspired by a desire to just depict Junko having a breakdown. I don’t know why I keep doing the role reversal for this ship, first it’s Vampire Mikan, now it’s Mikan emotionally comforting Junko. What’s next, Mikan being taller than Junko???

Also here’s a fun fact, there is like, as far as I can remember, no actual art of Mikan having to be comforted by Junko in this project. I don’t know why I never fucking did that? Sorry Junko you’re the only one dealing with bullshit here I guess.

Also whether the comic itself is of any actual quality or merit here, I’m still at the bare minimum very proud of Junko’s expressions in this. Like i’m actually jealous of my past self because I’m not sure how well I could recreate these kinds of emotions visually if I tried again. 

As always, Reblogs, Comments, and Little Notes in the Tags are appreciated!~ They always make my day!~

[brewed-pangolin]

Got a headcanon request, since it's Super Soap Sunday:

What is Soap like when he's your spotter in the weight room? Does he keep things professional, or does the situation evolve into something...more riveting?

*clears throat*

A million apologies for this being so late. This started as a headcanon, then turned into a drabble and now is a full blown fic. It's definitely not perfect, but whatever. Thank you @deadbranch for all your love and feedback on this. Hope y'all enjoy it, whatever this thing is. 💛

Slippery Soap

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Fem Reader

18+MDNI I can't resist gym rat Soap. Lots of teasing, tons of innuendos, pissed off Dom Soap, p in v, rough sex at the end. My typical filth, per se.

Word Count: 2.7k

It all started with a simple innocent request. You wanted to up your gym routine a bit and add some weight training to your repertoire. And who better than to ask than the buffed out Scotsman himself. 

“Hey Soap. You hittin the gym today? Thinkin about adding some weight training to my routine. Wanna be my spotter?”

First of all, the moment you ask him to be your spotter, he’s beaming. No matter where you are, his face is full blown flushed. Eyes glistening and those crystal baby blues are shining like diamonds. He’s a kid in a candy store and you just gave him the battered Mars bar mountain. 

But once you make it into the gym, it’s all cool, calm and professional. At least, that's how it starts…

"So, ya want me t'spot for ya eh, lass? A'right. But we gotta go o'er some ground rules first. Don't need ya blowin ya back out on me first go around, yeah."

Soap is the absolute epitome of safety in the weight room. It doesn't matter if you're a full blown gym rat or complete novice, he's going to start you with proper body mechanics.  And he won't be shy about it. He'll have his body flush against your back, hands pressing down in a delicate yet forceful manner to get you into the right starting position.

"Posture, bonnie. Most important rule 'ere. Ya go down wrong ya ain't gettin back up."

It’s subtle, He starts it that way. But you pick up on those innuendos instantly. You know this game all too well. And this is where the ball comes into your court. You can either let him continue with those sly comments and not react. Or you can counter him, hit back just as hard as he does. Just be prepared for what comes of it. You poke the Scottish bear, he’ll poke right back. Hard.

He'll start you on the free weights. Good way to get your body warmed up and ready for the heavier lifting down the line. And Soap will watch you like a hawk; circling, hovering, visually critiquing your technique and giving any pointers he deems necessary to correct your form. 

This is where an opportunity presents itself, and you can’t help but pounce on it like a cat to a mouse.

"Am I the only one that's gonna be workin here? Or are you gonna give me a sneak peak to the Soap Gun Show?"

Poke #1. He knows full well what you’re up to. Those blue eyes darken, and the smirk on his face may as well be chiseled into Roman marble. 

"Not bad hen, not bad. Ya gettin a front row seat, yeah. C'mere."

He'll motion you to the spare bench while he adds more weight to the bar. And he won't low ball this. Training lesson or not, he'll show off like a testosterone fueled peacock. Once he positions himself flat on the bench, he'll go over his posture and advise on the proper way to handle a bench press.

"Feet flat, an' legs parallel to the floor. That's yer counter weight. Naw, on to tha' gun show a yers."

You're taking his advice seriously, but you can't stop as your legs squeeze together to quell that oh so familiar ache within your core to his first press. And Soap's well aware of the effect he has on you, and is now fully engrossed in this back and forth game. He knows exactly how to hit back with weaponized remark. So he ups the ante a bit.

He grunts. And they're not just any grunts. He uses those low, growling vocals that reverberate over your flesh, goosebumps rise in waves over your skin and form a maelstrom of heat in your belly. And you take it all in. His taut skin, the rippling of his muscular arms, the veins popping under his flesh. Your eyes follow the sweat as they traverse the curves of his biceps and land in the divots of his deltoid.  After ten reps he places the bar back in its hooked placement and rears himself into a sitting position.

Skin flushed, sweaty mohawk, skin glistening and breathless; gym rat Soap truly is a sight to behold.

"Yer turn, lass. Take a seat."

You don't hesitate. Even as the remnants of his exertion pool into the leather of the bench, you quickly line yourself up to the head, and following his advice position yourself just as he had instructed. Once he removed enough weights to be more fitting for your abilities he stood at the head, hands under the bars and motioned you to take them within your grasp. And as your eyes met he had to add his own quarrel just for good measure.

"Ya likin the view, bonnie?  Grab the bar 'ere."

Oohh he's having way too much fun with this. Lightly he tapped on the metal and you fastened a strong grip around the cold steel. And as you brought it down to rest on your chest you again countered him with your own jestering quip.

"C'mon now Johnny, y'know I always love looking up to you."

Soap's chest flared up as he broadened his stance, a vibrating moan emanating from his throat as his feet cemented into the floor and displayed a completely assertive posture. You were slowly breaking away at his control of this situation, and he didn't fully comprehend how to handle it. He couldn't very well bend you over, you were in a public place after all.

You took his wavering control into your hands, and as you began your presses you locked eyes with him. Not even bothering to count. And the flirtatious curling of your lips must have hit a nerve, accompanied by the view of you straining with a light glistening of perspiration over your skin. Soap was going down. Fast. 

Instantly, his hands laced into the hem of his sweatpants to readjust himself; clearly you were having a profound effect on him. You had barely done ten reps before Soap grabbed the bar from your hands, forcefully putting it back into its hooked resting place. 

"Enough a'this. Up ya get. On to tha deadlifts."

The rumble in his voice didn't go unnoticed. You were more than appreciative that the weight room was deserted, but there were still patrons in the gym area, who thankfully were too engrossed in their own business to bother themselves with the flustering banter going on between you two. 

As you made your way towards the dumbbells you noticed Soap kept himself unusually close to you, and stood at an almost full perpendicular position once you had found the correct weight. The sight of him red faced and frustrated had you swimming in victorious energy. Soap was never one to lose his cool in public situations, but this was new territory for the both of you. And somehow you ended up with the upper hand, a circumstance that most definitely didn’t go unnoticed. And most certainly wouldn’t go unanswered. 

You cocked your head towards him as he stood beside you, eyeing him up and noticing just the slightest tent within the fabric of his sweatpants. And you couldn’t help yourself. 

“Ya alright there, Johnny? Looking a bit flustered.”

Poke #2. Your whispered coo nearly sent him over the edge. His eyes bore into you, like a darkened stormfront barreling towards you. The muscles of his jaw clenched and you swore the veins in his forehead were on the verge of bursting.

“Grab the weight, bonnie. Ya workin my last nerve.” 

It was barely audible, but the gravely tone in his voice was electrifying. You obliged him for his own sake, and did a full set of ten reps without a single word or act of defiance. You could feel the energy soften around him, whatever loss of control he had he was beginning to regain. Standing straight you eyed him again, silently requesting any pointers or advice on your technique. 

“Good form, hen. Now, let’s move on to..."

“I think I’ll do one more rep.”

Your abrupt interjection caught him off guard. And unfortunately for his sake, this was the last of the control he would have in this flirtatious quarrel. Quickly you turned and pressed your back into him, the suddenness of your movements not giving him any time to react. Slowly you bent down and as your hands wrapped around the ring of the dumbbell you cocked your head towards him. With the best ‘fuck around and find out’ expression you could muster,  you returned that coy banter that put this whole scheme into play.

“Ya likin the view there, Johnny?”

Poke #3. Immediately his hands grasped into the curve of your hips, firmly pressing your ass against his pelvis and feeling that delectable bulge in the fabric of his pants. Even through the barrier you could feel the throb of his cock on your flesh. Soap had folded in the game he put before you, and fortunately for you, he was a sore loser.

“Drop it.”

The bark in his voice sent a bolt of pleasure through you, adding to the death grip his hands had on your hips and the pulsing of him between your ass you were already teetering on overstimulation. Yet you pressed on regardless.

“The weight, smartass. Gonnae deal wit tha’ attitude later. C’mere.”

“The weight, or the attitude?”

Standing up straight against him, he pulled your hips in closer letting you feel him hardening in the crevice of your ass. His lips ghosted the flesh of your ear and his hot breath fell over the curve of your neck. 

“Ya testin my patience, bonnie. And ya a’ready got me workin a full stauner ‘ere.”

The flesh of his lips was warm, soft. At complete odds with the cold stone frustration that wrapped around his words. He began to rock his hips into yours, desperate to feel any friction against him, wanting nothing more than to bury himself deep within your cunt. You had only now noticed how wet you were, so focused on the game at play you all but ignored your own arousal. But you weren’t quite finished with this cat and mouse match just yet. 

“Its your own fault, Johnny. I just wanted a simple lesson, you had to turn it into whatever this is.”

As you spoke your hands reached around to his hips, and at the trailing of your words you wrapped your hands around his hardening cock. The feeling of him throb through the fabric made your pussy clench, ache for him to fill you to the brim.

Soap’s breath hitched at the slightest touch of your fingers around him. Instinctively his hips thrust into your grip, eliciting a guttural moan escaping from his lips.

“Yer a fuckin minx, y’know that.”

There was something so endearing when he used nicknames for you, but minx was one you cherished more than most. You knew you had bested him at his own game. You would flaunt your victory in front of him for days to come, but you knew all too well you’d have to survive the onslaught of poor sore loser Soap first. And with that thought in mind, you decided ‘what the hell, go big or go home.’

“Is that gonna be it for it today Soap, or are you planning on giving me a real workout at some point?”

Ultimate Poke. All that playful beaming faded from his face, and those bright blue orbs turned as dark as the deep ocean. He knew he lost the battle, but that last quip threw him over the defeated edge. Quickly he dragged you over to the wall and pressed your back against the cold mirrored glass. His arms outstretched on either side, thick frame caging you in, denying any escape from his sorely beaten fury.

“Yer askin for it, aren’t ya. Meet me outside hen, an’ I’ll give ya a real workout.”

With that, he left you against the wall. Heart nearly pounding out of your chest and body electrified in victorious conquest. You had bested your Scot at his own game. So many times he had won you over, making you crumble to his feet in utter defeat. You relished in this, bathed in the energy that still filled the room. And as you peeled yourself from the cold glass you looked around and reminisced on those silent victories littered throughout the room. You left quietly, your feet floating on the high your mind had manifested. And as you turned the corner to go down the back hall, with your head held high and a proud step in your gate you marched towards door and openly invited whatever defeated torment Soap would throw at you. 

*************

“Steamin fuckin’ Jesus, bonnie. Got me runnin fire hot ‘ere.”

The taste and smell of leather rushed over your senses like a barreling riptide, a constant push pull motion not too dissimilar to the movements your bodies were making now. It was the only thing keeping you held down to reality as you felt him piston his cock deep within your hole. You had won the battle in the weight room, but Soap would win the war in here; a spare equipment room where the stench of sweat and blood hung to the walls like ancient moss. 

Even now he couldn’t help but run his mouth. One hand with a firm grip on your hip keeping you still, the other held down in the crook of your neck forcing your face into the fabric of the overwarn bench. The earlier comment about “not blowing your back out” rang between your ears, and the memory of the events only minutes before played through your mind like a sultry viewmaster. 

You were basking in the torturous pace he had on your cunt when he unexpectedly repositioned himself and the head of his cock hit that bundle of nerves deep within your pussy. Your walls clenched around him, and a husky drawn out moan escaped your sweat covered lips. 

“No more sass mouthin eh, lass. Aye, know how to shut that fuckin mouth a yers.”

The growl in his voice went straight to your core, and that familiar pulsing ache began to build deep within your lower belly. Soap was right; your grasp on speech had all but left you. Words were foreign or nonexistent all together. As always, he knew just how and when to make you fall apart around him. Soap’s pace began to falter, his hold on your flesh tightening to an all out death grip. A telltale sign that he was close.

Desperate for your own release, your hand traveled down and found the burning nerves of your clit and began to swiftly rub at its pulsing flesh. 

“That’s it. Come for me, bonnie. Come on my cock.”

You were helpless against him. The walls of your cunt convulsed around him as your fingers continued to frantically rub at the flesh of your clit. The waves of your orgasm washed over your skin, goosebumps rippling over your overstimulated flesh. With one final thrust Soap buried himself deep inside you, both hands now gripping into the flesh of your hips as he pulsed his seed deep within your hole. Everything around you fell away; the walls, the stench,the feel of the cold leather against your flesh. All you felt was him. 

As you slowly came down from your orgasmic high he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and brought your body flush against his own. The sweat between your bodies melded with the fluids dripping from your cunt, still lightly pulsing around the flesh of his softening cock. Soap latched his lips into the crook of your neck, his tongue tasting the salty essence of his defeated wrath against you. As reality began to come into view once more, your mind finally regained the will for speech, and as usual you had to give him your signature ‘sass mouthin.’

“Shit, Soap. Is every workout session gonna end like this?”

He moaned into the flesh of your neck. No doubt there was going to be a bruised hickey left in his wake.

“Nah bonnie, ‘his is only for rewards members.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his remark, and as you turned your head to meet his lips you left him with one last playful quip before taking his mouth. 

“Then sign me up.”

And he followed suit, in proper Soap fashion.

“Yes ma’am.”

[this-acuteneurosis]

A 3-in-1 set of questions for Don't Look Back if you don't mind?

1) Is Duty Bound the last fic in the series? It's already heaps longer than the previous parts, and I'm wondering if it'll just keep growing and how close we are to the end of the AU story. (I kind of hope it's a while away because I just want to keep getting new chapters ;) )

2) Where about are we right now in the timeline relative to AotC and RotS / how long since the war started? I'm having a hard time keeping a sense of in-fic time.

3) Fun one: What is Shmi dressing like nowadays? I'm pretty sure she's not in her TPM grey dress, but what has she become comfortable wearing? Does she try different hairstyles or stick to her practical braided bun? For that matter, what does Leia wear when(/if) she's not in formal Senator's Assistant garb?

Good questions!

Duty Bound is not the last fic in the series. There is one more story after this with a current working title of We Will Not Wear Chains. I am desperately looking forward to the end of this arc and the start of the next and if I could just get my A plot to stop rewriting itself I might actually be able to get to part 4. Don't worry, there are plenty of chapters of this fic left.

We're close to 2 years since the start of Like Fire, give or take. This means literally nothing in terms of the timeline of the original canon since I've scrapped not only the majority of AotC and RotS plot canon, but also 98% of TCW. Time is an illusion. Mostly the important things to know are Leia showed up just barely older than Padmé and several years older than Anakin and every second she is in this timeline is a second that Sheev is that much closer to death.

Alright, general answer, but I will need to get back to you on this one because @saltkettling is my fashion consultant for all my stories and helps me keep my character's clothes and hair in line and I need to review notes with her one more time to refresh details. Essentially, both Shmi and Leia will have been impacted by Naboo dress standards, Shmi more by middle class ones with a bit of Tatooine flair, and Leia more by Padmé at this point. But Leia also has all of her historical clothing influences in her repertoire, including not only her Alderaanian influences, but also people she was very close to the last few years before her time travel shenanakins. She dresses very differently for anything where she's a representative of Padmé's office than for her personal, practical business.

[tip-top-cloud-surfer]

The Forgotten Nest (Part 8) - Rooster

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw / Mitchell!OC (Cora)

Word Count: 4.7k

This work, all my works, and my entire blog are 18+ Only

Warnings: Past Unplanned Teenage Pregnancy; Angst; Absent Parental Figures; The 'He Didn't Know About the Pregnancy' Trope; Repeating Trauma Cycles; Crying; The Uranium Facility Mission; Named Mitchell Daughter OC (Cora) and Named Mitchell-Bradshaw Son (Nickie)

Summary: The uranium facility mission commences.

A.N. There are references to a previous unplanned teenage pregnancy (between two eighteen-year-olds) in this fic. There won't be any flashback scenes to the pregnancy, but the references are still there, so if that makes you uncomfortable, please do not read.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Epilogue

Master List

Cora stood at the window of her home. It was barely light and she was still dressed in her pajamas. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stepped out onto the front deck of her home, and closed the door behind her. Stepping further out onto the deck, she stared in the direction of the Naval Air Base, trying to hold herself together.

She hadn’t slept last night. Not after her talk with Nickie and her discussion with her dad. Glancing down at her fingers, she tried to rub the blue ink out of her finger pads. The ink was still wet when she handed that photo to Maverick for the transfer. He shot her a look that she didn’t have the stomach to return and pulled her into a tight hug before he was gone.

Letting out a shaky breath, Cora turned back to the Naval Air Base to see an F/A-18 take off. And then another. And then another. Slowly sinking onto the front steps of her home, Cora watched them fly off before slowly lowering her head down into her hands as tears streamed down her cheeks.

~~~~~

Bradley rifled through his small bag, moving to grab his sleep clothes. Omaha was already in his bunk behind him, but Bradley’s mind was racing too fast for him to fall asleep quite yet. The mission was set for tomorrow and they were simply getting into position tonight.

Reaching for his toothbrush, Rooster paused and frowned when he felt his hand brush against a thick piece of paper. Pulling it out of his pack, Rooster paused when he realized that it was a photo. A photo of him and Cora at their senior prom.

How did that get into his bag?

Flipping it over, Rooster’s eyes quickly landed on the blue ink on the back of the photo. It was slightly smudged and the letters were written in haste, but it was clearly Cora’s handwriting. He knew it all of these years later.

Nickie told me about your meeting. Come home safely and we can talk.

Rooster flipped the photo over again, remembering that night vividly. He and Cora spent the whole night together, never wanting to leave each other’s sides, and caught up in the kind of love that only teenagers seemed to experience.

And bile rose in his throat when Rooster did the math in his head.

Cora was probably already pregnant in these photos. And it might just be the closest that they would ever get to having a photo of all three of them.

~~~~~

Maverick stared out at the assembled aviators in front of him with his hands folded calmly behind his back. This was the moment. He knew that someone wasn’t coming back from this mission and now he had to pick the pour souls who would be on the chopping block, all of which had families and friends back home waiting for their return.

The foxtrot teams were a simple choice. Speed and accuracy and ability to react quickly were his main criteria for that. Picking the single flier was the difficult choice. The one that would probably haunt him for the rest of his life. However long that might be.

Hangman was the answer on paper—he flew the fastest and the most aggressively, which was what the mission called for. But no one trusted him to cover their backs. Coyote was out. The G-LOC incident grounded him. And between Fritz and Rooster, Rooster had the better stats and repertoire with the foxtrot teams. So, the answer was there. He just had to make it.

“Rooster,” Maverick called after Cyclone’s prompting.

The initial shock that Rooster wore on his face was clear as day, though he quickly shoved it behind the mask that all of them were wearing during the briefing. The mask that all aviators forced themselves to put on before every mission.

Rooster and Maverick locked eyes for a moment, a silent conversation passing between them. The more sheepish, guilt-stricken side of Rooster stood out more than Maverick had seen since the incident seventeen years ago. And from what Nickie said, Maverick knew that it was genuine. He just wished that it happened sooner.

Then Nickie and Rooster could have actually talked and learned about each other. Rooster could have made it up to Cora and that stress could have been off of her shoulders years ago. And then they could have been just like any ordinary family of three.

But things were never simple in the Mitchell family. Nor were they easy in the Bradshaw family.

Maverick nodded to the gathered aviators before making his way to the locker room, leaving Rooster standing there, a bit lost.

~~~~~

Rooster stepped out onto the flight deck, gripping his helmet loosely and clearly lost in his thoughts. He wasn’t expecting to be chosen. Not after everything that he and Maverick had put each other through over the years, and especially in the last few days. Not after he coasted his way through the training runs, never quite pushing it like Hangman did.

He didn’t think that he was good enough for this mission. And yet here he was.

Picking his head up for a moment, Rooster paused when he found Hangman standing on the deck in front of him, a serious expression on his face. Gone was the arrogant edge that made Rooster want to knock his teeth out ever since he met him. No, for once, Hangman actually looked like a team player. Like someone who cared if everyone came home.

“You give ‘em hell,” Hangman yelled over the roar of the engines, before making his way to his plane.

Rooster barely even acknowledged Hangman as he walked away, too caught up in his emotions. Nickie wanted to see him. Cora wanted to see him. Maverick chose him out of the line up of the best aviators in the country. Hangman was actually believed in him.

Rooster was so lost that it was a miracle he didn’t fall off the side of the ship.

Righting himself, Rooster turned and walked over to the plane adjacent to his own. Maverick was running through the pre-flight checks on his own aircraft when Rooster approached him, a bit more frantically than he intended.

“Sir? Sir?” Rooster called, causing Maverick to turn around to face him. “I . . . I just want to say—”

The orders over the comms cut off Rooster’s apology and automatically snapped both aviators into action. Maverick, seeing the shakiness to Rooster’s expression, took charge.

“We’ll talk. When we get back,” Maverick assured Rooster, who nodded curtly in return.

Maverick watched Rooster turn around and head for his own plane. Letting out a breath, Maverick looked to the ground, shaking his head before moving around to climb into his plane. Maverick didn’t want to lie to Rooster. But he wanted to protect him even more.

And, so, he lied.  

~~~~~

Nickie sat out on his surfboard, staring out into the Pacific Ocean with a far-off expression in his eye. The waves passed harmlessly under him, tickling his calves, but not pushing him hard enough to snap him out of his daze. Maverick was somewhere out in the Pacific in that direction. Bradley was somewhere out in the Pacific in that direction.

And Nickie hated waiting. He hated not knowing.

“Hey, Mitchell!” one of the other surf team boys called, breaking Nickie out of his trance. “Let’s go!”

“Right,” Nickie breathed out, blinking rapidly.

Turning to shoot one last look in the direction of the Pacific, Nickie paddled forward to catch a wave, ignoring how his stomach was knotted uncomfortably with stress.

~~~~~

Maverick signaled to the deck crew that he was prepared for launch before grabbing the handle. Forcing himself to take a breath, Maverick closed his eyes for a moment, picturing Nickie and Cora back home, safe and sound and taken care of, before he opened his eyes, completely focused on the mission directly in front of him.

“Watch over ‘em, Ice,” he murmured, before his plane was launched into the air.

~~~~~

Cora stood on the sand with Penny, watching Nickie surf with the other surf team kids. The two women had barely talked since Cora arrived, both caught up in their own thoughts. Cora wrapped her arms around herself, watching Nickie surf through the waves, though not as well as he normally did. He was distracted, she could tell, and the realization made her heart ache.

“He’s doing well,” Penny commented, causing Cora to nod slowly.

“But he’s not in it,” Cora stated softly, turning to face Penny. She gestured to the open ocean in front of them. “His head’s out there.”

“Can’t blame the kid,” Penny replied, just as Nickie wiped out.

Cora held her breath until Nickie resurfaced, completely unharmed, but just a little sheepish. Settling back down, Cora pursed her lips together and stared out at the setting sun in the distance. Penny reached out and wrapped an arm around her, giving Cora some support.

They didn’t need to discuss it. They both saw the look in Maverick’s eyes when he said goodbye.

“I think I’m going to take Amelia on a sailing trip,” Penny suggested, causing Cora to nod in return. “Did you and Nickie want to come?”

“No, thank you though,” Cora replied softly, turning back to her son. “I’m worried that Nickie would go tumbling off the side at this rate.”

“You know that I’m always here for the two of you.”

“I know, Penny. Thank you.”

Cora turned back to the waves of the distant ocean, unable to help the tears building in her eyes. Silently letting them drip down her cheeks, Cora let Penny pull her into a tight hug as the two women tried to hold themselves together for the sake of their children. And, frankly, for themselves.

~~~~~

“Dagger Two defending!” Rooster called out, spotting the SAMs behind him. Slamming his fist into the flares button, Rooster cursed when none popped out. “Shit! I’m out of flares!”

“Rooster, evade, evade!” Maverick yelled back, quickly turning around to help.

“I can’t shake them! They’re on me! They’re on me!” Rooster warned, going through evasive maneuvers.

Maverick didn’t hesitate. He just moved.

A thousand thoughts were flying through his head as he sped towards Rooster. Goose’s face. Carole’s face. Cora’s face. Nickie’s face. Oh, God, Nickie. Racing to protect his best friend’s son and his grandson’s father that he barely knew, Maverick hurried to get into position.

Rooster had to live. He had to live. He had to make it right with Cora. He had to make it right with Nickie. He had to live. He had to survive.

The sensors in front of Rooster started to beep aggressively, warning him that the SAMs were getting closer. Maverick yanked back on the joy stick, using the cobra maneuver to fly up above Rooster. Slamming his fist onto his flare button, Maverick released the flares behind Rooster, protecting him from one of the SAMs.

But Maverick’s own sensors started to blare as the second SAM flew forward.

“Mav!” Rooster screamed out in a panic.

Maverick grunted as the SAM hit him directly in the back of his aircraft. His plane broke apart and he started hurtling towards the ground in a great ball of fire. Sensors beeped all around Maverick as he released the joy stick, submitting to his fate.

And just before it all went back Maverick swore that he heard Nickie’s voice calling out to him.

~~~~~

“Penny said that she’s taking Amelia on a sailing trip,” Cora told Nickie softly as they packed up his gear to head back home. “Did you want to go?”

“No,” Nickie replied quietly, shaking his head. “I think that I just want to stay home.”

“We’ll do whatever you want to do, okay?” Cora assured Nickie, forcing a small smile.

“Do you think we could get those burgers at the diner that Gramps likes?” Nickie asked as he opened the passenger door.

“I thought that you hated those burgers,” Cora replied quietly, staring over at her son. “You always said that they were too greasy.”

“I know, but . . . Gramps always like them,” Nickie returned softly.

Trying to not let her lips wobble, Cora forced a smile and grabbed Nickie’s hand, giving it a small squeeze. Turning on the car, she faced forward to try and get control over her emotions.

“We’ll get some burgers then. For your Gramps.”

~~~~~

Maverick sprinted through the thick snow, powered by sheer determination. Every few steps he took, Maverick did a quick calculation about how much farther Rooster was and about how long it would take to get to him. His first aid training ran through his brain too.

Was Rooster hurt? Did he land safely? Did he eject safely? Maverick didn’t have the answer.

Spotting Rooster upright and kneeling in the snow, shoving down his parachute, Maverick felt new energy course through his veins. Rooster was alive. And he wasn’t hurt too bad based on the way that he was kneeling. He was alright. He was going to survive his ejection.

“You alright!?” Maverick yelled, hopping over a snow bank.

“Yeah, I’m good. You alright?” Rooster called back, right before Maverick pushed him straight into a pile of snow. “Jesus! What the hell!?”

Rooster yanked his helmet off and shoved it into the snow. Maverick slipped his off as well before turning to give Rooster the scolding of a lifetime.

“What are you doing here!?”

“What am I doing here!?” Rooster squawked back indignantly as he stood up.

“You think I took that missile for you so you could be down here with me!? You should be back on the carrier by now!”

“I saved your life!” Rooster snapped back.

“I saved your life! That’s the whole point.” Shaking his head incredulously, Maverick turned back to Rooster. “What the hell were you even thinking!?”

“You told me not to think!”

Maverick didn’t have a response for that, simply breathing heavily as he tried to catch his breath. Rooster nodded sarcastically, throwing his arms up in the air, before slamming them back at his sides. Both Maverick and Rooster breathed heavily, looking around the forest for any hostiles, before turning back to each other.

“You were supposed to go back to Cora and Nickie,” Maverick sighed, staggering a bit. Squatting in the snow, Maverick looked up at Rooster, who stared back evenly at him. “You were supposed to go back and make it right.”

“I am going to,” Rooster vowed, straightening up. He looked around the forest again before returning his gaze to Maverick. “But it wasn’t going to work without you.”

Maverick let out a breath, dropped his head down onto his hand. Rubbing his face as he tried to catch his breath properly after sprinting a couple miles at his age, Maverick picked his head up to find Rooster already offering him a hand. Taking it, Maverick accepted Rooster’s help up and dusted some of the snow off of his flight suit.  

“She’s going to kill us when she finds out,” Maverick stated, glancing around the forest.

“If she finds out,” Rooster suggested, causing Maverick to nod in agreement.  

“Well, it’s good to see you,” Maverick replied with a small smile.

“It’s good to see you too,” Rooster returned, setting his hands on his hips. “So, what’s the plan?”

~~~~~

Cora looked up from her computer when one of the nurses at her office rushed into the room that she was charting in. Immediately assuming that something was wrong with one of the patients, Cora leapt to her feet, ready for action.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You have to come see. Room 22.”

Cora quickly rushed down the hall, overtaking the junior nurse. Opening the door to the patient room, Cora stepped inside, expecting to see a swarm of doctors and nurses, but all she saw was her dad, dressed in his flight suit, waiting for her on the patient bed.

And in that moment, Cora wasn’t thirty-four. She was a little kid all over again.

Letting out a choked sob, Cora raced across the room and threw herself into her dad’s waiting arms, completely unaware that her coworkers were filming the whole thing. And she was even less aware that there was another surprise guest waiting for her in the corner. Unable to help the tears of relief, Cora let her dad rock her back and forth.

“I’m alright,” Maverick chuckled, hugging his daughter to his chest. “Just a few bumps and bruises.”

“I know that you’re hiding injuries from me, but I don’t even care right now,” Cora sobbed, unwilling to let go of her dad. “You’re home. You’re home.”

“We’re home.”

Releasing her dad, Cora wiped some of her tears away and turned to see Rooster standing in the corner, also dressed in his flight suit. It took her a second, a painful second where Rooster wondered if she was even happy to see him, before Cora took off again. Running into his arms, Cora buried her face into Rooster’s shoulder, and Rooster quickly returned the hug.

Wrapping her arms around him tightly, Cora breathed in Rooster’s cologne, soothing herself just a bit more. They were home. They were safe. They were alive. There wouldn’t be a funeral. There wouldn’t be a burial. They were here.

“You came back,” Cora whispered shakily, causing Rooster to hug her tighter.

“I wasn’t going to leave you guys. Not again.”

Cora nodded against him, letting out a shaky breath. Maverick smiled at Cora and Rooster’s embrace as he stood up. Cora and Rooster broke away, both turning to Maverick.

“So, how’re we going to surprise Nickie?” Maverick asked, wearing that iconic mischievous smirk.

~~~~~

Nickie walked up to the side door and unlocked it, heading inside after taking the bus home from school. He locked the door behind him and went about his usual after-school routine as if it was a normal day. Dropping his backpack onto one of the chairs, Nickie turned for the fridge to grab a snack. He opened the fridge door and frowned when he found a note waiting for him with his mom’s handwriting.

“Turn around?” he read aloud, confused, before doing as the note said.

Nickie had a split second to register who was standing behind him before sprinting the last few steps over to his grandfather. Maverick laughed as Nickie had to bend a little to give him a hug and rubbed his back as Nickie quickly sobbed into his shoulder. Cora held a hand to her mouth, happy tears coming to her eyes as Nickie reunited with his grandfather.  

“You’re alive,” Nickie croaked out, hugging his grandfather just a little tighter.

“Well, apparently, I refuse to die,” Maverick returned, causing Nickie to laugh a bit shakily.

“Does Mom know that you’re here?”

“Yeah, she’s right there.”

Nickie looked up from his grandfather’s shoulder to see his mom standing there with tears in her eyes. Cora waved to Nickie before he looked beyond her and spotted another figure standing there. Rooster stayed back, knowing that Nickie didn’t exactly view him as a dad but more of some kind of random stranger that bumped into his life unexpectedly.

But after Nickie gave his mom a quick hug in greeting, Nickie turned to face Rooster on his own. Rooster stood a bit nervously as Nickie stopped a few paces away from him. He wasn’t sure what Nickie’s reaction was going to be to his presence. But after what seemed like a century passed, Nickie reached forward and gave Rooster a hug.

Rooster froze for a moment before hugging Nickie back even stronger, far too emotional to do anything else. It was the first time that he held his son. His kid. And his son willingly hugged him. Rooster couldn’t help but let a few tears out during the moment. And Nickie, for his part, didn’t seem to want to let Rooster go either.

Amelia was right, Nickie realized with some apprehension. He really would have beat himself up for the rest of his life if he didn’t talk to Rooster before he left on the mission. Not that it mattered now, because Rooster was here. And based on the way that Rooster was hugging him back, Nickie had a feeling that Rooster was around to stay.

Cora shared a smile with Maverick as they watched Nickie and Rooster embrace for the first time ever. Maverick squeezed his daughter’s shoulder as she dried her eyes again.

~~~~~

There was a cook out on the beach with the whole Dagger crew in a post-mission celebration. Penny pulled out a grill from somewhere in the Hard Deck and Maverick was nominated to do the grilling for the whole team, which he didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

The rest of the Dagger Squad and their guests were spread out over the patch of sand, talking and chatting with each other and simply enjoying the San Diego sun. Cora stood to the side of the volleyball court a short walk from the grill, smiling to herself while she watched Nickie and Rooster work together to try and beat Harvard and Yale.

“Ms. Mitchell?” a voice called from her left, causing Cora to turn.

“Admiral Simpson,” she returned, straightening up subconsciously as Cyclone stood beside her.

“It has come to my attention that your son, Nickie, wants to become an aviator,” Cyclone began, causing Cora to pause for a moment.

“Yes, I believe that he does,” she replied quietly, fiddling with her necklace.

“Well, if he’s anything like his family members before him, he will one day make it to Top Gun.”

“That is his dream,” Cora echoed softly.

“Can you do me one favor, Ms. Mitchell?” Cyclone asked her after a moment.

“Sure,” Cora responded, turning to face Cyclone fully.

“Please inform me the second that your son gets his wings. So that I can immediately put in my retirement notice,” Cyclone emphasized, causing Cora to bite her cheek to not burst out laughing. She simply nodded instead, trying to hold it in. “Thank you.”

When Cyclone walked off, Cora let out a quiet laugh to herself. Shaking her head, she turned back to watch the volleyball game. But it seemed that between being Maverick’s daughter and the mother of Rooster’s secret love child, she was a popular person around the Dagger Squad.

“You must be the lovely Cora that we’ve heard so much about,” Hangman drawled, walking over to her.

“And you must be Hangman,” she returned, gazing at him curiously.

She didn’t get much of the details about the mission—considering it was top secret and all that—but the way that Maverick talked about Hangman led her to believe that something happened on the mission that fixed Maverick’s and even Rooster’s perspective on him.

But that grin that Hangman only told her one thing—he was trouble. Luckily, Cora was a Mitchell. She was natural at being trouble. It was in her genes.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he stated, offering her a hand to shake.

“Likewise,” she returned, shaking his hand politely.

“You know, I have to say that you are far more beautiful than anyone described you as,” Hangman flirted, causing Cora to cock an eyebrow.

“How badly do you want Rooster to lose this game?” she asked, tilting her chin up a bit.

“About twenty bucks worth. Forty, actually,” Hangman replied, waving over to Coyote and Phoenix.

Phoenix shook her head in disbelief, probably waiting for Cora to knee Hangman in the balls, while Coyote seemed to be struggling to contain his laughter. Remaining poised, Cora turned back to Hangman as he continued with his explanation.

“That is, if Rooster comes and tries to rip my head off,” Hangman replied with a wink, causing Cora to smirk to herself.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Rooster.”

“Your dad’s all the way—ow!”

The volleyball smacked right into the back of Hangman’s head, causing him to whirl around, rubbing his head. Nickie, who was originally wearing a look of death, immediately put on an innocent smile when Cora and Hangman turned to him and waved sarcastically.

Nickie, after all, was a mama’s boy. A mama’s boy who knew that men liked to lurk around his mom.

“Sorry!” Nickie called over.

“It slipped because of the sunscreen!” Rooster covered for Nickie, holding a thumbs up.

“Sure, it did,” Cora replied, shaking her head. Turning back to Hangman, she offered a smile. “I think that means that you only get twenty.”

“Great shot, Nickie!” Penny praised, clapping loudly for him.

“Any chance that you’d like a drink?” Hangman asked, trying to make just a little more money.

Up until Rooster hit the volleyball, which had rolled back to him after hitting Hangman in the head, into Hangman’s back, causing Hangman to roll his eyes. Rooster waved innocently, not unlike his son did moments before, as Cora shot him a look.

“Sunscreen again!”

~~~~~

Eventually, the teams broke for food. Cora sat on the beach chair that she brought along, chatting with Bob and Phoenix, when Rooster slowly approached her. Phoenix nudged Bob in the side and they both made lame excuses before heading off, leaving Cora and Rooster alone.

“Is this seat taken?” Rooster asked, gesturing to the seat next to her.

“It looks like it’s about to be,” Cora replied, nodding towards it.

Rooster sat down and the two of them shared a small smile for a moment. It was still a little awkward between them, and there was no way really around that, but it was getting better. It was getting more and more like old times. Bradley was reminding Cora more of the Bradley she knew before Carole died, and that in of itself made her so happy.

“They asked us if we had a preference for where we wanted to be stationed,” Rooster began, causing Cora to sober up a bit.

“And?”

“I talked to Cyclone about it. He couldn’t guarantee North Island, but he said that he would make sure that I was in California,” Rooster explained, causing Cora to smile and nod. “And I know that you have work and Nickie has school, but we could drive out to where we grew up and show Nickie all of that and . . . my parents and that sort of stuff.”

“I think that Nickie would really like that,” Cora agreed, smiling softly.

“And you? Would you like that?” Rooster asked quietly.

“I’d love that,” Cora stated, causing Rooster to grin.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I would,” Cora repeated, smiling over at Rooster, who beamed right back at her.

Maverick watched Rooster and Cora chat over by themselves, relived that the two of them were talking and seemed to be getting along again. Penny nudged him with her arm, causing Maverick to turn to her. She pointed over at the volleyball court, where Nickie was holding up the ball.

“Hey, Gramps! One more game?” Nickie asked, grinning mischievously.

“Easy game!” Fanboy heckled, causing Maverick to laugh and slowly get to his feet.

“Alright, one more game, Nickie,” Maverick replied, jogging over to his grandson. “But we can’t go easy on them, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nickie agreed, smirking that iconic Mitchell smirk.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Epilogue

A.N. So, that's it! The main part anyways! Epilogue is inbound, and should be posted soon! Thank you to everyone who read this series and especially those who reblogged and commented on all of the different chapters! I hope that you enjoyed it!

Tags: @xoxabs88xox @eternallyvenus @mygyn @kmc1989 @thegoddessc @midnightmagpiemama @badasspizzalover @praline357 @oatmealisweird @a-court-of-roscoe-and-baby @abaker74 @avengersfan25 @yogabigooby @daisydaisygoose @sgt-barnesveins @angelbabyange @percysaidnever @artemissunn @indiestrashfire @kidd3ath @luv4kani @lt-spork @brooke-stinson

If I forgot you in the tags, don’t be afraid to ask again because I’m definitely scatterbrained when it comes to that but please have a reference to your age somewhere on your blog (bio, pinned post) or just message me because you will not be tagged otherwise.

[glorified-red]

Autopilot (Damian Wayne x Reader)

summary: After witnessing an event that hit just a little too close to home, you were left at the mercy of your own memories. All the usual tactics Damian knew weren't helping. It's a good thing he had a little helper.

word count: 4,070~

warnings: flashback during a panic attack, disassociation and driving through it, reference to past physical abuse (not specified from who or if it's domestic, it's very vague. But is heavily implied to be from a male), depictions of physical abuse in terms of verbs (punch, kick, hands on body, etc. Nothing more. Aka no bodily harm, just the feeling), and reference to passing out from a panic attack in the past.

Nothing quite like real world events to jerk me out of a writer's block, aye? This is based on a personal experience from just a few days ago so if there is a complaint with this story being too specific, I will ignore it. This fic means a lot to me so please be kind to it. Dont hesitate to let me know what you think of it! For those wondering, yes, I did finish writing that essay. Have not submitted it because I would love to read it and edit it at not 1 am, so that's a task for tomorrow while I dye my hair.

Autopilot — acting or functioning without conscious thought, as a result of routine or habit.

That was one way to describe what was happening. 

From the second you put your helmet back on to the moment your hand closed the front door, you couldn’t pinpoint a single frame in between. The entire world around you was a blur, even as you zipped through Gotham traffic on a busy afternoon. 

Distantly, you knew you should be aware of the wind hitting your skin, especially as it assaulted your jacket with its wispy breath. Each red light and your boots hit asphalt. You should’ve been able to register that feeling shoot up each of your legs, maybe feel the way your body shifted into an upright position.

 But instead, your eyes were blank behind the tinted lens of a bike helmet. 

You didn’t even try to fix it, not yet anyway. Not when there were cars blocking you in from every angle; not when one wrong move—one stuttered breath—could mean your bike jerking into a freefall. 

So you didn’t even try to fight for awareness. If you did, maybe your hands would be gripping the handlebars a little tighter, maybe even twisting the kevlar of your gloves into the grooves until you felt something. You would’ve rubbed your hands down your thighs, dragging the fabric along your skin just enough to force your body into consciousness. 

But you didn’t. 

You just let yourself run on autopilot. 

It was safer that way anyway. Safer than having the worst panic attack of your life while driving at least. You didn’t even want to think about how Damian was going to react when he found out you were driving this far down into your subconscious—on your motorcycle no less. 

He really was going to murder you one of these days. But then again, you had countless retorts ingrained into your repertoire, countless callbacks to days where it wasn’t you in the driver's seat doing this, but the hypocrite himself. 

So you didn’t worry enough about it. You gave it maybe two seconds of thought before you put your helmet on and rolled out of the parking lot. Should you call Damian? Wouldn’t it just be easier for him to pick you up and worry about the bike later? 

Your brain sighed, maybe your body did on instinct, if it did, you wouldn't have known. He was at home—which was barely fifteen minutes away, you could survive that long—waiting for you, it’d worry him too much to get a phone call two hours after you were supposed to be home. 

Somewhere between hues of gray, your legs guided you through the maze of a familiar home. There was a buzz in your ears, like the poor organs were trying desperately to comprehend the noise around you but fell short every time. They were filled with water then dried with cotton only for it to dissipate with water once more: a ferocious cycle that left you a stranger to the greeting happening right before you. 

You shouldered passed . . . something? It didn’t matter. If it did, surely your brain would let you know later . . . right? Then came the mechanical routine of finding a place to bring yourself back. But when every wall looked the same and your boots trudged against the carpet—Damian was so gonna gripe about shoes in the house later—it felt like a losing game. 

So you stuttered to a stop, somewhere. Arguably the worst place because the only tether you had to the outside world was the ground under your boots, which you couldn’t even feel because there was at least an inch of rubber tread between your reality and everyone else's. 

The same buzz hit your ears. Maybe if you tried hard enough, you could blame the disconnect on the inner padding of the helmet stuffed against your head. It’s worked before, it’s not like it’s easy to hear with this thing on, let alone when your brain didn’t even want you to. 

You could start to feel the autopilot wearing thin, the remnants of it dissolving with each passing second you remained idle. You tried to tap each of your fingers against your thumb one at a time to cling to what little autopilot was left. All you got from your body was a single twitch in your thumb. 

A tap, a click, and a slide. All sounds you saw rather than felt or heard yourself. The tinted panel in front of your eyes lifted slowly until your grays turned into greens. You could get lost in that green for eternity and your soul would find contentment. You could find that green from memory, even when your eyes were filled with grays or your body turned blind to it. That green was one you would never lose. 

It came naturally, locking your eyes into his. You could almost laugh at the fact that the last wisp of autopilot was used connecting yourself to him, as if your body had formed a habit you didn’t even know about until now. 

You knew those eyes better than he did himself, even if he’d spent years staring at them before you. It was an easy victory when you traced them in your memories. So you knew each crease of worry that outlined the narrowness they had at the moment, the subtle squint as he tried to reach you. 

Unfortunately for the both of you, he succeeded. 

Your next breath came right before your lungs were punched by reality. The sheer weight of it was enough for you to struggle for air. It was like you were trapped as Atlas once was. But instead of holding the weight on your shoulders, you were crushed underneath all the rubble, having failed to keep everything upright. 

You choked out a sob, hating the way your own breath ricocheted off the helmet back into your skin. You were suffocating. Your hands shot to the offending metal and clawed at each of the safety latches built in. Shaky fingers didn’t have enough dexterity to succeed which only made you gasp harder. 

In an instant, there were skilled hands overtaking your own, practiced enough to succeed where you had failed. 

“—eathe, I’ve got y—”

Newfound peripherals blindsighted you, they were both a blessing and a curse. While the new vision made it easier to protect yourself, the responsibility of having to do so was far too heavy a burden. You wanted to keep living in your tunnel vision and pretending it was safe there. 

You were still suffocating. Air was scarce to come by and when it did travel through you, it scorched your lungs until you considered if air was truly worth the fight if it hurt so much. The same shaky hands grasped for the collar of your jacket, suddenly far too tight against your neck. It was as if the fabric itself was choking you and not Reality. Thready hands were better to imagine than calloused ones. 

You didn’t notice your feet tripping backwards until your back collided with a wall, you didn’t even care, you just wanted this stupid jacket off. Agile hands swifty unlatched everything, unclasping safety mechanics and helped shrug the leather bind off of your skin. 

“—ok, it’s off. Brea—”

The wall was solid; the wall was good; the wall was safe. You let yourself slide all the way down until you hit the floor, your green easily followed. You coughed on an exhale, your inhale having hurt far too badly to finish. 

Your hands settled together behind your neck, fighting to grab at something, might as well protect your pulse points. 

“—off?”

Your gaze struggled to lift up to him without staggering. When it settled back into his calming hue, you choked out a response: “What?” 

Realistically, you exhaled far too much on the word when you received another kick to the chest but you figured he would get the gist. He’s smart. 

“Do you want your boots off?” His hands floated in the space between you both, where your bent legs ended and his crouch began. 

With a tilted comprehension, it took a few breaths—albeit pretty quick ones—for the words to sink in. When they did, you jerked out a nod. Without hesitation, he made quick work of velcro, buckles, and zippers, forcing you to trudge through heightened awareness alone. 

Awareness was always worse than letting your mind shift into sand to pass through fingers with ease, free from the pain those fingers always left. Especially when Reality was combing through sand with a sharp comb, breaking each particle down to the atom. Water couldn’t wash away atoms the same way it could sand. 

Your lungs convulsed again just as your socked feet felt the bite of cold tile, boots long since forgotten. 

“Breathe,” he said simply, telegraphing his movements slowly. “Can I take off your gloves?” 

You liked the safety of where your hands were, but feeling a leather mesh on your neck wasn’t exactly the most comforting feeling.

You jerked your hands out slowly, seeing for yourself just how much you were shaking compared to his steady hands. His movements were slow and deliberate, testing the waters to see how you reacted to his touch on your skin. The second both hands felt air instead of fabric, they retreated back to safety.

“You need to breathe.” 

You shook your head, feeling the muscles under your hands twist along with the motion. “I—” you choked, “I can’t” 

“Yes you can.” Damian shifted from his crouch to sit before you. “You’ve been through this before and you always come out of it, don’t you?” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping it would help somewhat. Another kick to the chest and you were back to scrambling. 

“ ‘t hurts,” you whined. 

“I know it does, but you have to breathe. Breathe with me.” You opened your eyes to look at him through the blur of watery tears. 

That was a mistake. 

Reality was finicky at best. It shifted like the waves in its fluidity, morphing into new forms and combining within itself. Your fingers twitched against your neck. 

Focus on the green. 

But then his hands slowly laid atop your knees, a familiar trick he did every time. Innocent touch, a tethered connection between you two to bring you back to him. The further the attack would go, the more weight he’d put into his palms until your legs unbent without your knowledge. It was an easy way to open your chest cavity to make breathing a little bit easier while making it seem like nothing is changing, especially when your brain is occupied with other things. 

But this time, his hands felt bigger, they felt more calloused, and held more weight in them. You jerked in an inhale. “Sto—stop touching me.” 

Immediately his hands lifted off of you. “Okay, I won’t touch you.” His palms raised in the air so you could see them, an emphasis to his word. “But we’re going to breathe together.” 

Damian waited a single moment for you to register his words, for your eyes to shift from his hands to his eyes, then finally, to his chest. 

“Breathe in.” He exaggerated his chest visually for you to replace touch. Usually there would be some comfort in the way your hand was guided to his sternum, fingers spread out to feel the fabric of his shirt and the way his chest rose with each inhalation, only to fall when he exhaled. Yet this time, his chest would’ve felt different and that thought alone was enough for your breath to stutter. 

“And out.” You envied the way he released his breath so slowly and with so much control where yours was rushed and clunky. 

He praised you all the same. “Good. Again. In,” he breathed in, you followed shortly after, “and out.” 

You fell out of the inhale before he did, your lungs quivering under an invisible hand. Your head hit the wall with a whine. “I can’t.” 

“You can,” he stressed. “I know you can. Try again.” 

You wheezed where he inhaled, you coughed where he exhaled. Your hands sunk from your neck to your chest, gripping on tight to the kevlar.

“That’s it,” he said, just before another set of breaths. You hated this part the most. You could live with the shakiness afterwards, the pain and the burn of your lungs once they finally settled down. You could ignore the feeling of being on edge for hours after, the feeling of fragility, like someone could blow and you’d wither away with the feeble wind. 

But the feeling of true hopelessness that came from this part was always the worst. You couldn’t fathom succeeding at this simple human task, a task that comes mechanically—completely on autopilot. Yet for some reason, it was a monumental task for you. 

Before Damian—and a little bit during—you let yourself get consumed by the darkness. You let the hands squeeze your lungs until your brain fizzled out, the consequences to be dealt with once you woke up. It was far easier than fighting for consciousness, especially when said consciousness was so painful. 

He didn’t like that very much. 

So here you were, clamoring your way through a breathing exercise as if it wasn’t the most painful thing in the world. As if your lungs weren’t burning with rage and your muscles weren’t aching with tension. 

As if you couldn’t feel hands all over your body with each step back into awareness.

As if you couldn’t hear and see things just passed Damian’s silhouette. 

“This isn’t working,” you bite out. Your head had sunk down to face the floor at some point. The carpet was a darker shade of beige than it was a moment ago. Maybe it was your shadow affecting it, but considering everything, you didn’t think so. “I need—” you choked. 

You saw the way Damian’s hands twitched against his pants, fighting to do something to help you. “Tell me what you need.” He tried searching your eyes like before, that tether was one that could bring up to him from just about anywhere. But you were studying the carpet as if it had wronged you on a visceral level. 

You closed your eyes, trying to think past the echoes of an old voice and the remnants of old touch. You were stuck in limbo, caught between two realities that somehow merged in a single moment. Another kick to the chest and your body caved inwards—the same way it had before. 

You could feel your grip on Damian’s reality fading. It was the one you’d prefer any day and it was the one you should be in. Not this one. Yet here you were, taking the hits of hands long in the past. 

But . . .

Damian. 

“When did we meet?” you demanded more so than asked, the words coming in and out with your breaths. 

Despite his shock—and extreme confusion—he didn’t hesitate to answer with a number of years that have passed you by. Questioning you, especially your needs, at this moment wasn’t going to help.

You shook your head, your legs twitching together and back apart, the muscles contracting at random. “What year?” you said, trying to keep your oxygen inside for just a second longer. 

He responded simply, your ears catching the sound with ease. The outside chatter cut down to a buzz. You breathed out a little slower. 

“How?” you breathed in, your inflection cut off just slightly. 

Damian didn’t waver. “We met in high school. I transferred in late and you were assigned as my peer guide to the Academy. You gave me a tour around campus to help figure out my schedule,” he paused, gauging your reaction before adding on just a bit more. “We ended up having a few classes together that year.” 

“How old—” you breathed in, “How old were we?” 

Damian blinked, his eyes shifting to the side as he recalled, probably doing some kind of mental math in his brain. “I started school when I was fourteen. You were probably fourteen or fifteen at the time.” 

You blinked your eyes open, your lungs expanding happily at the information. Realities were disconnecting slowly, each question cutting a strand of fate that had sewed them together. Since neither could coexist, this new information was proof that the voices were just that, the past. Damian didn’t exist in the same era of these voices—these hands—him being here was a testament in it of itself. 

The carpet was tinted just so, but it was enough to make it lighter. 

“What about now?” you asked. 

“What about now?” Damian echoed you, his confusion still prevalent in his voice. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed down the fire. “What year is it?” 

For someone so intelligent, he really was not catching on to what was happening. Knowing him, he was probably scanning your head for a concussion right about now. But he didn’t show it outwardly. As much as he was confused and incredibly concerned, this was helping. So even if he didn’t sign up for trivia night, he’d play along—and he was sure as hell gonna win. 

He responded factually. The math not only aligned, but since it was late into the year, it wasn’t exactly hard to remember. The buzz got even softer than before. You were able to breath out shakily, the intake was sharp in return but the progress was showing. 

“And the date?” 

Your eyes had closed softly, a sense of calm starting to breach through the anxiety. 

Damian’s response immediately shrouded that progress. Suddenly the voice was right next to your ear and a foot was on your chest, constructing any airflow from ever hoping to come to your lips. The same date. A stupid number that just so happened to align, an anniversary, was enough to derail everything. 

Damian’s voice turned to nothing but a buzz, a low rumble with a worried inflection. 

He had asked a question. That much you knew. But your eyes had opened to a shade of dark beige and dreary grays, completely at the mercy of a dissociative state. 

Even your hands lay limp from where they were resting between your knees, your wrists balanced atop the bony joints. You let it happen. You let your breath get squished underneath calloused hands along the back of your neck and a knee to the spine. You let your fingers go numb and your skin go cold as the room around you soured. 

Suddenly it was a different time and a different place entirely. 

Just dark beige and dreary grays. 

The thuds of footsteps were easily drowned out until it was a simple buzz, just a low static rumbling beneath your skin. 

But then your hands lifted at the feeling of fur underneath them. It was soft to the touch, the small fibers splitting away underneath your fingers. The fur shifted, it nosed in-between your pointer and middle finger before sliding down your palm, leaving a slight trail of warmth along your skin. 

Your fingers twitched, the ice around them thawing slowly with each press of warmth until you could interact with it yourself. The fur morphed from a body to a small head that could fit just along your palm. Whiskers pressed into your hand as it was used as a scratching post. A head bump and your palm raised with it, only to slide down the back automatically as if your hand had done it a thousand times before. 

Just along the back and up to the tip of the tail, just for the head to return for more scratches. You felt the tail wrap loosely around your ankle, shifting and swishing, but always remaining against you. 

You scratched at the chin, your chest feeling lighter when the gentle creature tilted their head back to accept more. Reality itself couldn’t deny the creature’s existence, even if they truly wanted your reality to morph into the past. 

Yet here it was, defying Reality, with nothing to say aside from a purr. Your hands touched black and your fingers graced white until you could make out the cat yourself, perched contently between your legs. 

“Alfie,” you sighed out, half out of astonishment and half out of relief. 

“I always seem to find you two together after a hard time,” came Damian’s voice, cutting straight through the static with his deep timbre. “He can help you where I can’t.” 

There was still a shake in your breath, your chest still rising and falling with great difficulty, more than Damian liked. He looked up at you briefly before looking back down at the precious cat, one that only seemed to like a few people on this earth. Even if he liked Damian, it was a hell of a taming. But with you, you two clicked instantly. 

Damian would never forget the day he found you holding Alfred, hugging him close and the content kitten doing nothing but hugging back with its smaller limbs. Alfred’s little head perched on your shoulder, eyes closed in pure bliss. You were swaying slowly, humming in harmony with the soft purrs omitting from the shorthair. 

You were waiting on him, that much he remembered. It was years after you two had met, just shortly after high school graduation and just before Damian started college. That was the blissful moment of limbo where it was just you two hanging out for the summer and getting his apartment together. 

That was the day Damian Wayne fell in love with you. 

So here you were, years later, yet all the same. 

“Alfred gave him to me my senior year,” Damian started. He knew you already knew Alfred’s origin, you were there. But for some reason, exact details of dates were helping you, so he was happy to recall a core memory. “He called it a graduation gift even though the meeting was pure happenstance. He didn’t want to admit the cat reminded him of me, but I knew.” 

You glanced up at Damian and he glanced back. 

He stated the year easily, the fricative consonants adding to his timbre. “That was the year I fell in love with you. I was nineteen. It started with prom night, I should have known what that feeling was by then. But it wasn’t until late summer that I finally realized I could see no other future than one that was beside you.” 

He pointed down at the fuzz ball that was now laying across your crossed legs. “It’s all because of him.” 

Your hands pressed into the fur and massaged the skin underneath gently until the final strand of fate was snapped. You looked into the green, seeing each shade of bright emerald and late spring, eucalyptus and summer leaves. 

You found your voice and it was among his, miles ahead of the distant voices of the past. You said the same year, finding that your consonants blended with his after being around him for so long. Your voices intertwined in some ways and diverged in others. 

“That was the year I fell in love with you.” You responded. “We got bored and decided to paint your bedroom a different color.” You found yourself smiling at the memory, not even thinking twice about how your voice became steady against the mechanics of breath. “We were trying to figure out how to use the paint rollers and you learned the hard way that too much paint was in fact, not, more efficient. You had paint all in your hair after just one swipe.” 

You laughed and Damian found himself smiling at the sound. “I managed to get some on your cheeks,” he recalled.

You nodded. “You did,” a slight chuckle shaking your shoulders. “I got you back though.” 

“Please,” Damian rolled his eyes, “you were covered in far more paint than I was at the end of the night.” 

“Was not!”

Damian hummed in absolute confidence. “As I recall, Alfred gave you a far more disproving look than he gave me.” 

“Because he found me first!” 

Sometime in the near future, you would retell the events that led you to this moment. From witnessing an event that hit just a little too close to home to the police report that followed, you’d tell him everything. 

But for now, you were happy just enjoying the moment with him. 

Taglist ♡

@anothertimdrakestan

@cherry-dropp

@missredrobin

[souperbloom]

Hiiii! I had an idea for a fic where reader is part of the band and is dating ashton. After their performance since their adrenaline is so high they get high and have high sex 🤭

fucking obsessed with this one. had a blast writing it too. soup nation hath spoken, so sativa you shall receive (sorry it took so long)

enjoy <3

————————

sativa. [A.I.]

🍃 boyfriend!ash x bandmate!reader

after the curtains close, you and Ashton let out that post-show adrenaline the best way you both know how.

a/n: i’m picturing black hair ash for this, but feel free to picture any era you’d like!

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut!, weed/smoking, strong language, pet names, oral/faceriding(f!receiving), switch!ash :3

WORDCOUNT: 6.1k

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Tonight was a night like no other. You and your band had just bid adieu to yet another incredible crowd, the lot of you filled with so much energy that it left you feeling as though you were about to burst.

"…Fuck yes, dude!"

"Who has my bag?!"

"Your shoe’s untied, mate! Slow down!"

You and your bandmates barreled through the parking lot of The Kia Forum, buzzed out completely on vibes. You had been running so fast, and for so long, that you had completely forgotten what you were running for.

It wasn’t much longer than a few minutes before you remembered, and reached, your destination— the tour bus, which was parked all the way at the back entrance of the arena. Each of you stopped accordingly, catching your breath.

"Why did we even start running?" Your bassist, Calum, has always had a gripe with running.

"Who fuckin’ cares?! That shit was awesome!" Michael blows out a breath, resting his hands on his knees.

"I like running… but not in these shoes… Dear God—" Luke had found himself on the ground, letting out a long, and loud groan.

"I could go again. Fuck it! Who wants to race me?" Your boyfriend’s voice pipes up from behind you. You whip your head around to see him jogging in place with a smile.

You let out a giggle, still breathless from the strides you had taken to keep up with his pace on your initial run into the parking lot.

"Nobody’s racing anybody, Ash," Calum huffs, stretching his legs, "We’ve gotta pack up our shit on time before they leave us here like last time."

Ashton blows a raspberry, "You’re no fun."

"I’ll race you," you shrug to him, still completely clouded with adrenaline. The running barely made a dent in the energy that was coursing through your veins.

He wraps a broad arm around your shoulder, hugging you into his side.

"You say that now, baby— but the last time I beat you in a race, you didn’t talk to me for like, a week."

"Hey," you scoff, "I had good reason! You teased me about it every time I opened my fuckin’ mouth!"

"She’s right, Ash," Luke finally pipes up from his resting place on the concrete, "you bullied the shit out of her."

"You clearly just don’t understand my comedic repertoire."

Michael and Calum laugh, each patting Ashton on the back as they walk by to step onto the tour bus. You glance over at Ash, who had been staring at Luke on the ground.

"You alright, Lu?" You ask, slithering out of your boyfriend’s grasp.

"Yeah, yeah— I’m fine. Just— give me a second." He holds his hand up in the air, almost surrendering to the cold, hard ground.

"C’mon, mate. Let’s get you on this bus. It seems like Y/N is the only one matching my energy tonight."

Ashton takes Luke’s hand, pulling him up by his torso. You watch in awe at how effortlessly your boyfriend hoists him up, the butterflies in your stomach still floating around just as they did when you first got together with him.

"Okay, I’m good now." Luke blows out a breath, adjusting his heels in his boots.

Ashton, Luke, and yourself all make your way back onto the tour bus, each with your own respective bags and belongings. By the time you had stepped on, Michael and Calum had already found their seats on one of the couches. They were browsing their phones, occasionally showing each other something and giggling at the screen.

"Got room for one more?" Luke asks, moving Calum’s spread out legs to make a seat for himself.

"There’s a whole ‘nother couch, mate," Calum huffs, so entranced by his phone that he hadn’t even looked up.

You and Ashton had made your way to the other couch in question. Your eyes find Luke’s, his find Ashton, as you each toss each other a knowing glance.

"Nah, I think I’m alright sitting here. Why, you don’t want my company?"

As the other three bicker, you and your boyfriend find a comfortable position on the couch. Your head is resting on his shoulder, his arm extended over the top of the couch and resting along the back of it. He pulls out his phone to check the time.

"It’s half past eleven and I’m fuckin’ wired." Ashton mumbles. You feel his body vibrate with the words he speaks as you rest your head onto him.

"Me too," you admit, your leg starting a cadence of bobbing up and down, "I’d usually be down for the count by now."

"Y’think it’s the adrenaline rush? I’m not sure why but— I feel like I could scale a goddamn mountain right now."

You shrug, trying to close your eyes as the bus starts to move, "Could be. But— it’s hard to believe we’re the only ones feeling it."

Ashton’s hand was gently lingering around the nape of your neck. He then started to toy with your hair, resting his head on top of yours.

Your leg had continued to bounce, still feeling as if you were about to pop off into the sky like a fucking bottle rocket.

It was only about a 20 minute drive from the venue back to the hotel, but the anticipation of getting there was absolutely killing you. You weren’t sure how long you’d be able to stand sitting quietly, especially now that Ashton’s hand had traveled to your shoulder.

He twists his head, planting a kiss on your temple before whispering in your ear.

"Why’s your leg doing that?"

"Dunno’. Just energized, I guess."

Your boyfriend nods in understanding. "Isn’t being on this bus right now just the worst?"

"Don’t remind me," you say, as Ashton is removing his arm from the back of the couch.

He puts his arm back at his side, yet his hand finds your leg like a magnet. His fingertips creep towards your inner thigh, your leg still bouncing impatiently.

"Really wish we were back at the hotel…" He then dips down slowly to be level with your ear.

"…’Wanna put all this energy to good use, no?"

His words send a shock wave down your spine, similar to the ones that had been coursing through you all night long. You knew exactly where his head was at, but whether or not you wanted to acknowledge it while the rest of the band was three feet away from you was a battle you did not want to fight right now.

"Ash, knock it off," you whisper sternly, pressing your hand down on his in order to keep it from inching any closer to its’ destination.

"They’re not even paying attention. Look at ‘em." He gestures towards the boys on the couch, all either buried in their phones, or passed the fuck out.

"Still— If they saw anything I’d fucking kill myself."

Ashton’s tongue juts out to wet his bottom lip, now looking at you as if you were a dessert waiting to be devoured. You roll your eyes, trying your best to seem unbothered by his gaze.

"Fine."

The rest of the trip was uneventful. Ashton would occasionally squeeze your thigh, or his knee would knock against yours when Calum let out a particularly loud snore. You had finally made it back to your hotel, and were filing out one by one from the tour bus

"It’s amazing how you fast you can fall asleep," You hear Michael poke fun at Cal, who had been yawning and stretching as if he had gotten a full night’s sleep.

"The art of the power nap, my friend."

"Even after all these years, you still snore like an animal," you giggle, reminiscing on the many nights you’d spent on the road together.

As Calum opens his mouth to retaliate, Luke is stepping out of the tour bus and joining the conversation.

"Everyone has their shit, right?" he asks, hoisting his bag over his shoulder.

"Yup."

"Mhmm."

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now get out of my sight. All of you. Don’t wanna see your faces ‘till tomorrow morning a nine." Luke teases, wagging his finger at the rest of you.

You each gave hugs and said your goodnights, all while Ashton was glued to your hip. His body radiated off an aura that you couldn’t quite put your finger on— you didn’t know if it was just the energy, or the fact that the tension between you two was thick enough to cut with a pair of scissors.

But you knew full and well that you were feeling it too.

"That was the longest bus ride of my fuckin’ life," Ashton huffs, fumbling in his pants pocket for the keycard to your suite.

"I know— I feel like I should be tired," you shrug, "I probably won’t be able to sleep for a while though."

As Ashton pushes open the door to your shared hotel room, he tosses you a smirk over his shoulder. You blush, adjusting your bag strap and trying not to make too much of a face.

"We should stay up all night."

"Do you really think that’s the best idea?" Now, his eyes were wide and glassy. Your boyfriend’s energy had skyrocketed at an alarmingly fast rate.

"No, not at all. But— I think it would be fun, don’t you?"

The thought of staying up all night made you tired in itself, but you couldn’t push past the adrenaline still rolling through your veins.

You think for a moment, mulling over the pros and cons.

It’s already after midnight. Call time for tomorrow was at 9am. What’s 8 and a half more hours gonna change?

"It would be fun… But what would we do for that long?" You drop your bags on the carpet with a sigh.

"I could think of a thing or two," says Ashton, wiggling his eyebrows. He rifles through his bag on the floor for a moment, while you flop down on the king sized mattress.

"Like what? ‘Cause I’m not about to just sit here and stare at you."

"I don’t see a problem with looking at your gorgeous face for eight hours straight," Ashton chuckles, "but that wouldn’t be realistic…"

He digs down into one of the pockets of his backpack, pulling out a small rolling tray, a pack of papers, and a jar of bud.

"…So how about I roll up and we see where it takes us?"

You can’t help but bite your lip at the thought of Ashton rolling up for you. He always gave you the princess treatment when it came to smoking, and tonight was no different.

"I’m down for that." You hum, shifting yourself up on the bed and resting your arms on the pillows.

"Perfect. It’s settled then."

You watch with patient eyes as your boyfriend stands with his belongings. A rolling tray, papers, and a grinder in one hand, the bud, and a pack of filters in the other. His gaze drops down your body, landing on your torso.

Without a word, he finds his way onto the bed on his knees, a sly smile sprawling across his cheeks as he moves around you slowly.

"Whatcha’ doin’, baby?" You ask innocently.

"Nothin’."

His timid reply made your stomach flip, not long before he’s reaching his leg over your body to straddle you. He rests himself gently onto your thighs, putting his rolling supplies down at your side.

"Gonna roll up now, mkay?" He finds your approval with his eyes, as he slowly starts to dip his body down to lay flat onto you. Confused, you lift your brow, but you’re immediately shut up when he starts tugging at the hemline of your shirt.

"Ash, what—"

"Shhhh," he whispers, before pulling up the spandex material of your stage shirt and leaving a gentle kiss on your belly.

Your heart flutters at his simple gesture, just watching in awe as he starts to lay out his rolling supplies on your stomach. You were still very confused, yet you didn’t have the heart to question him.

Now with a rolling tray, papers, and a grinder all splayed across your body, Ashton starts his routine. He takes out a nug from the jar, popping it into the grinder and using his elbows to keep himself hovered over your body.

"What am I, a table?" You giggle, the movement of your stomach causing the rolling tray and other things to move around.

"Your giggling is fuckin’ up my work station, baby. Try to hold still f’me."

You clamp your giggly mouth shut with a straight face, still oddly amused by this strange scenario. Ashton had never used you as a rolling tray before, so pardon you for seeming weird about it.

Once he was done grinding up the weed, he grabbed a filter, all while balancing himself over your body. He made his next moves tediously, laying out a paper flat onto his tray and sprinkling the plant onto it.

Your first instinct was to hold your breath, but something about his face of concentration was making you want to bust out laughing. He’d occasionally glance up at you, those green, honeypot eyes tossing you warning stares.

"Almost done—" He says, now folding up the corners of the paper and actually starting to roll it.

What you loved most about watching Ashton roll was the pure concentration that overcame him, every single time. His eyes would go narrow, his tongue poking out slightly between his lips. It took everything inside of you not to sit up and start showering his face in kisses, but you held back.

For the sake of the joint.

"She’s a beauty," you say, watching Ashton tongue the rolling paper and leaving you with nothing but intrusive, sinful thoughts.

"Mhmmm," Ashton hums in return, before giving the paper one more lick. He twists up the end, finally getting to admire his handiwork.

"Your belly makes one hell of a rolling tray, baby— might have to try rolling up your tits next."

"Yeah, right. Good luck with that one."

You both laugh as Ashton starts to remove his supplies off of you, haphazardly tossing them to the side.

He then pops the joint into the corner of his mouth, and uses his fists to crawl up to you. He stops at eye level, fully straddling you with the jay between his lips and a devilish gleam in his eye.

"What are you looking at?" You ask, already knowing the answer.

"You." He mumbles through the side of his mouth, the joint stuck to his bottom lip,

"Yeah, no shit," you laugh, "But why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like there’s something on your mind."

He cocks his head, "Well, there is this one thing…"

Feeling daring, you pluck the joint from between his lips, taking it between your fingers.

"If ya’ tell me what it is, I’ll let you take the first hit."

"Psh," he scoffs, "like I wasn’t gonna do that anyway."

A bout of confidence rolls down your body, absolutely entranced by your boyfriend’s floppy black curls. He looked absolutely ravishing. The gaze in his eye flicking from innocent to lust fueled, just with a blink.

And if there’s one thing you always knew, it was exactly what he wanted.

"You fuckin’ wish… Tell me what’s on your mind, pretty boy."

Your nickname for him made him close his eyes, taking in a deep breath as you ran the back of your hand along his cheekbone.

The joint was still dangling between your fingertips, but you were debating putting it down after the way he had sighed.

"You always know how to get me, don’t you?" His voice was quiet, and sultry.

"Contrary to popular belief, Ash, I know a lot about you. Enough to know what you’re thinking about."

"You’re such a fuckin’ tease," he grumbles.

"Hey, you started it. Just trying to match that energy from before, y’know?"

"Trust me, it’s still here, darlin’. It never left."

Your mouth pulls to the side, watching his eyes flick between your lips and your chest.

"Oh, really?… You catch your bottom lip with your teeth.

"…Prove it."

In a flash, Ashton is flipping you over, bringing your hips to straddle his waist with your calves digging deeply into the hotel mattress. The action practically knocks the wind out of you, all with the joint still dangling between your fingertips. But you used Ashton’s broad chest as leverage for your palms, so you didn’t fall.

"I’ve got the time to prove it… and a lighter."

Ashton reaches over to the bedside table, practically knocking everything off of it as he reaches for his black Zippo. It was like a piece of him— never leaving his sight for more than a few minutes.

And on the rare occasion in which it wasn’t on him, it could be found right in your back pocket.

"Well then, if you insist— light me up, baby."

You place the joint between your lips, making a sly effort to dig your hips downward and grind into his crotch. A shaky hand approaches you, the heart shaped ink on his wrist reaching out to you with a burning flame.

He toasts the end of the joint as you inhale, the crackling, earthy feeling funneling down your throat while you take the first pull. Those golden fern eyes surveyed your every move; from the inhale, to the exhale.

"Y’look so pretty smokin’ my weed."

"Do I?" You hum, now feeling his hands as they palm at your thighs.

"Mhm."

Your cheeks flush pink, going in for another hit of the joint as Ashton just watches you; like he was in some sort of trance.

But as the smoke travelled down into your lungs and left you feeling a bit fuzzy, something inside of you perks up. A yearning to be in control; to tell Ashton whatever perfectly fucked up words were left in that adrenaline-doused brain of yours.

"You look even prettier under me."

His eyes flutter closed, and you’re left with a cheeky, prideful smile.

You loved getting under Ashton’s skin, more than anything. Calling him pretty, pretty boy; it was like a drug to you. You craved the rush that came with the change in his demeanor. It was something he tried to deny enjoying—

Yet he always came back for more.

Without another word, you pass the joint to him, placing it between his plump lips and allowing him to take his first pull. He sighs to himself, still clawing at your pants like he would strike gold by digging his fingers into them.

"Fuck— that’s great."

"Isn’t it? She's a beauty."

"Mhmm… tastes nice."

The residual smoke clouds the air above you, as you continue to pass the joint back and forth between your lips and his.

It wasn’t long before you started feeling high; and the same went for Ashton. You shared glances through heavy, bloodshot eyes, completely entranced by one another.

"Told you this was a good way to pass time," says Ashton, whose hands had become a bit more fidgety down at your sides.

The fog in your mind was clouding your senses. It had come to a point where you felt like your voice wasn’t working— you’d open your mouth, but nothing would come out. Just a puff of air, or a soft little whimper as Ashton’s hands danced around your calves.

"Baby?" He asks you, shifting his hips beneath you with a twinkle in his eye, "You okay?"

You wanted to reply, but you were too mellowed out to even utter a word. Shooting him a soft smile, you toss your head back, and run your hands down your chest.

"I’ll take that as a yes."

Ashton was an avid smoker. You, not so much. But on the off chance he was willing to roll and smoke you up, it was very rarely that you’d say no. Ash loved to smoke with you, you loved to smoke with Ash.

It was a match made in heaven.

"Whatdaya’ think the guys are doing right now?" Ashton always blurts whatever the fuck is on his mind. High, or not.

"Mmmh, I’m not sure… Probably sleeping." It took you a minute to gain the moisture back in your throat in order to reply.

"Fuckin’ losers. They don’t know what they’re missing. I wonder if any of ‘em are staying up late…"

You can’t help but let a dreamy sigh fall past your lips, before leaning over to put out the joint over your shared bedside ashtray.

"I don’t know much about them, but I know about me n’ you."

While Ashton’s hands are dead-bolted to your waist, yours roam his torso, toying with the black button-down he had slipped on after leaving stage. You fumble with the buttons, mess with the collar, all with your bottom lip stuck between your teeth.

"Can I help you?" Ashton sighs, rather sarcastically, starting his own trail of greedy fingertips.

"You know what I want."

"I'm not sure I do, my girl. Need you to be more specific..."

"Don't play dumb, pretty boy," your hands find the first button of his shirt, "I want you."

It isn't long before all of Ashton's buttons are undone and your lips are leaving a trail of sloppy kisses, making headway towards the buckle of his jeans. He whines beneath you, hands wandering along the motions of you as you shift down his body.

"Fuck me, you're an angel," he sighs dreamily, but you just smile between kisses, already feeling the wetness pooling in your lower half.

"Am I?"

"Mhmm, heaven told me so."

With his words, you shoot up to his eye level, giving him a good stare down before slamming your lips onto his. He melts into the kiss, as do you, still writhing beneath you for any inch of release.

His tongue explores your mouth, searching for something sweeter than the feeling of his own stoned mind. Your hands caress his face; his cheeks feeling much softer than usual.

"Oh, Ashton—" You whine, not long before his teeth are sinking viciously into your bottom lip.

A hiss falls past your teeth, his blistered palms gripping your exposed sides for dear life and pushing you down onto his growing erection.

His direction of kisses starts to lead towards your jaw— then your neck, then your chest.

"Want me that badly, hmm?" You coo to him, somewhat condescendingly. All he can do is hum beneath you, absolutely mesmerized by the taste of your skin.

"You know I fuckin' do."

As he works his way back up your throat, he leaves hickies in his trails. Also known as, a story to tell the band tomorrow.

"Hey, Dracula— knock it off. We've got a show tomorrow." You giggle, as Ashton pops his head up with wide eyes. He still looks entranced by you. Could’ve been the weed, but you swore you could see little cartoon hearts bursting within his irises.

"You’re right, you’re right—"

Ashton begins to toy with the hemline of your skirt, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he practically undresses you with his eyes.

"Want this off?" You ask, motioning towards the article of clothing in question.

He thinks for a moment, rolling his mouth inward on itself and seemingly picturing the whole ordeal before it’s even began.

"Nuh uh. Keep it on— I like it."

"Can’t really argue with that," You shrug casually, as if being high and now horny wasn’t already causing the both of you enough grief.

Ashton clears his throat, grabbing your attention away from his wandering fingertips.

"Hey, wanna try somethin’?" he mumbles, his tone a bit whiny. Needy.

"Hm?"

"Want you to ride my face."

Your eyes widen, face flushing of color as your mindless hip rocking comes to a slow. You can barely compute what he had just asked of you, let alone find enough saliva in your throat to reply.

"Wh—"

"You don’t have to— If ya don’t wanna. Just thought it’d be fun, y’know, since we’re lookin’ for ways to pass time."

You chuckle lowly, regaining your confidence as you watch his eyes shimmer just from looking at you.

"Baby, I don’t think that’d pass much time," you sigh, stomach lurching at merely the thought of it.

A smile spreads across Ashton’s cheeks, "Why not? Don’t want me to tease you with my tongue ‘till you can’t take it anymore? I’d say I could get a good thirty minutes out of that."

"That— that’s unfair!" You screech, the butterflies in your stomach dancing along and making you shiver.

"Don’t think so. Especially since you hogged the joint. Smoked all my fuckin’ weed. I’d say we’re equal."

"Kiss my ass, Irwin." you bite back.

"God, I’d love to."

You and Ash have tried a lot of things as a couple, but this opened a completely new door. At this rate, as late as it was, you were willing to do just about anything to get your hands on your pretty boy.

"Y’know what? Fine… Let’s fuckin’ do it."

You finally give him the reply he’d been waiting for. His eyes practically shoot out of his head when he hears it.

"Really?"

"Mhmm."

Ashton tosses his head back into the plush pillows, running his hands up your waist and finding himself beneath your spandex shirt, "Gonna' make a meal outta you, baby. Promise it'll be worth it."

With his words, you're dipping back down to kiss him, feeling his hips eagerly bucking up into yours and revealing just how hard he was beneath his jeans.

"Need you," he whispers into your lips, "please. Soon?"

His incoherent babbling was already telling you everything you needed to know, his breathing picking up with the slight feeling of release he was getting by feeling you through the confines of fabric.

"Sit tight, pretty baby. Let me get situated." You part from his lips, planting one last kiss on his cheek before you're de-straddling yourself from his hips.

Your eyes zone in on his, reaching beneath your skirt to meticulously dance your way out of your lacy panties, as per his request for your skirt to stay on.

He watches through hooded eyes, discreetly moving his hand to palm himself through his jeans. You catch him out of the corner of your eye, as you partially undress yourself.

"Slow down, tiger. Save some for me."

"You're not making it any easier, ya’ tease." He grumbles, the corners of his mouth coming to a catty point.

You decided that a strip tease was enough, already feeling bad for making him wait this long. A nervous swirl settles in your stomach; having never done this before, you weren't sure what to expect.

But you knew that whatever was about to happen, Ashton would make it worth wild.

"C'mere," Ashton calls to you with two fingers, and you oblige, straddling his lap once again as his hands find you like a magnet.

"Where do you want me?"

"On my face."

You scoff, "Well duh, Ash."

"I'm serious. Don't know if I can go another fuckin' minute without your thighs as my earmuffs. Get up here. Now."

"Yes sir," you joke, shifting upward on his body. Your bare core was hovering over his chest, and he was practically drooling at the sight of you.

He gives you a quick asking glance, eyes wide and glassy as they had been since the second you two stepped off of the tour bus. You could tell how elated he was merely from the size of his pupils.

"Ready?" He asks gently, noticing you lingering.

"Think so." You suck in a deep breath, finding comfort in your boyfriend's eyes.

"Gonna start nice and slow. Nothin' to worry about." He runs a hand up your thigh, pushing up your skirt and exposing your body to him a little more.

"What makes you think I'm worried?" you quip.

"I can just see it in your eyes, baby."

The room did feel like it was spinning, but you were more bashful than nervous. But you could tell that Ashton didn’t care about the semantics of it all.

He just wanted to taste you.

After taking a moment to regain your confidence, you raise your hips. Ashton shifts down below you, peeking under your skirt at the mess you’ve already made of yourself.

"So wet, already? Damn Y/N, I’ve barely even touched you yet."

"You talk a big game for a man who practically melts when I call him pretty."

Ashton rolls his eyes, "Less talking, more ‘sit on my fuckin’ face, please’."

His hands cradle the backs of your thighs, which makes you sigh. You loved the feeling of his weathered palms; and how tenderly they scraped against your skin. Being high was only furthering that euphoria, enough to distract you from how antsy you were.

You finally let yourself lower onto his face, immediately feeling his nose nudging against your clit.

"Shit—" you hiss, for Ashton wastes no time in licking a healthy stripe up your slit.

Your muscles start to relax as his tongue moves within you, paying attention to your sounds and the jolts of your hips. He braces himself on your thighs, as you look down to see his face engulfed by your flesh and the fabric of your skirt.

"Can— can I watch?" You ask through shaky breaths, only for Ashton to knock his nose against your clit once again and release a moan from the back of your throat.

When he hums in response, a course of electricity shocks your veins. You knew that meant he was saying yes, but the feeling of him vibrating against your core brought your heart rate to double.

You start to rock your hips slowly, feeding into the motions of his tongue chipping away at you. You reach your hands down to lift your skirt, only to reveal two bright green eyes staring back at you between your thighs.

The sight of him beneath you, so eager to please you, could’ve had you cumming right on the spot. But you were enjoying this far too much to let it end right now.

"Ash, oh my god—" You whimper, the combination of his pleading eyes and nimble tongue having you doubled over in ecstasy.

You’re too busy staring down at him to notice how he’d closed his eyes and started to move faster. The speed at which his tongue was lapping against you brought your hands to fly to your chest. You started to pinch your own nipples above your shirt, but Ash was quick to notice.

His arm shoots up to knock against yours, moving it out of the way so that he could get his greedy hands on your tits.

"Fuck— please, please," you beg, although you weren’t really sure what you were begging for. It was taking everything in your power to hold off on your orgasm and enjoy this for as long as possible.

You look down at his face again to see the tip of his nose glittering with your arousal, sweaty black curls stuck, and rearranged to his forehead.

You can’t help but smile, letting out a few more whines and whimpers as you grind your hips. He was still toying with your nipple, but made the executive decision to slide his hand beneath your shirt.

He pinches your nipple between his fingers, receiving pleasure merely from the sounds slipping past your lips. Your entire body felt like it was set ablaze, your core warm and fuzzy from the weed and attention you were receiving from your boyfriend’s tongue.

"Ash, please—" You plead again, as Ashton’s hand switches to massaging your entire breast, still working up into you and lapping at your clit from time to time. "—Gonna cum’ soon."

A muffled groan could be heard from beneath you, sending a course of electricity through your veins. He was letting you know that he heard you loud and clear, but he wasn’t quite ready to give in just yet.

When the feeling of your impending orgasm gets to be too much, you start to panic.

"Wait— I—"

Without thinking, you lift yourself off of his face, instantly whining at the loss of contact from his mouth and the feeling of accidentally edging yourself.

“Baby, my God," he sighs, breathlessly, “don’t stop. Need— need you t’ cum on my face.”

His cheeks are slick with your arousal, lips glistening as he darts his tongue out to clean some of it off.

"Are you sure?" You mumble in return, still slightly dizzy from the whirlpool happening in your lower half. But Ashton then anchors his hands on your waist, giving your flesh a gentle, pleading squeeze.

"Yes please, baby. Fuckin’ soak me. Let me taste you while you cum for me."

He’s nodding frantically, reciprocating that energy of never wanting this moment to end.

"Ashton, I--"

"Keep saying my name, darlin'. Sounds so fuckin' hot comin' out of your mouth."

You can’t shake the feeling of your orgasm being on the brink for any longer, so you waste no time. His heavy breathing and bloodshot eyes has your stomach in knots.

You re-mount his face, starting your rhythm of rocking hips once more in time with his tongue.

That wave of bliss hits you again, picking up right where you had left off. You’re whining and groaning, still feeling his fingertips digging into you and holding you stable.

"Oh, Ashton."

He groans beneath you at the angelic sound of his name rolling off of your tongue. For extra stability while you grind into him, your grasp flies to the headboard, holding on tightly as you ride out your high.

"I’m so close, Ash… keep— keep going… fuck!"

Your body was shifting into overdrive, your head tossing back to let out a guttural whine from your chest.

”I’m— I’m cumming… Fuck, Ashton!"

The knot in your stomach finally snaps, sending a wave of chills rumbling down your limbs and practically taking the headboard off of the wall with the sheer force of your orgasm.

You whine as the sensation rolls out, gradually slowing down your rhythmic hips above your boyfriend, who was as stiff as a board.

"Ashton, holy fucking shit," you giggle, letting out a long sigh. But he was unresponsive. You look down between your thighs again at those glowing fern eyes, pupils large and wavering.

"You good, pretty boy?" You move to sit on his chest, his head resting between your knees and revealing that slicked face for a second time. His shocked, lust-fueled expression morphs into a wicked smile, before he runs his hands up and down the tops of your thighs.

"You're fuckin' crazy."

You shrug, "What can I say? You bring out the best in me."

He laughs again, taking a moment to breathe and run a hand through his sweaty charcoal curls.

"Jesus Christ, Y/N," he breathes, still admiring your body as if he hadn't just sent it into shock.

"What? You asked for it."

"Honestly, I could go again."

"I know we've got time but let's not get too ahead of ourselves," you tut, taking a hand to grab his cheeks, still between your legs, "A warm bath would definitely be nice, though. I'm still a kinda high."

He nods, "I could do that, yea... But the question is whether or not that tub is big enough for the both of us."

"Who said you were invited?" you joke.

"After what just happened on my face? Baby, I think ya' owe me one."

Your head was still a tad foggy so naturally, you found yourself giggling at everything coming out of your boyfriend's mouth. He smiles up at you warmly, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip.

"Hey, what time is it anyway?"

"Not too late for you to run me a bath, if that's what you're implying."

He scoffs, using his broad hands to shift you down onto his lap so that he could sit upright.

"It's never too late for a bath, darlin'. I just wanted to know if I killed some time." He turns his head to glance over at the alarm clock on the bedside table, as do you.

"1:30." You say in unison.

"And only..." he looks at his wrist, acting as if he has on a watch, "...seven and a half more hours 'till call time."

Both you and Ashton laugh, while he's still tracing little heart patterns along your legs. "What if we took a seven and a half hour bath?" You suggest, feeding off of his teasing energy.

"We'd come out looking like fuckin' prunes."

"I'd say it's worth it...if it meant seven and a half more hours with you."

He moves his wandering hands to cup your face, cocking his head subtly to the side. You felt the sparks practically flying off of his fingertips as he looks at you with a beaming grin.

"Seven and a half hours doesn't mean a thing. We've got all the time in the goddamn world."

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