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1800titz · 3 months

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HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic.

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second.

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night.

It’s a cute shop.

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort.

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery.

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him.

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue.

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote.

“Oh, I’m just looking.”

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge.

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples.

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.”

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.”

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there.

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.”

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?”

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.”

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?”

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.”

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment.

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.”

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.”

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence.

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.”

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels.

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.”

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink.

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.”

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space.

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy.

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.”

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate.

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.”

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin.

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.”

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s.

Yeah.

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay.

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.”

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work.

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue.

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs.

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length.

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt.

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.”

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me.

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows.

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off.

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up.

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again.

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders.

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more.

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones.

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior.

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child.

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.”

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs.

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together.

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider.

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it.

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert.

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top.

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.”

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together.

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.”

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.”

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic.

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.”

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes.

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things.

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.”

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?”

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.”

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece.

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.”

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?”

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.”

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin.

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?”

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.”

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.”

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.”

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.”

This is The Turning Point.

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked.

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.”

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both.

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash.

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from.

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.”

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?”

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?”

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.”

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling.

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting.

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.”

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed.

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.”

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.”

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.”

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her.

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it.

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?”

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.”

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights.

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.”

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time.

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres.

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay.

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with.

Christ.

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands.

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face.

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.”

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again.

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.”

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features.

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.”

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.”

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation.

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.”

“Thank you. What now?”

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.”

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse.

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?”

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.”

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet.

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging.

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?”

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.”

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

#harry styles #harry styles smut #(ish)? there’s a lot of innuendos in this one #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles one shots #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles valentine’s day fic #valentine’s day fic

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mondaymelon · 5 months

Text

MERRY CHRISTMAS !!! gifts ensue.

he really went. blep. hi user @ilyuu. im proud of this one so congrats wanderer takes home first gift wooo

lmao id like to apologise in advance as this was brought on because of me but I got super burnt out drawing like 20 of these over the course of 2 days... if you see the quality of the drawings declining ( which you will ) please don't mind it!! thank you.

@anonbinaryweirdo. sigh. i get whiplash whenever you're super nice and then in the span of the next three seconds immediately do something vile

@soleillunne. we don't talk much but from what I know you are such a sweet person omg !! and your works??? dies inside (in a good way). the way you write xiao maks me so. puddle like

@realkavehgf. we agree on one things (amongst others) and that is that kaveh is. kAVEH IS. MALFUNCTIONS PERISHES.

@emphasisondrvgs. you scare me. please take your ranpo and quietly see yourself out LMAO /j

@pjsk-writin. AMIMI ONE OF MY FIRST EVER MOOTS !!! im so proud of mikoto. sighs. straitjackets are smth else to draw .. BUT HES SO. MMMMMM !!!!

@circyexistforcontent AAAHHH HI PRECIOUS. I LIKE YOU BUT I DONT REALLY LIKE DILUC SO. TAKE THIS... quietly throws up

@whats-it-mean. puka puka. head empty. puka puka. please stop your affairs with my mother.

@falors. UGLY SOBS. UGLY CRIES. I LOVE YOU /P SM. WAAHHHH TEARS TEARS TEARS you are the most talented person ever I S T G gRAAAHHH YOU BETTER GET 18412409128410948 FOLLOWERS THIS YEAR OR I WILL RIOT. mwah.

@dustofthedailylife. omg. hi dust... tbh ive been so concerned for you recently with how much life is running you over with a pickup truck so wishing for your improved health soon !! alhaith is a smort guy what can I say

@the-white-void. DEAREST. literally one of the first people I ever interacted with on this platform and you're actually. like. literally one of the sweetest people I have ever met. KLEE IS SUCH A CUTIE FJSFJDK

@kaeffeinee. OMG. m..my kitten- woah WHO just said that. wild shit right there. have something you don't like?? have something that's been pestering you for far too long?? no worries. its the official nag seal of mendokusai !!!!

@lillonvia. sobs. I didn't do the man justice.loud sobs. DFSDDSF YOUR ART MAKES ME WANT TO LIKE DISENTAGRAT INTO GLOWING BALLS oF FUZZ AND FLOAT INTO THE HEAVENS I DONT KNOW HOW ELSE TO DESCRIBE IT. WE ARE SO DELULU oVER XIAO. FOAMS AT THE MOUTH

@absolutelyobsessedkiya. HELP WHY IS MINORI SO BRIGHT.... she's literally shining what. we need to talk more pspsspsp I just now found out that you're a fan of milgram!! remember like last year I was all 'whose that pretty pink person on their pfp??' AND NOW I FINALLY KNOW THATS ITS MUU RAHHHH

@auroratumbles. meow. cat. what a sweetie. I don't even know what my art style is doing here anymore Istg what even. what even BYE LETS TALK ABOUT XIAO LATER !!

@papiliotao. mwah. a kith for you. mWAH. ANOTHER KITH. SJFKSDJFLS GRAHHH YOU ARE THE SW E. E T E ST AND YOUR THE SWEETEST AND YOUR CAT IS THE SWEETEST AND YOUR VOICE IS MAKING ME WANT TO ELEVATE INTO THE CLOUDS AND YOURE SO SILLY EVEN THOUGH YOU DONT LIKE AKITIO SHINONOME

@yinyinggie. hihihi ying !! it honestly amazes me how you're able to juggle so many events and servers at once. im actually in awe. always look at xiao he's so emo and short

@solxima. GRAHHH HI. I DONT LIKE HOW JINGYUAN LOOKS IN THIS BUT. DLJFLSDJ DIES> I CANT DO THIS AN Y M O RE. your honor. hes so cat coded hes so cat coded he's so PERISHS

@yelshin. WAIIIIT NO YOUR NAME GOT CUT OFF> iM SORRY. I don't know why he looks... so r e g a l in this but its definitely giving off oRAtRice MecAnIquE DAnAlySe CARdiNAle .

@vennnnn-diagram. LOUD SCREAMING N O . YOUR NAME GOT CUT OFF TOOOODJSKFLSD JGAIJFAD JKLJFD:LFS. anyways. I need to see nahida smiling more she deserves everything and then some. aranaras are so silly giggles

@lume-nosity. I hold the slightest bit of guilt for putting your angsty ish drawing right next to happy lil nahida buT AHAHAH IT MAKES IT HURT MORE IG. took some inspo from your blog title... mwah ily lume. I WAS SO SCARED TO TALK TO YOU AT FIRST WHEN I SENT YOU THAT MOOT ASK BUT I AM EVER SO HAPPY THAT I DID !!!

th end. im actually so dead lmao my fingers actually were starting to bleed afklsdjfaskdjfklsdjflkasdjflksjflkjowejtoij enjoy your Christmas gifts mooties !! if anyone asks why I haven't been posting fics as promised. this is why. ill be in a coffin for a while please let my soul rest

OH AND FORGOT TO MENTION I DREW THESE BASD ON THE MOOTIES THAT COMMNTED ON MY THINGY LIKE LAST WEEK WHICH ASKED WHICH CHARACTER THY WANTD I LOVE YOU ALL PSPS I PROMIS

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j0hnj4ej3n · 10 months

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thank you for being born

word count: 0.6k

warnings: nothing, just fluff :)

notes: sorry i haven’t been posting much but here’s a one-shot for my favourite boy, MARK LEE <3 happiest birthday to the most hardworking, crazy talented, passionate, beautiful mark lee :”) i love him so much, he is literally the reason i’m insane and delusional!!! but truly, i wish nothing but the best for him because he deserves every good thing in this world <3

anyway, i hope you all enjoy this even though it’s short and quite self-indulgent hehe! will be posting more soon~

Mark sends you a text, telling you that he was in the car, on the way home to you. He got no reply however, which doesn’t surprise him. It is late after all. His schedule finally ended for the day and he sits beside his manager in the car, waiting to be dropped off in silence.

He greets his manager a quick ‘goodnight’ before he scrambles out of the car and to the front door. Mark punches in the passcode to unlock the door, the beeping sound resonating in the quiet of the night. He pushes against the door once it unlocks to let himself in and he frowns at your absence on the couch.

Your sleeping figure is usually what greets him every night when he returns home late after a long day of work. Your cheek squished against the couch cushion and a blanket draped over your small figure. Sometimes Mark would give himself a few seconds just to admire your sleeping figure, marvelling at your beauty even when you’re sound asleep before he wakes you up to lead you back into your shared bedroom.

But the couch is empty and you’re nowhere to be seen. “Babe? Y/n, I’m home…” Mark calls out as he drags his feet, walking past the kitchen and still no sight of you. He wonders if you went out and didn't tell him, or maybe you simply fell asleep in the bedroom tonight. He calls out your name one more time as he opens the door to your shared bedroom.

And there you were, standing just a few feet away from the door in the dim room, a small cake with lighted candles in hand. You have the brightest smile on your face and he can tell you can’t hide your excitement. Mark’s facial expression mirrors yours and he can’t help the chuckle he lets out.

“Happy birthday to you~” you begin to sing softly as Mark finally puts the backpack that was hanging off his shoulder down by the door, clapping lightly along to your singing. You let out a soft ‘wooo’ as you finished the song and Mark let out a hushed giggle at your little cheer at the end.

“What’s all this?” Mark teases as you hold the cake out closer to him. “I wanted to surprise you for your birthday, quick make a wish!”

You look up at Mark with anticipation, the flames from the candles makes you look like you’re glowing in the dim room. Mark gazes at you, his smile never leaving his face as he slowly closes his eyes and clasps his hands together. He opens his eyes a few seconds later and blows out the candles.

Once the lights are turned back on, Mark carefully takes the cake from you to place it down on his computer desk before pulling you in for a hug. “Thank you baby, I really appreciate it,” Mark mumbles into your neck as he leans into you. You hold him close, swaying from side to side as the both of you refuse to pull away just yet, “Thank you for being born.”

It wasn’t anything extravagant but it was everything to Mark and he feels himself getting a little emotional. He’s just so grateful to have someone like you by his side to celebrate another year of life with him. Mark’s heart swells with love for you and he wonders if he can ever express in words how much he really adores you.

But for now, he pulls away just to place his forehead gently against yours as he whispers an “I love you” against your lips, hoping these three words would suffice. You don’t quite say anything back, only leaning in to capture his lips in a sweet kiss, letting him know that you love him too.

#happy blessed birthday mark lee <3 #happymarkleeday #nct mark #mark lee #mark lee fluff #mark lee scenarios #nct mark lee #nct #nct dream #nct 127 #j0hnj4ej3n

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apompkwrites · 10 months

Text

the ashengrotto's friend || azul ashengrotto

masterlist characters: azul (platonic), ocs :D genre: fluff (just a regular lore part) contains: very quick chapter to establish something, azul's dad (mentioned once), oc introduction (can't wait to talk about them more :D) summary: a single spell can lead to a new adventure. notes: oh wow hi again I'm not dead :). um just fell out of writing for a good while but guess who's starting their second college term in like 3 weeks :D wooo. anyway, just a quick chapter so I can introduce someone :)) parts: [og post] | [previous] | [next]

the voice was soft and airy, akin to your brother's when he was first waking up in the morning or your mother's when she wasn't in her work mode (which was very rare at this point). when you looked up, you were greeted with another cecaelia.

their skin was dark, almost pitch black. their tentacles had bright blue tips that seemed to glow in the water. however, as opposed to your tentacles, theirs were connected with thin webbing. their hair was a rusty red color, their curls bobbing in the water and covering their right eye. the one eye you could see was crystal blue, wide and full of curiosity just like your brother. two fins stuck out from their curls, drooping a bit to their sea floor.

"how'd you do that?" they repeated, pointing at the water that swirled in towards the paper.

you couldn't say anything at first. be it because you were afraid of interaction or because you genuinely had no idea what you just did, you weren't sure. but, no matter the cause, your silence seemed to only stoke the flames of the cecaelia's curiosity.

"i've never seen magic like that..." they muttered, drifting down to the seafloor in front of you. they settled down, their tentacles resting on the sand. "what was it?"

"um..." you managed to utter, your hand shakily reaching out to grab your pen. "i-i don't... um..."

"can you do it again?" they asked, seemingly unphased by your stammering. they stared at you, their single blue eye that you could see wide with amazement. "please?"

you could only nod and grab another spare piece of paper. you flipped it over, brushing it off as a simple contract draft your mother had written in her spare time, and began scribbling on the paper again. you made the same sigil, an s surrounded by arrows and a single, large circle.

immediately, the same reaction occurred. a vortex formed, swirling about and dragging the water and seaweed closer to the paper. the cecaelia beamed from fin to fin, clapping their hands excitedly like a child.

"your magic is so cool!" they cheered, their eye seemingly sparkling as they stared at you.

"th...thank you..." you mutter under your breath. the cecaelia smiled softly at you, finally noticing your nervousness.

"i'm hemming." they introduced, holding out their hand. "it's nice to meet you!"

"...(name)." you whispered, slowly and shakily taking their hand in yours. "nice to... meet you, too..."

hemming was nice. and curious. you liked that about them. with your brother slowly drifting away from you in favor of his magical studies and the tweels, hemming somehow filled his place in your heart. they reminded you of azul with their wide-eyed fascination for all things in the world.

hemming's visits motivated you to work harder, as well. it seems both you and azul got your hard-working diligence from your mother. each time hemming swam their way over to you, you would have a new sigil to show them. and, no matter how small and mundane the spell was, hemming rewarded you with amazed cheers and genuine cries of awe.

however, you did wonder where exactly hemming came from. you had seen plenty of merpeople come and go, but you never knew where they went when the time for two to part came.

"hemming." you called to them one day. "where do you live? is it far?"

"mm, a bit..." hemming hummed, their voice trailing off near the end. "...promise you won't freak out?"

"i promise."

hemming paused once more. they were nervous, maybe just as nervous as you were when you first met them. they took a quick glance around as if making sure no one was listening.

they looked back at you.

then took one more glance around.

"...the abyss." hemming whispers. the moment that name leaves their lips, a chill runs down through your tentacles.

your mother had only mentioned the abyss once. it was where your father would move to once the divorce was finalized.

hemming fidgeted under your gaze. and the longer you stared, the more they trembled.

"i'm sorry... i... i'll go--"

"no!" you don't know what compelled you to cry out or to grab their wrist. but you did. and hemming stared back at you with wide eyes. and the next words that fell from your lips shocked you more than they did hemming.

"can i visit?"

hemming swam home that night pleasantly surprised. they had tried to make friends before, but never once did they find one that was willing to go to the abyss. they were certain that the moment the question of where they lived came up, they were bound to lose a friend again.

but not this time.

and so, as they swam home, their thoughts had a single cecaelia floating about. a single, magical cecaelia.

"hemming?" ah, they hadn't realized they were home already.

their brother stood above them, towering over them as he always did. his thin and frail-looking tentacles floated beneath him, dragging across the endless floor of black. their hair fell in front of their face in long strands, framing their frail face.

"what's got your head in the seas today?" his brother asked quietly.

"oh, nothing." hemming grinned. "i just... made a really good friend."

taglist: @brokenncrown @help-meplz @destinationdesignation @rainys-personal-garden @kalims @sxftiebee @luxaryllis @auld-a @the-dumber-scaramouche @ayra2452008 @tinywho-man @spadecentral @justeclem44 @bajifairyy @mulandi @sadimon @stormyovent0aster @sn00zl4x @f1fty-f1fty @bloomed-night-flower @madusas-girlfriend @b0nkers-papaya @arandomeroacher @randonamedcl @potabletable @meerpea @luvcalico @chlousp @prettyinblack231 @dindarasuum @elizaboba @ravenlking @reveristmain @lasignoramybeloved @poto-de-michi @sherryuki-callmeyuki @cadit-in-aestus-sidereum @valeriele3 @munchkinkazooie @venusdandy

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland fluff #twst fluff #twisted wonderland azul #twisted wonderland azul x reader #twst azul #twst azul x reader #azul x reader #twisted wonderland azul ashengrotto #twisted wonderland azul ashengrotto x reader #twst azul ashengrotto #twst azul ashengrotto x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #black sheep

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supermarketbae · 1 year

Text

Warnings:Smut smutty smut 18+, oral (fem receiving), exhibitionism if you squint, reader almost is caught but not really, Billy being an absolute dick, jealousy, swearing, and pet names. Tell me if I missed something wooo! First Billy Hargrove fic! Not proofread or formatted bc I’m a lazy ass bitch

_____________________<3______________________

Your mom didn’t know you were dating Billy Hargrove aka the new King of Hawkins. That’s how it started. When she would work late shifts she would rarely be home after you got back from school, Billy didn’t mind showing off your relationship to Hawkins high, But to your very conservative parents? That was a different story. It was only convenient to be at your house after school. Billy didn’t want to bring you near his father and your place being technically ‘free of parents’ solved that.

“You look edible” comes Billy’s smirking drawl making you look up from your school books set on the kitchen table “I do?” You ask, corners of your lips turned up hoping to play into his hands. “Would you like me to show you?” He grins wolfishly, tongue sliding quickly across his incisors. Mirroring his grin you nod cheekily, shivering when he ghosts his lips over yours. “I’d love it.” You whisper back, smiling as he pulls your chair out settling by your thighs. His larger callused hands rubbing circles into them. You tilt your head back when he slips your jeans off and presses a heated kiss to the inside of your upper thigh. “Awh darlin’ what’s gotten you all worked up like this?” Billy teases, desire evident in his blown pupils. “Just make me cum, Hargrove.”

You bite back a moan as he chuckles darkly, removing your panties with his teeth. “Like this baby?” He licks a strip of your core tongue stopping at the edge of your throbbing clit. “Billy please!” You whine as he smiles toothily. “Or like this.” He puts is index finger inside of you quickly finding your g-spot. You let out a small moan. “Please just fuck me.” You whine slightly louder “There we go, it wasn’t that hard to ask me nicely was it?” You let out a groan as he starts to suck bringing his index and middle finger to trace circles around your hole.

“Billy-ah-please- fucking hell~” you moan softly to the blonde who again chuckles pulling you closer to his mouth a small trail of drool in the corner of his lips. His eyes were pure pupil now. The blue of his iris completely hidden. A raw and animalistic grunt comes from Billy as you tighten around his tongue as he slips it inside of you, his fingers coming to do small figure 8’s at your clit. You’re starting to buck up into him moaning his name loudly, the way he likes when you hear your garage door opening. You jump. “Shit-baby wait!” hearing the slight fear in your voice Billy looks up just in time for you to shove him under the table. “What the actual fu-”

The door opens to reveal your mother arm filled with groceries she sets on the table “Oh! Hello honey.” She smiles at you warmly and you try your best to shift the tablecloth shielding Billy from view. “Hello mama” you smile back in what you hope is the same warmth and not fear. “I’m almost late for my job but I’ll spend a few minutes putting away these grocerie-” “I’ll do it for you!” You say maybe a bit to loudly. “Thank you sweetie!” Your mother smiles at you and you hope she’ll leave sooner without an excuse to stay for longer.

Unfortunately your wish isn’t granted. You feel Billy’s hand on your bare thigh scooting up. You try bouncing your leg to get him to stop but he grabs your calf, getting you to fall into silence when he presses a kiss onto you. “So,” your mother says making you jump then glow furiously red “I heard there is a school dance coming up.” Your mother was notorious for trying to set you up with various boys she thought would be good “dates” for you. And this halloweens dance wasn’t different. You planned on saying you were going with friends, but meeting up with Billy there. You hear Billy growl softly beneath you, possessiveness already evident.

Your blushed cheeks darken, clearly sensing where this is going. “You should ask that Harrington boy,” your mother prods “he seems very nice. I was talking to him today and he said he would take you.” Your about to chide her for asking when Billy’s teeth graze your thigh then sink down. It takes you biting your lip to keep in the breathy moan fighting to come out of you. “If you ask me,” your mother continues, oblivious to your flustered state when Billy presses a long kiss up against your clothed cunt. “That boy is smitten with you, he always asks me how your doing when I go into the family video” “oh I-um didn’t know-” you gasp as Billy drags your panties down once more “Something wrong?” Your mom asks looking at you in concern. “Not at all.” You grit back as Billy’s tongue languidly circles your entrance. “So? Will you take him?” Your mother interrogates “I-um-hnghh- maybe” a harsh suckle on your clit indicated that if you said yes, Billy would make your life which already was living hell, way worse.

Your mother sighs “Whatever you do, do NOT humor that Hargrove kid, he doesn’t have good intentions at heart.” You squeak as she mentions your boyfriends name. You feel Billy laugh softly into your pussy. The vibrations making your mouth water. “Wh-whatever do you mean? h-he’s always been sweet to me.” You try to deflect this question “Oh I’ve seen the way you look at him sweetie, I understand he’s a handsome boy… I just worry” your mom continues and you struggle to get a full breath when Billy gives an appreciative lick to your clit.

“I’ll be sure to think about that.” you say “good. Oh look at the time I better be off” you tense as she comes over and hugs you, “b-bye mama!” You struggle to say as she closes the door behind her. You then breathe a sigh of relief “YOU ABSOLUTE FUCK!” you yell at Billy who has scooted back out from under the table and is looking up at you, fake innocence in his eyes. “Oops. Rather me stop?” He drawls smirking when you vigorously shake your head “I told you to make me cum.” you start to giggle but it quickly turns into a moan as he begins to attack your pussy harshly again.

You grab Billy’s hair pulling him closer to you as you begin to fall apart. You hear him groan loudly as you do “all fucking mine got it?” He bites looking up at you. “Not fucking Harrington’s, not any other bastard at that fucking school.” You let out a mewl as he bites down into you “fuckin’ say it” he grunts out voice slightly muffled by your plush walls. “A-all yours-fuck yes- All fucking yours Billy- please.” You whimper to him as his strong arms wrap around your waist pulling you even closer. “Atta girl” he mouths as you grind into him. “You taste so fuckin good sweetheart.” He murmurs into your dripping core “such a good fucking girl”

Your body contorts with pleasure at this hips arching into his mouth, Billy’s arms the only thing keeping you in the chair. “Wanna cum- oh fucking shit-Billy please!!” You cry out as you feel the winding cord of want start to snap deep in your belly “do it. Cum on my tongue. Wanna taste you” Billy orders. Your vision blurs for a moment and you let out the most pornographic moan. One you can’t even tell you made the sound. Your body is quaking with pleasure, simply scorching. And when Billy comes up face dripping from what was apparently you squirting. You ignite. A second small tremor rocks your body.

“Holy fucking shit” Billy moans at your open mouthed stare. Eyes still darkened from his actions. “Keep that up and I’m gonna bend you over the fucking counter.” You whine at the thought but manage to choke out “bet.” You both burst out laughing as Billy’s form wraps around yours enveloping you in a tight hug. “Love you” you mumble as he begins to kiss your collarbone softly “what was that??”

“You fucking heard me Hargrove.”

Billy was such a dick. But he was in love with you too.

#billy hargove imagine #billy hargrove smut #billy hargove x reader #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove #billy hargrove x female!reader

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iz-nomewrites · 6 days

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Soo… Which of your 10 WIPs do you plan to finish?

Me: *Points at that one vague idea I thought about before falling asleep. *

Me: That one. I want that one.

NEW FIC JUST DROPPED GUYS! WOOO 🥳🎉🎊

Buddy likes Chase.

He likes how his hair glimmers like golden rays of sunlight under the glowing chandelier as he glides and dances on the ballroom in the arms of a prince.

Buddy likes Chase.

And he misses him an awful lot.

#ao3 writer #writing #cinderella boy #cinderella boy webtoon #writeblr #writers on tumblr #chase hollow #buddy #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #webtoon originals #webtoon original #webtoon #my works

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randomspagetti · 5 months

Text

WatcherCao RoleSwap!Au

OKAY SO- I got really carried away so y'all are getting a lot of art and lore ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯. Here's a rehash of the story.

(Second Watcher is called Coffee Roll (CR sometimes for short))

Pre-Canon

Cacao, after realizing what happened to GCs kingdom, grows fearful of him kingdom and his citizens getting hurt because DE wants his souljam, so he goes missing for a century, hiding out on the DL until anyone who'd remember his face is dead.

He starts picking up jobs helping his kingdom, switching up where he works every two decades so nobody catches on. Around this time he's moved to the citadel as an upkeeper. He's in the lower staff when the witches give him his son. Because he's not flooded with work, and has more free time he's actually a good dad and Choco doesn't look for the cursed sword.

Choco is appointed first watcher and Coffee Roll is appointed king because the previous one croaked. (Being king is now a ranked position like the watchers) Time passes and Cacao is moved up to the higher upkeeper positions, Caramel, Choco, and Affo grow close, and Coffee Roll starts to realize there's more to his Upkeeper than meets the eye.

Woo big suprise Affo is a jerk who got close to the kings daughter (caramel) to be able to manipulate CR.

Broken Walls Arc

CR is becoming more pressured and stressed out by the amount of work he has. (affo making it worse so he's more temperamental) Cacao keeps trying to get through to him, realizing that affogato's intentions aren't as pure hearted as he presents. This puts strain on their relationship due to affogato painting Cao in a negative light to Coffee Roll.

Affo starts doing his usual shenanigans like turning away people who come to the citadel in need, pushing distrust in CR to the watchers. Caramel starts to notice exactly what her friend is doing, but it's too late for her to convince anyone of the truth. During this time, she finds being around her father intolerable because he refuses to listen. (Putting faith in the wrong person you bozo 😒)

This strengthens Caramel and Cacao's relationship, due to mutual understanding. Wooo to big day comes, the whole thing with COD takes place, and Coffee Roll is on the receiving end of a murder attempt by Affogato and a giant mf licorice monster. Cacao realizing that's something is going on at the wall rushes over and sees what's happening. Caramel helps protect the other watchers there while our boi Cao rushes to CRs aid. (Choco is on his way over, but he has quite a way to go)

Cacao, unarmed takes his souljam that Coffee Roll was wielding and with a glancing blow, knocks the licorice monster over the wall

At this point everyone is amazed and confused. "HOW TF DID HE DO THAT???!!" well you'll never guess who snitched; his souljam. Coffee Roll has noticed it randomly glowing at weird intervals for months now. ...almost like a compass?

Let's just leave it at Cacao has a damn lot to explain, Coffee Roll is both shocked, upset, and somewhat smitten, and Affo is going to be eating prison food for a while.

That's all I have so far! This au was really fun, here's some extra art!

I never got to coloring Caramel because I had one before that one and I hated it so I gave up

(before you ask "oh what about the gingerbrave group?" They found their way to the citadel, albeit a lot slower due to not having Caramel)

#rolereversal!au #watchercacao #watchercao #second watcher cookie #dark cacao cookie #dark cacao crk #dark choco cookie #dark choco crk #caramel arrow crk #caramel arrow cookie #cookie run kingdom #cookie run #dark cacao kingdom #art #thats yo mans?#SW unironically bagged their ancient with his ungodly rizz

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spiderfunkz · 8 months

Note

city of stars , blurbs — fred weasley + [ back ] sender pats receiver on the back. maybe with shy!reader and him comforting r when they’re anxious about something <3

[ back ] sender pats receiver on the back + fred weasley

ugh mal sorry this took so long!!! idk what happened but i completely forgot about my requests😭 here it is though sorry it's a bit messy (also a bit angsty ooooops).

also also i don't know much about being shy because i'm always a bit loud since i was a kid, so this is just based off of my friends' experience and just general observation.

you stare at the hot glowing embers from the fireplace, admiring it almost. you didn't notice that you're zoning out, everything just felt so slow.

you can hear the sounds of the fire, the noise of the wood crackling, you can smell the pumpkin scented candles burning from across the room, but yet you don't feel anything at all.

you notice the small blue flames, comparing it to the tall orange flames, you notice the small details of the fire place. was that painting always there? is that stack of books new? what time is it? is tomorrow monday or wednesday?

"hey, you okay there, love?" fred asks, snapping you back to reality.

you jump slightly, nodding. "mhm."

"are you sure? you seem like you have a lot in your mind." he added, "you can tell me, whatever it is. i would listen to your pretty voice anyday." he stated, smirking.

you smiled at his effort at flirting, he's good at it though, you admit. but that smile quickly faded away as you remembered what you had to face tomorrow.

you hesitated, "well, there is something that i am dreading tomorrow." but you gave in, it was fred after all. "theres this herbology thing. i have to presentate something that i've been working on for the past weeks," he listened to every word you were saying.

"i think it's pretty okay, but i'm not sure about presentating it, you know? what if i drop the pot by accident, or mess up my words? i don't want to mess up my words again, fred." you sigh.

"i don't think you will." he shook his head — "but i might. i tried practicing it but it just felt so awkward. my voice is always too quiet, my body language is off, and i always start getting nervous when i'm half-way speaking." you ramble.

"i just don't wanna mess up my speaking again, fred. i really want a good score for my speaking. professor sprout told me to speak up more during lessons but i just-" you hands cover your face, giving up on whatever you were about to say.

fred's hand reaches your back, patting it. "you're not gonna mess up, darling. i can guarantee you, you're gonna do amazing." he gives you a reassuring smile. "and if you're not sure about it, i'll help you, think of me as the audience, i'm cheering in the back going 'wooo!! go y/n!'" he laughs.

you smile, "thanks, freddie."

"and if you don't spot me, that means i'm one of sprout's plants dancing in the background." he added. "good to know." you laugh.

#🪐 blair's 400 celebration.#fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley fic #fred weasley blurb #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x y/n #harry potter #golden trio era #harry potter imagine #harry potter fluff #weasley twins

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blitheringbongus · 5 months

Text

Take it slow

Scar and Mumbo were supposed to meet up for a tour of Scar land. Scar falls asleep in Mumbos living room, conversation ensues.

(Second fic wooo!! Threw in my own headcanons about Hermitcraft and how the world works, as well as backstories for Mumbo and Scar. I’m a maladaptive daydreamer so I’ve been daydreaming about these guy’s backstories for years and years. Scars backstory used to be different but then Hotguy happened and I became obsessed, anyways have fun reading!)

Mumbos base always look different in each season, but one thing stays the same. The yellow kitchen and brown red-ish living room.

Scar‘s never asked about it, but now, being sat in the old rocking chair, watching the grandfather clock tick on, he can’t help but wonder.

It’s not even that there are variations of these two rooms, as in, they change even just slightly over the seasons. He hasn’t payed a whole bunch attention to it until now, but from what he’s seen and from what he remembers visiting Mumbos base and witnessing these specific rooms in the past, they’re exactly the same! Like a carbon copy!

His eyelids fluttered, oh he was getting real sleepy.

He was supposed to be waiting for Mumbo to meet him, so that Scar could show him around Scarland! He’s only been in the room for probably less than five minutes, granted, but it was feeling like an eternity! Not that Mumbos late or anything.

His limbs started to feel heavy, as did his eyelids. Maybe he could simply rest them? The grandfather clock ticked on, and the cozy chair slowly but surely rocked him to sleep.

The builder dreamt of lands far gone. A city long lost. A life, long lived. He dreamt of his steady bow, and zooming across the city, hopping from building to building. Feeling the fresh wind breeze in his hair, feeling the adrenaline in his body as he fought off villains and creeps, Scar was happy. Then, a faint glow, in the sky, and- Scar? Scar?

„Scar?“ a cold hand shook the mans shoulder gently. He slowly opened his eyes. „Huh?“ the once mayor rubbed his eyes, seemingly confused. „What are you doing here? I thought we’d meet up at Scarland?“

Scar breathed, and took in his surroundings. Unlit fireplace, old furniture, big grandfather clock, stuffy bookshelves stacked with literature.

„Right-„ Scar sat up, did he really fall asleep? He looked up at Mumbo. „How long was I out?“ Mumbo wiggled his mustache, „I’m not sure? I was about to go to Scarland when I found you here, so- depends on how long you’ve been here, I suppose?“ „right,“ Scar lifted his arms, taking a longgggg stretch.

„Geez Mumbo, how do you do anything in this room? It made me fall asleep in- minutes! Probably!“ The redstoner giggled. „You get used to the atmosphere after a while,“

Mumbo sat down on the old sofa beside the chair. „So, off to Scarland?“

Scar groaned, leaning back in the chair. „Let me wake up first,“ he snickered, loving the mans interest in Scarland. Of course he’d be interested in Scarland, it’s amazing! He’s toured so many hermits around already, and yet, Mumbo finding the place interesting felt all the more special to him. He couldn’t place why.

Mumbo nodded, folding his cold dead hands in his lap.

Scar looked around, his gaze catching onto a coat hanger with a fancy looking top hat on it.

„Say, Mumbo,“ Scar began, and the taller man looked at him. „How come you always have these rooms in your base? The kitchen and living room, I mean.“

The expression Mumbos face shifted into was one Scar couldn’t read, but it resembled suprise? Something else was there.

„Oh- why do you ask?“ He crossed his legs, leaning his elbows on one knee, his hands still folded, now resting under his chin.

„Pure curiosity, I suppose,“ Scar laughed nervously. He already regretted asking.

Mumbo puckered his lips, looking around the room himself. Looking at the ugly wallpaper, looking at the small box above the fireplace, holding precious memories.

„Sentiment,“ Mumbo began, „Just- something I’d like to keep from before Hermitcraft.“

The air smelled old, the dust in the air comforting.

„Oh- I’m sorry for asking Mumbo, really-„ Mumbo cut him off, „It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s not taboo to talk about, I’m not sure why most hermits treat it as such.“

The builder looked at the redstoner, and he supposed, he was right.

When he died, when he separated from his old life as a hero, when he joined Hermitcraft, he felt that strong urge to keep his past hidden. To not let anyone know. Which felt strange, he’s usually an open book! Did the other Hermits feel the same? What were their life’s like before?

Scar looked around the antique room. What was Mumbos life like?

Scar took his chances, „What was.. what was it like? If you don’t mind me asking,“ the redstoner smiled. „Another day, Scar“

Scar bit his lip, he drove too far once again- he was supposed to feel bad, but with the way Mumbo was smiling at him, how comfortable he looked, how comfortable he himself felt, it conveyed the message, that it was all fine. That Scar wasn’t a jerk for asking. That Mumbo just wasn’t in the mood. That they’ll discuss it another day.

The builder smiled. „Awake enough yet?“ Mumbo asked, slowly getting up from his spot on the sofa.

Scar blinked, „not quite.“

Mumbo breathed, content. „Mh, would some music wake you up then?“ Music? Scar wondered, „maybe,“ he grinned at the taller.

Mumbos smile grew in a way where you could only see it in his eyes. Joy pinching at the corners of them, lifting themselves ever so slightly, crinkling so beautifully in a way that made Scar want to cry, Mumbo was so beautiful.

What did he just think?

The redstoner walked over to an old radio, leaning down to twist the buttons. „Does that thing still work?“ Scar asked, leaning up in the chair, ignoring his silly thoughts. „Very much so! The audio is a bit crunchy, but it still broadcasts the songs as if it was actually connected to a station!“

Scar watched the mans hands. „Is it connected to a station?“ „Not quite, I don’t think. It’s more so frozen in time, it just plays the songs and broadcasts from- well from the day I departed from it.“ Scars nose scrunched up, he felt bad for the man. The builder lifted himself up from the comfy chair with his arms, slowly approaching the taller. „What kind of songs does it have?“

Mumbo grinned as the radio sprung to life, playing a- as promised,- crunchy tune. „The best,“ you could start to hear a man singing, vocalists in the background. Something about love and New York City. „Have you ever been to New York?“ Scar asked, and the Redstoner turned to face him. „Not quite, no. Have you?“ „I lived there,“ the music was nice. „Oh! What was it like? Is it really the city where dreams come true?“ Scar snickered. „Not really. If you want your dreams to come true you don’t need to visit a city for it,“ „Well that depends on the dream then, doesn’t it?“ „I suppose,“

Mumbo was quiet for a second, watching the radio. A hint of blush dusted the mans cheeks, Scar raveled in the sight. „Would a dance wake you up?“ Mumbo almost whispered, though it came out more like a mutter.

Oh he was adorable. Scar took the mans hand gently. „What dance are we thinking?“

Short moments later, Scars hand was on Mumbos waist and he was holding his hand at shoulder level. Mumbo also held his hand, and the other one of his hands was holding the builders shoulder. They moved slowly to the soft tunes of the radio, the crackling became comforting.

„You were talking about a new addition to Scarland?“ Mumbo said in a slightly higher voice than he’s used to, his blush having deepened, just slightly more than the previous dust of it. The brunette loved how dark it was, as if Mumbos blood is darker than his own. Was it? „Oh- yes! I finally finished Adventure Land! With the- volcano cloud smoke and and bambooo-„ he drawled slightly, still lost in the sauce watching Mumbos face, specifically the slow spread of the deep red.

„Oh really? When’d that happen? It was like- last week where you told me you’d finally started building it up?“ „oh I finished it like two days ago,“ Scar laughed quietly, his own face heating up. He doesn’t remember ever being this close to Mumbo, let alone touch him for more than a few seconds! Or moments, he doesn’t really know the difference. „It was fun, oh I can’t wait to show you. The park in general- have you seen the trolleys?“ Mumbo snickered, „Yes, I’ve seen the trolleys Scar,“ he smiled, and Scar stepped on the mans foot by accident. „Ouch-„ „Sorry!“ Mumbo didn’t mind.

The song slowly came to an end, and another started up. A more upbeat tune, but still fitting to slow dance to. The distance between the two Hermits became less. Mumbos hand was now holding the back of Scars shoulder.

„What do you think I’d especially like?“ The taller smiled, wanting to hear the mans thoughts. „Hmm,“ Scars thought for a while, holding the man close. „I think you’d like the castle the most, though I’m not sure,“ „The castle is impressive,“ „you think so?“ „I know so,“

They fell into a comfortable silence, just holding each other and moving slowly. Swaying, almost.

Scar laid his head on Mumbos chest, „you’re good at slow dancing,“ The builder has already stepped on the taller man’s feet multiple times, having apologized for each. The redstoner always laughed quietly in response. „I’ve had much practice,“ „oh?“ „I used to do it a lot with Benjamin“ „who?“ „an old friend, from back then.“ „oh- is he-?“ Mumbo shook his head, „it’s fine,“ he said.

The hours passed, and they talked about random things quietly, Mumbo resting his chin on the smallers head.

Eventually, the raven haired man remembered something. „Hey,“ „mh?“ „are you awake enough yet?“

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sunflower1experiment · 1 year

Text

Reader is deity of a sauna

Sun Wukong

“Now everyone, when we meet this being please refer to them in a neutral term. Their people see them in many many forms and I don’t think they take kindly to make breaking anymore rules- after I broke a couple with them.”

MK and Mei nod while Sandy claps excitedly, “We’re going to a Sauna!!! YES! The right place to relax and admire your growth when it comes to glow ups!” Sun nods lightly, “Exactly this deity is a being of growth, and relaxation. I don’t want them to worry to much.”

“So they’re a deity of the sauna?”

“No they’re a descendant of the being who cultivates in self growth. They created this hot tub and Sauna as a form of respect to their great grandparent, and many people who came in, came out happy, exhilarating and well: they changed.” Ping shifts his glasses, a cool glint pierces them before he grabs his book.

“This being is also known for their beauty, grace and tidiness! Sooo MK please don’t ruin anything treasure to them.”

“Will do!” MK smiles before falling onto the doorstep. “Starting now…hehe.”

The doors open, someone’s hand appears following with a robe and long hair. “Sun Wukong?”

“That-That’s them!? They’re so…” Pigsy’s eyes sparkle with pure adoration. “Beautiful.”

“|Name| meet my crew!” They bow respectfully, “You have my thanks for taking care of Sun Wukong, he’s a hero in my eyes: though he made a few bad choices he’s always welcomed to be rehabilitated.” The deity steps forward now behind MK. “Who’s the adorable child.” Scooping him up they admire him. “Such gorgeous eyes.”

“Yet very emotionally distressed.” Another step, and MK was being carried inside, suddenly a string of the robe grabs Mei and Pigsy. “Come along. Ah you must be Sandy, one of my workers know of you, let’s get going I wish for you to be comfortable.”

Sun Wukong blushes lightly as his tail slightly droops, ‘Hm no headpats from them. Odd..’ As they got their new customers situated they pull Sun aside and hug him. “You’ve been gone awhile and now you’re back?” He chuckles. “Not all the way back but I’m sure you missed me?”

“Of course I did, you bring new friends and come back all stressed, emotional and I can tell you’re close to relapsing: what happened.” Sun Wukong sighs, leaning into their arms. “I’m…not sure honestly..” their hand rubs his face. “Stay as long as you like dear, Monkie King you need to be careful with your choices.”

Macaque

“Macaque is here.” Sun Wukong winces as a booming voice leaves the sauna. “IS THAT SO!?”

Soon an angry deity walks out then charges at Macaque who was ready to be pummeled but instead their hands held his face as he was then smothered. “My poor sweetheart!! What happened, where were you? Was my caregiving not enough? Was I too smothering?” He sighs. “No no- I just wanted to get us home.”

“Dear no matter what, you’ll always be my home.” He hugs |Name| close, allowing them to peck his cheek multiple times before they hold Macaque’s hand and help him inside. “Let’s go. I have so much warmth and sleeping space for you.” MK sighs then yells loudly. “FINALLLYYYY!!!!!”

“FINALLY SOME REST!” He cries softly while the deity chuckles a bit. “Consider this your home too.” Macaque stares at them, with a gentle squeeze |Name| turns to him then the two share a warm smile.

Red son

“Red son?”

“Yes Red son- Please!!!!” The door opens, a couple of men and women peek out from the sauna. “My workers and I will do all we can to help him relax.”

“YES- thank you! You rule!! WOOO! Red son come on.” Red son grumbles, walking towards them while they step aside and guide them in. Mei giggles happily while walking with the duo of boys to the sauna. “Look at this place! It’s so gorgeous!”

“Well of course, this is the sauna of healing! Anyone that comes in, will leave feeling like a new person!”

Two women bow and show them their robes, “I’m not wearing that!? What if it exposes me!?” |Name|’s towering form leans down, “We can’t have that, come along. I’ll take you to my quarters.” He blushes with a sigh but follows them, they then show him their own hot tub. “Comfort is what I seek out. Now, relax.”

The demon prince stood there, as the deity got ready to leave he spoke. “Do you ever miss what we shared together?”

“Always…”

“Were we ever broken apart?”

“Never my king. You’ve always been my prince.” The blush he wore darkens. “So will you, beloved deity of healing…Grace me with your company?” They chuckle happily as they hold Red Son’s hand to nuzzle him. “Of course my king.”

Ne Zha

“This guy really needs a break!” Ne Zha glares at Sun Wukong while |Name| acknowledges their presence but still felt annoyance grace them. “Sun Wukong let Ne Zha, handle his own affairs and quit meddling with us.”

“But |Naaaaameeee|!!”

“AHT AHT! Quit! I’m a deity of healing, growth and rejuvenation!” Sun Wukong nods. “So?”

“Ne Zha would you like to be rejuvenated?” The male chuckles, “If it’s anything involving being with you my dear then I accept.”

“Thank you.” The deity turns, then focuses on their settings within the sauna once more. “….You still need to ask them for their companionship.”

“Sun Wukong. You know neither of us do what humans do.”

“Wait you’re already together!?” He looks between the two, “Yes, we just don’t reciprocate any romantic feelings. It’s more of we care for one another and are willing to express the companionship we share emotionally but in terms of romance it doesn’t matter to us.”

Sun Wukong hums. “You both are perfect for each other…”

“Thank you, |Name| and I agree.” |Name| sits with the two and they continue enjoying their teas while Macaque joins in soon after sitting beside Sun Wukong.

#monkie kid #lmk sun wukong #sun wukong x reader #lmk macaque x reader #macaque x reader #lmk red son x reader #ne zha #lmk nezha

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atinyniki · 2 months

Text

flaws and all; the series.

authors note: wooo my first series !!! i felt inspired by w2e’s album, ‘flaws and all’. i’ll be making a story for each ateez and txt member with the both discs of the album ! dates will be updated soon, but for now it’s kind of just whenever i feel motivated :)

thank you for all the recent support, i know i haven’t been positing all that recently. i’m still in a very bad place right now, but im certain ill be better soon !!! hopefully you guys can enjoy these hehe :)

thank you to my friends for all the support too! you guys mean the world to me 🥺💕: @skzoologist @kailee08 @writingforstraykids @silverstarburst @sona1800 @yangbbokari @minholing @cinnamostar @cheesemonky

disc 01:

01. bad ; park seonghwa <3

02. sunny days ; choi san <3

03. peach eyes ; choi beomgyu <3

04. evening glow ; song mingi <3

05. pink horizon + akira ; jung wooyoung <3

06. pink ; choi soobin <3

07. calla ; jeong yunho <3

08. love. ; kim hongjoong <3

disc 02:

01. homesick ; choi jongho <3

02. dried flower ; choi yeonjun <3

03. sunburn ; kang yeosang <3

04. pink horizon + akira ; jung wooyoung <3

05. nouvelle vague ; kang taehyun <3

06. so real ; huening kai <3

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sunlightmurdock · 2 years

Text

My Future in You | 0.5 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: Bradley’s twenty-two years old and not where he’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be out of the academy by now. Instead, he’s retaking his senior year of college and praying to god that he gets into flight school. Mav’s gone, his mom’s gone. He’s mad at the world. Then, a hook up at a Halloween party changes his future even more than he could have imagined.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, puke warning! Morning sickness,, angst, drama etc etc, enemies to lovers if you wanna call it that, early on pregnancy hormones, meet the Seresin’s, Bradley’s a dick but less so in this chapter than the previous ones wooo. Smut, no pinv but I’m tagging it nonetheless

…

It’s two in the morning and you’ve been throwing up since eleven.

Jake’s sitting on the floor beside the toilet, holding your hair, while Bradley’s sitting on the edge of the bath with his chin resting on his fist. Jake was more attentive three hours ago. Now he just has one hand loosely holding your hair into a ponytail, his head leaned back against the wall behind him.

“She’s gonna have to go to the hospital if she doesn’t stop puking soon.” Bradley points out. He checks his watch and confirms that it has, in fact, been three hours. He rests his fist against his temple just to stretch his neck a little. Jake looks across at him. He knows that Bradley’s right. Each sip of water they’ve given you has just made you puke more. You’ve got to be nearing dehydration at this point.

Bradley has a headache. After drinking half a bottle of champagne because your Mom kept filling your glass up each time she saw it empty, his buzz is wearing off and just leaving him tired and grumpier than usual.

“No hospital!” You insist, resting your elbows on the edges of the toilet seat, breathing hard. Bradley rolls his eyes.

Jake pats your back softly as you move back to sit on the floor. You grab the glass of water next to you and take a small sip. Your head is pounding. You thought you had gotten away Scot-free without any of this morning sickness crap.

“He’s right, you might need fluids or something,” Jake says gently, not wanting to upset you any further. “It might be good to let a doctor check you out, make sure everything’s fine?”

“I’m fine.” You insist, blinking hard. “Mom and Dad can’t know.”

Bradley scoffs, staring at you from his perch on the side of the tub, “What are you going to do? - Show up with a kid in nine months and hope they won’t be mad?”

“Seven months.” Jake corrects him.

Bradley swallows. That doesn’t seem that far away.

You turn to look at Bradley. You open your mouth to bite back at him - it was going to be a good comeback too - and then it hits you again. Bradley winces as you lurch forwards, leaning over the toilet and retching violently. He makes the same disgusted face he’s been making the entire time and looks away.

You were much hotter on Halloween.

Jake kicks Bradley’s shin. It’s all he can manage without moving.

“Can you two leave? - I don’t want you to see me looking so horrible.” You breathe out. Jake doesn’t care, he’s more concerned that you’re going to pass out and hit your head if you’re left to your own devices. Bradley moves to stand, stilling again as Jake glares at him. Bradley settles back down on the edge of the tub.

“You don’t look horrible, you - you have that pregnant glow.” Jake smiles. Bradley has to bite his cheek to keep from laughing. He doesn’t see any kind of glow. What he has seen was you emptying the entire contents of your stomach over the past three hours.

Bradley shakes his head softly as he straightens his stiff back out.

“Think your parents are gonna wonder why you’re so sick all of a sudden.” He points out.

You and Jake turn to look at him together. He shrugs his shoulders.

“Just saying.”

Jake looks at you. You look at him. Bradley’s right. Tomorrow, well, today - is Christmas Eve. Your mother will be expecting whole-hearted and enthusiastic participation in a whole range of festivities.

“Oh my god, baking.” You realise. Just the thought almost makes you gag, Jake flinches - extremely aware of the fact that your mouth is aimed at him currently. He knows what you’re talking about. Your mother always spends all of Christmas Eve morning baking. Anything and everything. All kinds of sweet goods to take to church in the afternoon.

It’s usually about five hours worth of butter, sugar and enough mixing to make even Jake’s arms hurt. The thought of inhaling nothing but cinnamon for five hours is enough to make you hurl again.

Jake looks across at Bradley.

“Bradley’s sick?” Ellen frowns. Jake stands before her and nods his head solemnly, it’s about six in the morning now. Jake’s running on fumes. You’re finally sleeping, so is Bradley. The three of you were up more than half of the night.

“Yeah, I thought I heard someone throwing up.” Lauren comments. Jake hopes that she shuts up and doesn’t mention anything about hearing three voices in that bathroom.

“Oh, I hope it wasn’t something he ate.” Ellen sighs regretfully.

Jake shakes his head quickly, “No, no. Everyone else’s fine, I think he probably picked up a bug while we were travelling.”

“Where’s your sister? She up yet?” George asks.

“She’s taking care of him.” Jake answers, laying the groundwork for where you’ll be for the rest of the day. George pulls a face, then turns away. Everyone knows that you’re George’s favourite. It’s no secret, because George makes no effort to hide it.

Lauren resents this fact. She has worked so hard to make her father proud in every sense of the word. Then there’s you. Effortlessly smart, two years ahead of where you should be - you’ve never had to work for his love a day in your life.

Ellen smiles softly, “She’s such a good girl. Make sure she’s bringing him plenty of water, alright?”

“Sure. Is it alright if I help out baking instead of her?”

Bradley tosses and turns in the travel cot until he’s woken up by retching. It felt like he was asleep for minutes. He checks his watch and it’s eleven. He got a good couple of hours. The bathroom is shared between your room and Jake’s. He presses his palm into his eye socket and rubs probably a little too hard as he stumbles to the bathroom.

You were smart enough to lock the door on your side, but he wanders right in from his side. You look up at him, kneeling in front of the toilet. He’s still half asleep. He’s wearing blue checkered pyjama pants too low on his hips and he doesn’t have a shirt on. He’s tanned and somehow his curls look even better smushed with sleep - you really hope that he’s flexing because if his abs look like that standing still then you might cry.

You’re hunched on the floor, wearing an old pyjama shirt and no pants. You had forgotten the door opened on his side. Jake always knocks. Bradley moves silently to sit down beside you. He leans his head back against the wall and folds hiss arms over his chest, then closes his eyes. Is he trying to go back to sleep?

“You don’t need to be in here.” You breathe out, flushing the toilet and leaning your temple against your fist.

“Promised Jake I’d get up if I heard you throwing up.” He says without opening his eyes. You whine gently, pushing away from the toilet and laying down on your back. Bradley opens one eye to check that you didn’t just pass out, then closes it again.

You rest a hand on your stomach and groan.

“You should eat something,” Bradley comments. You just groan again. You can’t think of anything you would like to do less than eat right now. More eating just means more puking. “I’ll text Jake. What do you want him to bring you?”

It’s as he opens his eyes to slip his phone out of his pocket that he notices you aren’t wearing pants. That’s not all he recognises. Those are the same red panties that he had stepped over on the floor of his room on November first. He smiles slightly, then turns his attention back to his phone.

“Oranges.” You mumble dejectedly.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of acidic? - How about-“

You open your eyes and turn your head towards him, narrowing your eyes. He stares at you. “Oranges.”

He nods his head, “Fine. Oranges. Don’t come crying to me when you’re throwing up again.”

“What do you usually eat for breakfast?” You ask.

“”Eggs. Cereal. I dunno, why?” He answers you. You rest a hand on your stomach over the t-shirt, eyes closed, still exhausted from the night before.

“I’m thinking that maybe your spawn is mad at me because I’m not feeding it what it wants.”

Bradley chuckles. He glances down, noticing that the shirt has ridden up slightly. It’s still weird to think that you’re carrying his kid. You don’t look different yet.

“You want eggs?” He asks.

“How do you like your eggs?” You mumble, draping an arm over your eyes. The bathroom light hurts. Everything hurts, you’re so exhausted.

“Scrambled egg whites. Little pepper.” He answers, already knowing that you aren’t going to like what he has to say. You immediately pull a face and prove him correct.

You groan and frown, “That made me hate you a little bit more.”

“Oranges it is, princess.” He says the last word mockingly. You push yourself to sit up and sigh softly, brushing your hair back off of your face.

“Can he bring them into my room? I’m gonna go back to sleep.” You decide. He can’t think of anything that sounds better, he’s exhausted too.

Jake receives the text downstairs and closes his eyes. He sighs softly, then walks over to the fruit bowl begrudgingly.

“Night. See you two in a couple of hours.” Bradley agrees, standing up and heading back out into Jake’s room. He swings the door shut casually behind him and you’re left standing there with one hand on your stomach. You two.

You don’t know why that makes you feel as fuzzy as it does. Considering it’s clearly the one running the show currently, you figure it’s because the baby likes that it’s finally being acknowledged. Not that you’re just lonely. You smile to yourself as you walk back into you room and crawl back into bed.

Jake brings you your oranges and about a gallon of ice water before you manage to fall asleep. The next time you wake up, it’s two. Bradley’s nudging your shoulder. You whine and shrug him off.

“You need to get dressed. Your parents want you to go to church.”

Your eyes shoot open as you turn to face him.

“I can’t!”

“I know that!” He answers back, tugging the duvet back off of you. You pull your shirt down to cover your ass and frown at him, scrambling to sit up. You give yourself a head rush. “Get dressed, tell them I’m too sick and that you can’t leave me. Five minutes. Just hold it together for five minutes.”

The shower is too hot and the steam makes you dizzy. You force yourself to apply make up that makes you look a little less sick. Your hand grips the handrail tight as you walk down the stairs. Your family is in the living room. Jake’s biting his cheek and praying to whoever will listen that you don’t pass out right now.

You do what Bradley said. You say exactly what he told you to say.

“Sweetie, we always all go to church on Christmas Eve together.” Ellen persists as she frowns slightly.

“Sorry, Mommy. I just really think that someone should stay back and make sure Bradley’s okay.” Every fibre of your being is working to hold it together right now. You do your best to not look sick.

“Shouldn’t Jacob stay with him?” George disputes.

Jake swallows. He looks between you and your father.

“Daddy, Jake couldn’t take care of himself if he was sick, let alone somebody else.” You answer.

“She’s right. He’s better off with her staying to help. Puke grosses me out.” Jake answers quickly. He can’t help but notice the way you’re clearly trying to hold it together. He shoots a glance towards your parents, who seem oblivious so far.

Your mother nods. She steps forward to kiss your cheek. You step back quickly.

“I think I can hear him puking. I’m gonna- I’ll- I’ll catch up with you guys later!”

You rush back upstairs.

Jake loosens his tie slightly. He smiles sheepishly at his other sisters.

Bradley glances towards the bathroom as he hears you slam the door on your side once more. He hears the lock on his side turn, meaning that he’s shut out. He walks over to the window and waits until the cars are out of the driveway and headed towards the road. Then he ventures down into the kitchen.

You feel like the worst of it is over, it’s just that now you feel weak.

“You okay in there?” Bradley knocks softly at the bathroom door once he returns. He scrunches his face up as he’s answered simply with more violent retching. He knocks again softly.

“I got you some water.” He says gently.

It takes a couple of minutes, but the door unlocks. He turns the handle and opens the door just enough for him to step inside. You’re sitting on the floor beside the toilet with your head in your hands.

“Here.” He closes the door behind him and moves towards you. You feel his arm brush yours as he sits at your side. You take the glass from him and look down at the ice in it, then sigh softly.

“How’re you feeling?” He asks tenderly. You could snap at him, and it would be so easy to. But you don’t. You lift the glass and press it to your forehead, sighing softly at the cool sensation soothing your headache.

“Amazing.” You joke tiredly.

“Google said crackers would help, but all your Mom had was trail mix.” Bradley explains. He sets the plastic jar between the two of you. You want to laugh, but you’re just too tired to do it. He glances around the bathroom. It’s nicer than the one he had growing up.

“Is it okay if I kick you out so that I can take a bath?” You feel icky. You’re ninety-percent sure there’s vomit in your hair.

“Sure. Can I get you anything?” He pushes himself to his feet quickly.

You shake your head and take a sip of the water, “Thanks. This was good.” This was good. He did good. Bradley softens slightly as he looks at you. He leans down gently, tenderly resting the back of his palm against your forehead.

“You’re really warm.” He says softly. You’ve been throwing up for two days straight, of course you’re a little sweaty. You open your mouth to bite back at him. “Why don’t I run it for you? — You sit by the window and get some fresh air.”

You close your mouth and blink at him.

Bradley extends a hand towards you. Literally an olive branch. You reach out and take it slowly, letting him help you to your feet. He grabs the trail mix jar from the floor and presses into into your open palm.

“You want bubbles?” He asks. Your eyes widen slightly. You know that Jake has clearly bullied him into being nice to you, but you wonder what Jake could have possibly threatened him with to make him be this nice to you.

“Please.” You nod. He nods to show that he understands, then turns his back to you, turning his focus to the bathtub. You walk away from him, still reeling. You wonder if Jake threatened him into being nice to you.

Either way, you aren’t complaining much. You do as he says, sitting by the window and resting your head against the cold glass. You pick at the trail mix. It does help a little.

Rooster doesn’t take long. You listen to him pottering around in the bathroom for a little before he steps back out into your room.

“All ready.”

Your knees wobble as you stand up. Turns out, puking for almost two days straight really takes it out of you.

Bradley crosses the room, “You okay? — I can come in with you. I don’t want you to hit your head and die or something.”

That’s nice. He doesn’t want you to die. That’s reassuring to hear. Up until this exact moment, you would have guessed that he felt the exact opposite. Still, you shake your head at him.

“I don’t want you to see me naked.” You frown. Bradley shrugs his shoulders,

“I already—“

“I don’t want you to see me naked anymore!” You correct yourself. Bradley smiles at you softly. He nods his head.

“Fine. Do me a favour, though and don’t knock yourself out getting in the tub.”

You walk over to the bathroom and close the door. Considering the fact that you slipping is a possibility, you leave the door unlocked — just so he doesn’t have to break it down.

Bradley turns. He looks around your room. He walks over to your trophies, examining them. Not one of them isn’t for first place. Apparently all Seresin’s are freakishly competitive. He hopes his kid isn’t.

He looks down and there’s a picture of you, framed. If he had to guess, he’d say you’re about five years old in the picture. He lifts the frame to get a better look. You’re in a jersey, holding a soccer ball above your head, grinning.

Bradley stares at the pigtailed girl in the picture for a moment. He can’t help but think about seeing this face. Six years from now. Maybe everything works out and he’s a pilot by then. Maybe you end up having a girl and she looks just like you. Maybe he sees this face down the street.

He sets the picture down.

Does he really want to spend the rest of his life looking at every little girl who looks something like that and wondering if she’s his? — What if she comes out looking like him?

You’re doing this either way. With him or without him. Either he gets to see his kid grow up, or he gets to spend the rest of his life wondering.

He crosses the room and knocks at the door. You flinch and sink up to your neck in the water, staring at the door.

“Can I talk to you?” Bradley calls through the door.

“Can’t it wait?” You stretch your legs out, letting the warm water soak into your trembling muscles. You feel much better already.

“No, I think I need to say this now,” Bradley breathes out. “Can I please come in? — I won’t look.”

“Wha- seriously?” You frown.

“Please?”

“Fine. Don’t you dare look!”

Bradley opens the door and steps in, closing it behind him, locking it. Just in case. He has it in his head what he’s going to say.

You’re plenty covered up by the bubbles. Your hair is wet, you look significantly less grey. It’s incredible how much better washing your hair and brushing your teeth made you feel. You sip softly at the glass of water, then set it back down on the edge of the bath. You sink a little lower.

Bradley’s eyes flicker down to your exposed shoulders, then back up to your face. You narrow your eyes at him.

He pretends that you didn’t just catch him and moves on with his point.

“I… I was thinking, about the, uh —“ Bradley shakes his head as he steps forward and sits at the edge of the bathtub. You instinctively cover yourself under the water, red-faced as you stare up at him. He glances down at the embarrassment on your face.

“The baby.” He says softly.

It’s the first time he has brought himself to say it. It’s a big deal.

You nod uncertainly at him. If he chooses this moment to say something unnecessarily hurtful again, you might actually drown him.

Bradley closes his eyes, willing himself not to panic. Just stick to the plan, say what he needed to say.

“I’m sorry.” Bradley says gently. You turn towards him. The look on your face clearly asks for what? Bradley presses his tongue to his cheek. He panics. He can’t say it. He smiles sheepishly. “That my kid’s got you feeling so shitty.”

You can’t help but laugh at him. There it is. That glow Jake was rambling about. Now that you’re flushed with colour, smiling, laughter slipping your lips, he sees it. He smiles too.

“My kid,” You correct him, placing a hand on your stomach even though it has yet to develop and he can’t see it. You brush your thumb softly over what’s to come. “You wanted out, remember?”

“I did. I do,” He corrects, watching disappointment flash across your features. He swallows. That isn’t what he meant to say. “Still, doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad seeing you suffer through all this for a kid that’s half me.”

“Yeah. I bet it’s your half causing all the trouble.” You grumble.

“Me? — Have you met your family?” He teases. You smile. They are a lot to deal with. Bradley reaches out and brushes a strand of hair back off of your forehead. “You’re just lucky you’ve got my normal in there balancing it all out.”

You bite your cheek. He thinks he has won. You cup your hand and thrash it in the water, flicking warm soapy water up into his face. Bradley’s lips part, he turns more towards you quickly. Accidentally knocking the cup of ice water into the bath.

You gasp sharply, twisting away from the freezing pool of water that just hit your side. Bradley slaps a hand over his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” He’s doing his best not to laugh right now. He raises hands up defensively as you glare at him, “It was an accident!”

He still can’t see your hands under the water. Your fingers curl around the glass, swishing it through the water until you’re sure it’s full. Bradley’s brows furrow. He wonders why you aren’t saying anything.

You lift the glass and dump its warm contents onto the front of Bradley’s shorts. It spills down his leg and onto the tile.

He purses his lips as he watches the water soak through the material, then turns his head to look at you. You smile sweetly.

“Oops.”

Bradley twists his torso, reaching into the water and grabbing your ankle. He tugs you forwards until your head slips under the water. You trash and sit up quickly, gasping. One hand covers your chest the best it can as the other wipes soapy water from your eyes. He laughs. Head back, grabbing his stomach kind of laughter.

You blink as you open your eyes, wiping the soap from them, finding him grinning at you. You glare. Bradley’s lips part in surprise as you grab a fistful of his shirt. He swings his arms out for balance as you tug hard. He catches the wall but still slips. You pull your knees up to your chest as he hits the water unceremoniously, his head knocking on the wall behind him.

“Ow.” Bradley complains, reaching back and rubbing softly at the back of his head. You won. It’s once the compulsive need to win has faded that you realise he’s clothed, half in the bath, and you’re naked.

You don’t have much room to sink under the water. You cover your chest with your hands.

“What? — You try to give me a concussion and I don’t even get to see your boobs? Doesn’t seem fair.” He jokes, rubbing at the back of his head. He struggles to sit up.

“You got me pregnant and I didn’t even get to cum. Doesn’t seem fair.” You answer back. His head spins towards you, brows furrowing seriously. That struck a nerve.

“That’s not true, you came.” He insists. You did, but that isn’t the point. It’s fun to watch him defend himself. You shrug your shoulders at him. “You’re saying I’m not good?”

You shrug casually again, “You were alright.”

“Alright?” He frowns. “You’re kidding, right?”

You scoff, shaking your head at his arrogance. He shifts up onto his knees. You press your legs together, your face straightening as it becomes more serious.

Bradley leans forwards, his hand grabbing the back of your knee as his mouth presses hard against yours. He straightens your leg to make room for himself between them. You grab the back of his neck, gasping softly.

Maybe it’s the eight weeks without physical contact, but your hands shove the wet fabric of his shirt up until he takes the hint and tugs it over his head. It drops to the wet tile beside the bath and his bare chest presses to yours.

His hands grab at your sides, lifting your hips so that he can press himself flush against your core. He pressed one hand to the tile behind your head to steady himself, slipping tongue into your mouth.

Your fingers push up against the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck, missing something to grab at. You pull him harder against you. Your free hand trails along each line of his abs, nails raking over the wet skin.

You push at the waistband of his shorts. He presses harder into you, shaking his head. His fingers graze your navel, skimming down past your hip and over your thighs.

His mouth lowers to nip at your neck. You lift your hips and push them eagerly against him. His fingers move towards the apex of your thighs, he nudges the tip of his middle finger between your folds and bites softly at your jugular, sucking a soft kiss over the tender skin.

He presses a digit into you, pressing his thumb to your clit. He applies light pressure, circling his thumb slowly. You close your eyes, craning your head back to expose more of your neck to him. He tucks an arm under your back, lifting you until you’re pressed flush against him. You press your mouth eagerly against his as he curls his finger into you.

Bradley listens to the sharp intake of air as he works just one finger into you, stroking at your clit with his thumb, and knows that you were lying about not finishing before. He doesn’t mind. He’s happy to show you a second time.

“Good?” He checks softly, pulling back, checking on you sincerely. You furrow your brows and lift your chin. Bradley just observes. Skin flushed with colour, warm from the heat of the room. You look at him through your lashes. He hums, slipping a second digit in alongside the first. Your lips part slightly. One hand curls around the edge of the tub for leverage as you lift your hips for him.

You don’t answer him, so Bradley instead focuses on the other signs that your body gives him. The shudder of your breath, the buck of your hips as they rock eagerly onto his fingers, the speed of your pulse under his fingertips.

Instead, you grab desperately at the back of his neck. You hook one leg around his waist, parting the other to give him easier access. Bradley groans as you nip as his bottom lip, deepening the kiss as you suck gently at the tip of his tongue, then slide your tongue against his. His fingers crook inside of you. Your nails press into the back of his neck.

He pumps the two digits into you, thumb working circles against your clit. He presses more firmly against the bundle of nerves as he feels you try to grind against the motion. The heat of your bodies, the sound of your soft moans against his mouth, the feeling of your nails on his skin. You pull away from his mouth and throw your head back, chest heaving as you mewl under him.

Bradley wastes no time in nipping at the base of your throat. His foreign touch sends electricity through your skin, sending each nerve in your body into overdrive as you whimper for him. The clench of your walls around his fingers, the way your thighs tremble as you struggle to keep them parted for him. It’s embarrassing how you’re falling apart at his fingertips, your head thrown back as his kisses leave you breathless and dizzy.

Your head feels like its spinning.

“Fuck,” Bradley utters out, nipping softly at your earlobe. “You’re such a good actress, this is really convincing.” He teases you, knowing that you were lying about the last time. You wish you had the energy to shoot back at him.

The pit forming in your stomach has your full focus. You’re so, so, so close. You gasp out breathlessly, knuckles whitening around the edge of the tub. Bradley doesn’t stop, thrusting his fingers into you until you’re trembling. You whimper softly as you push yourself up and kiss him hard. He grabs your hips tight with both hands and pulls you into his lap as he kneels.

You grab his jaw and turn his head, giving yourself better access to his neck. Bradley’s surprised by the action, but not complaining. He groans as you kiss feverishly along his throat, trailing your tongue along the vein in his neck before covering the wet line in warm, open-mouthed kisses. He hugs you against his chest, sliding a hand up into your hair, curling it into your roots.

You rock yourself down against the bulge in his soaked gym shorts.

Bradley tugs softly at your hair, pulling you back so that he can kiss your mouth. You faintly hear a car door slam. All of the years of being a sneaky teenager have prepared you for this moment - it’s like a sixth sense at this point - you pull back quickly.

“W-Wait — I think my parents just got home.” You breath out, his lips drag along your collarbone. He kisses your skin feverishly, unphased.

“It’s fine, the door’s locked.” He promises. He tugs softly at your hips, wrapping an arm around you to keep you close against his chest, nosing softly at your earlobe as his mouth works across your throat. He pushes his hips up against your bare core.

You arch your back, pressing your chest tight against his. He’s really good at that. You remind yourself why you’ve never brought a guy home yet. You remind yourself of what happened when your mother found out Beth let her boyfriend go to second base after their senior prom. This would be catastrophic for them to find out about. You push at his shoulders.

“My dad has guns.” You remind him, screwing your eyes shut as he grinds the bulge in his shorts against your bare core. Bradley pulls back to look at you. He lets out a breath and furrows his brows.

“Like… plural?” He breathes. You nod hurriedly at him.

“Fuck.” He looks down between your bodies and leans his head back with a soft groan. There’s a couple of seconds where he really considers risking it. He leans forwards, kissing your mouth once more before he stands. You hear your name being called downstairs.

“You’re supposed to be in bed. You’re sick.” You remind him, watching as he steps out of the bath, his shorts soaking and dripping with water.

“Shit.” He sighs.

“Bradshaw? — You alive?” That’s Jake. Your eyes widen. You grab his shirt from the floor and throw it at his chest. Jake’s at the bottom of the stairs.

Bradley almost slips on the wet tile as he rushes out, swinging the door shut behind him. He darts down the hall, grateful that Jake’s room isn’t far from yours so that he doesn’t have to cross the landing. He swings Jake’s door shut behind him and presses a hand over his mouth.

That didn’t go to plan. That wasn’t the way he had planned to ask to come to the next appointment. Shit. He walks over to his stuff to find dry clothes, eyes going wide as the door opens behind him.

Jake shuts the door after he steps inside. His brows furrow.

“Why are you wet?” Jake asks slowly, stopping to look his teammate up and down.

“Uh…” Bradley’s at a loss for words. He shakes his head. “Your sister pushed me in the bathtub.”

It isn’t a lie.

“Why were you in her bathroom?”

“I was trying to be nice, I ran her a bath!” Bradley defends his actions.

Jake raises an eyebrow at him. “Well, get dressed. My mom made you soup earlier. She’s gonna bring you some. Make sure you look sick, I’m gonna check on—“

“No, don’t, she’s in the—“ Bathtub. Bradley stops himself. Jake turns back towards Bradley. He looks his soaking wet friend up and down. Jake blinks, then focuses his attention on Bradley’s guilty-looking face.

Bradley swallows.

“What is the matter with you?” Jake whispers angrily. “In her childhood bedroom? On Christmas Eve?”

Bradley doesn’t understand why that’s relevant but he puts his hands up defensively anyway.

“I didn’t — we didn’t — we just…” Bradley pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “We just kissed. It was nothing.” Now, that’s a lie. But it’s a white lie to spare Jake from hearing more than he needs to.

“Stay away from my sister.” Jake warns him. You’re confused enough already. You don’t need Bradley messing with your head any more than he already has.

“We’re having a kid together. I mean, don’t you think—“

“No.” Jake points a finger at Bradley accusingly. “Don’t you dare change your mind unless you’re going to change it for good. I swear to god, if you hurt her —“

“I just—“

“I mean it.” Jake interrupts.

“Boys?” Ellen calls out. Jake glares at Bradley.

“One sec, Mom! I’m getting changed.” Jake calls back to her. Bradley hurries into dry clothes, pulling the hood of his hoodie up to cover his wet hair. He shoves the soaking clothes into the hamper whilst Jake rushes out of his church clothes and into sweats.

Bradley drops down into the bed and pulls the covers up. Jake rolls his eyes as he opens the door to his mother.

“How are you feeling, honey?” Ellen asks softly as she steps into the room holding a tray in her hands.

“Better.” Bradley answers softly. Jake rolls eyes. Of course he’s feeling better.

“You’re all red. Do you still have a fever?”

No fever. Just embarrassment, guilt. Bradley shakes his head softly. Jake watches the way that Bradley struggles to make eye contact with his mother.

Jake shakes his head as he leaves the room. He’s getting real sick of all of these secrets already. He crosses the hall and bangs twice on your door.

…

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