#floss got hot

[randombush3]

Floss Got Hot V

[series masterlist]

summary: A lot of mistakes are talked about, but all goes well in the end.

word count: 6971

warnings: brief talk of murder but nothing too gory/detailed

notes: I think this could have gone very differently but I’ve worked out the future for this series so it’s going this way instead. It took me ages because I was busy, sorry.

Oh, and the Dune slander is warranted. Shut up.

Venice Film Festival has its ups and downs, but comparatively, nothing is worse than waking up in a hotel room with a hangover the size of a blue whale and a hyperactive little sister. Flo had been very incorrect in the assumption that her now-grown-up baby sister would not still crash in her room after she’s had too much to drink on holiday. It seems that some things never change.

Raffie’s prodding index jabs her one last time before rousing any noise, and when it does, it is muffled by hair and pillows and white bedsheets. “Why are you so awake?” grumbles Flo, pushing the head away from her. “‘S too early. Go back to bed.”

Quirking an eyebrow up at the misjudgement of the time of day, Raffie quickly huffs, “Mum and Dad said to meet them at breakfast,” dragging her sister out of bed because she is taller and stronger and all-round better (this is debatable, Flo thinks). “Get your arse ready. I have a lot of questions for you.”

“I thought I answered every single thing you asked about the film, Mole, what more could you want from me?” Flo sighs dramatically as she stands up, tightening the elastic of your jog pants around her waist. The soft fabric reminds her of you. Only your clothes seem to feel comforting, a sheet of unexpected armour that automatically lessens the pounding headache.

“You’re so sneaky with your love life,” is all her sister says, promptly leaving the hotel room along with a confused actress struggling on one leg to find a second sock.

When she joins the youngest Pugh in the hallway, she is met with an equally inquisitive expression from her brother, forgoing any pleasantries about having a good morning. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asks, pride clearly hurt by whatever the fuck is going on. She doesn’t miss the concern in his eyes.

They step into the lift and Raffie won’t stop looking at her phone, giving Flo no other option than to stare at herself in the mirror — she will not be having any kind of conversation with interrogation-Toby when she already feels awful. (She does look great though.)

The restaurant is almost empty seeing as it’s nearly over, tables mainly empty and used rather than occupied with chattering people, but the now-complete set of Pughs share what’s left of the buffet between them before making conversation.

Stomach satisfied, Raffie finally spills what’s been on her mind, “How come you didn’t tell us you and Y/n broke up?” It’s supposed to be sort of quiet, considering Flo is beside her, but something sets her volume on kilter and she ends up catching everybody’s attention. With a ‘hngph’, Flo chokes on her orange juice. Her sister shrugs, taking it as a question. “She didn’t come to Venice, she was on a date with someone else… Uh, it’s everywhere, Floss?”

“You broke up?” Granny Pat is heartbroken. And confused. Almost as confused as Flo is. “You only just got together!”

“No,” states Flo, flatly. “we didn’t break up. What the fuck, Raff?”

“She kissed another girl,” Toby cuts in, voice smooth and factual, as though he’d known. Did he think you wouldn’t last? Had he always thought this? “She doesn’t cheat.”

“That is fucking news to me.”

Toby continues, “Do you remember Irén? The one whose parents own an oil company.” The Pughs do. Pretty and rich, picked you up from family brunch once. You’d spent the whole time gushing over how brilliant your new girlfriend was. “Yeah, Irén lives in Budapest. I thought you guys were living together, but clearly you’re not.”

“Is this a joke?” It has to be a joke. “You guys are just… No?” Raffie clocks the emotion in her sister’s voice, and realises very suddenly that Flo might not have known about this breakup. She passes her phone down the table, but Flo only watches a second of the video before slamming the device down and storming off. Well, running off. She’s more hurt than angry.

“I’ll go,” Deb says, standing up. Raffie apologises excessively, not worrying whether or not her phone has been smashed by the force of Florence’s assault. It takes her boyfriend, Toby, and her dad to convince her that Flo won’t be upset with the messenger. After all, you’re not supposed to shoot them.

The words that first come to Flo’s mind are so vile and bitter that she can only hope she never encounters a mind reader who finds out what they are. Deb then catches up to her, placing a steady hand on her shoulder to halt her daughter’s march to anywhere that isn’t so suffocating. Flo feels suffocated, but allows her mother to pull her into an empty corridor. Deb wipes her tears, the motions ingrained into her muscles over decades. She will always be there for her children.

“I waited so long for her,” Flo’s voice comes out cracked through a sob, “and she’s not really even mine, clearly. I just…”

“I don’t think Y/n is breaking up with you, and I’ve taught her better than to do it like that,” Deb comforts, articulating the words perfectly because she believes them. She places a soothing hand on her daughter’s back. “Your flight’s today. These conversations are best had in person, and you don’t know whether she wanted to be kissed.”

Her voice sharpens, straining against the lump in her throat. “Oh, they looked pretty fucking cosy!”

“It’s Irén, Flossie.” Deb knows all of your friends, she could make a list from memory. “Next to Toby, Irén is her best friend.” Deb frowns briefly, and then corrects herself, “was.” Through school to when you broke up.

Flo knows exactly who she is because Irén was Public Enemy #1 to 18-year-old Florence Pugh. She had finally become an adult and you were in a relationship? It wasn’t fair. She hates Irén. “Mum, are you seriously on her side? I get that she’s like your daughter or whatever… She fucking cheated on me!”

“I’m saying you should let her explain.”

“Well, it’s not like she’s tried.” Did she wake up to thousands of apology text messages with you grovelling and begging her for forgiveness? Nope, with a popped ‘p’. You didn’t even send her a text to say you’re leaving her for some ex-girlfriend who’s richer and prettier and more your type! She should have listened to the warning about people like you, people who don’t seem to live in the same world as everyone else. People who have everything. People who don’t need anything else.

Flo checks her phone to verify her point, albeit wistfully hoping someone’s tagged her in the biggest internet joke of all time. You’re not in a different timezone, so to her the only explanation is that you are asleep in someone else’s bed, tired out from an evening of infidelity or a rebound. Flo feels nauseous at the thought.

But then, as if some beacon of hope, her phone pings and the lock screen is obstructed with a single notification.

You: Can you come home?

She finds that evil of you to say. Evil, because now is not the time to be reminded of how safe you make her feel or how she could have two babies and a house somewhere exotic with you in the future. Home is you, you are home, and your (ex?)girlfriend is seething.

“See,” Deb says, vindictive until she remembers the situation. “She wants to explain everything in person. Are you packed up?”

Flo frowns, but it slowly becomes a scowl as the thought of you with Irén takes over. “No, Mama, I don’t—”

“Let her explain. Give her that.”

- - -

When Irén’s comment sets in, you realise what has just happened. That she had kissed you, that you had kissed her back.

“I think,” she whispers, “you didn’t like that.” Her hand reaches for your shoulder, trying to reconnect the distance you have immediately shoved between the two of you, but she pulls back, mirroring how you recoil from her. She studies your expression hopefully, but finds nothing positive to smile about.

“I’m in love with her.”

“I know.”

You meet her eyes, puzzled. “You kissed me in front of all these people.” Irén doesn’t say anything, but crumples her face as if she’s about to cry. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re beautiful.” You shake your head. That cannot be her answer. She doesn’t know what else to say. You were there, you looked good, something told her you could be hers again.

“You don’t get to call me beautiful.”

“Why? Millions of other people say it or, rather, comment on it on social media. I mean, I’ve seen edits of you, Y/n.” You choose to ignore both the fact that there are edits of you and that Irén has seen them.

“No, but you mean it,” you whisper, scared of the sentence you’re saying. Irén is nodding her head as if it will change how you feel. “I don’t want to have this conversation here.” You stand, collecting both of your things, and walk away, leaving her with nothing to do but follow.

Though the car ride to you and Flo’s (you cringe at the thought that it’s hers, really) Airbnb is silent, you’re bursting to speak once you get inside. You’re not angry for the best part of your monologue, and she doesn’t disagree with any of your statements. In fact, she responds that you are intelligent and deserving of things you wouldn’t let yourself believe you are, and that she loves you and would do anything for you and… The list goes on.

“It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s that I don’t want to,” tumbles out of your mouth, and the woman in front of you breaks in half. You step closer to her, scared she’ll fall, and place a hand on her back. “You deserve better than that.”

“You don’t get to decide what I deserve,” she hisses, shaking you off. Irén regains her stature and almost squares up to you. “You are what I want. You are what I think about every waking moment of a life I only lead because I made a mistake!”

“A mistake needed to be made. I don’t want to fix it.” All these years later, you say you don’t want to fix it. As if you hadn’t spent nights dreaming of what could have been, just like she has.

“But you agreed to–”

“No, I think I’ve found the woman I want to grow old with.” Irén, again, breaks in half. Maybe quarters this time. “And it isn’t you.”

With that, she is in no fit state to leave, so you offer her a cup of tea and sit beside her on the sofa. Rubbing salt in the wound, she calls it, but you insist because it’s late and chilly and she can’t be pictured leaving here with black pools of mascara underneath red eyes. “I don’t want to be pitied,” she mutters, taking your peace offering between her hands and sipping it all the same. “I’ve loved you since the day I met you, and you don’t want to feel the same.” Irén recites her outline as if trying to commit facts to memory. That’s what they are: facts. Yes, you love her. No, you don’t love her enough. No, she is not enough for you. No, she will never be enough for you.

“Will you tell her?” At your confusion, she makes her question clearer, “will you tell your girlfriend?”

“Yes.” There will be videos or pictures or both. You had noticed a few camera flashes in the opera house. Irén’s family is hardly out of the media these days, considering how controversial openly killing the environment is. She’ll find out somehow. “I do love you, Irén. I’d let you stay over, but Flo will be back tomorrow and I think we can agree that she’d definitely not want you here.” Irén is tempted to bring up Zach, but withholds her comment.

“I wish I never made you choose,” she whispers, “I wish I never said anything. I… It’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” Her lips catch your gaze and your lips suddenly press against hers.

Billie goes mad.

Irén grunts in surprise and then you’re no longer on top of her and are collecting her things and pushing her out. She splutters a response because you kissed her, not the other way around, so why are you pretending you’ve been assaulted and can never see her again?

Why are you with Toby’s little sister?

Once the door slams shut, you stumble backwards until a heavy body halts your movement. Billie had been waiting for Irén to leave, quietly sitting on her bed beside the TV, patiently hiding her time before she could cuddle with you like she’s been doing since she got here. Dogs don’t go nuts like that, especially not Flo’s (yours?). She barks at you a couple more times, gruff telling-offs, and then nudges you with her snout to get you into your bedroom.

It smells of Flo and you feel trodden on. You crumple on the bed, Billie settling next to you, and use your phone to distract yourself from the series of oh-so-bad decisions you’ve made tonight.

Toby’s texted, but your reply doesn’t feel right.

You find yourself calling your mother. She picks up because you’d never dare unless you were dying, and is disappointed to find that she actually has to be a mother for once.

“Why are you in such a state?” she asks nonchalantly. “I can’t really talk at the mo, my darling. Eddie has brought out a marvellous wine, and Sophie is beating me at poker.” You can hear the embers of a dinner party in the background, but also the soft sound of tyres on gravel. “Oh, it’s nothing, Sophie. Y/n is calling from — where are you again, darling?”

“Budapest, Mummy.”

“She’s in Budapest! With that actress, the one she’s seeing. Oh, yes, lovely and progressive. Yes, the actress is the girl from Little Women.” You groan and your mother holds her conversation with the Countess of Wessex to reprimand you. “What is it, Y/n?! Can it not be saved for someone else?”

“No,” you reply flatly, despite being in the state she mentioned earlier. You’re a quick cryer, you can’t help it. “Irén and I went to the opera tonight—”

“I thought you hadn’t spoken to that girl in years—”

“No, Mummy, I haven’t since we broke up. But I met with her tonight, and she kissed me, and then I kissed her, and now I don’t know what to do.” You hold your breath, waiting to see if your mother even acknowledges that you are in a relationship with real emotions.

“A little infidelity has never hurt anyone!” She promptly fails that test. “Do you love Irén still?”

Blatantly, you lie, “I have never loved Irén—”

“Do you love her?” She tuts at any protest you groan in an attempt to avoid her question. “Darling, if you’re so unsure that you won’t answer, should you really be with your actress?”

“Yes, I love Irén. But I love Florence more.” Far more. Irén is a grain of sand on Flo’s beach.

“Well then, tell the actress that you were drunk, and tell Irén that she imagined the whole debacle! Manipulate them both, my darling, before either can manipulate you. And, believe me, Y/n, you are very easily manipulated.” At your stunned silence, she assumes her advice has been given and received, and that you are absolutely, one-hundred percent fine. “Once you return to London, I’d like to go for a coffee. We could meet with some of my friends and their lovely daughters, make a day of it with shopping and… Better yet, Sophie would like to know if a weekend at Bagshot is on the table. We can go riding, or you could go shooting – I know you do love to go shooting. Sophie also says you can bring your actress with you if all is not lost, and treat their home as a country hotel.”

You sigh. She’s never of any help and you’re not sure why you called her. “I’ll think about it. Give them my love, I am off to shoot myself now.”

Billie whines and you hang up, your phone sliding off the mattress and onto the floor as you collapse onto a dog that isn’t even yours. “I’ve really fucked it all, haven’t I, Bills?” She seems to agree and begrudgingly becomes your temporary emotional support animal. “I shouldn’t have kissed her.”

Irén is like a magnet, she always has been. Since you met her you’ve wanted her, and when you had her you took it all for granted. The year you dated was a blissful ideal world, but it didn’t last. Her sister was sixteen and had been found dead in a forest. Fifty-seven stab wounds. A ruthless, cold-blooded murder, a man who’d tried to groom her and had failed miserably.

You remember finding out before your girlfriend and having to tell her. You remember her screams and her unwillingness to believe a word you said. Irén had loved her sister dearly, they were incredibly close.

A fortnight had passed since her death and your girlfriend was a shell of a woman she had once been. You’d been splitting your time between Oxford and their family’s house in St Albans. Irén had had enough of it and wanted all of your attention or none at all. She presented the date of her sister’s funeral, and asked if you’d come — it was obvious to her that you would — but you paused, you hesitated. It was summertime, and A-level results day happened to be taking up your calendar.

“Whose results do you care about so deeply?” she asked bitterly.

“Flossie’s.” You gulped. She wasn’t a fan of Toby’s family because they seemed too normal for you. To her, you were divine and majestic and deserving of the most eccentric and wealthy characters as relatives, not some random people from Oxford.

The build up since you broke the news to her snapped whatever rationality she was holding onto. “She’s going to get three Cs. What’s so interesting about that? It’s them or me. Us.”

You couldn’t choose then. Rethinking it now, you would choose Irén, despite your current infatuation with Flo. It was wrong to leave her like that, girlfriend or not. You made a bad choice.

But Flo doesn’t know that, she isn’t aware of what happened. She knows two things for certain: Irén and you kissed at the opera, and Irén was your girlfriend a decade ago.

She doesn’t tell you what time her flight gets in, so you’re on a call with the management at Chaos Zanzibar when she storms in. Guns blazing, she shouts your full name within a second of stepping over the threshold, and is ranting at you for a minute before you and Billie emerge from the bedroom, the call spoiled and ended.

“How could you?” she questions coldly, loudly. Billie’s tail wags, unrelenting against her legs, and she manages to love on the dog while having a go at you (it’s deserved, you know). “If you didn’t want me, you could have said something— You could have texted or called or… tweeted? I get why you wouldn’t want me, Y/n, I fucking get it, okay? But you didn’t need to shove it in my face — in the whole world’s fucking face — like that! She’s beautiful and she’s... You love her, you love Irén; do you not?”

Stunned into pathetic silence, you gulp. “I’m okay with you not loving me anymore, but you didn’t need to shove it in my face,” Flo states, her words barren and lifeless.

In a split second of mercy, your brain resumes its function and you are about to speak. Billie begins to growl, drawing both of your attentions, and you can’t seem to get the words out. Traitor.

“It’s not that you’ve broken up with me, but rather, you told me you loved me and then kissed your gorgeous, rich, funny, perfect ex-girlfriend in fancy clothes at a fancy place where both of your fancy lives fit right in. I get that I’m not…” She pauses for a deep breath, sharp and quick. “I get that I’m not your type, Y/n, I know you’re embarrassed to be with me sometimes but—”

“I’ve never been fucking embarrassed to be with you, what the fuck are you talking about?” you shout over her, angry because it’s not true. None of this is true. “And why have you come to terms with a non-existent breakup? Two fucking kisses isn’t going to destroy this, Florence, okay?”

This is news to her.

Two kisses. Not just the one, not just a singular moment of weakness.

“Where was the second?” she asks quietly, as if trying to not be sick.

“Here.” Flo pales. “She kissed me at the opera, and so I brought her here to talk. She was so…” You neglect to finish your sentence, “and then I kissed her goodbye.” Not that she knew it was a goodbye until she was out the door. “It’s Irén, Floss.”

“Everyone keeps saying that!” But what does that mean? How do two words justify you kissing someone else?

She takes a deep breath, eyes searching around the apartment to focus on anything but what she’s going to have to ask you. Nothing’s changed, really, in the two days she’s been gone. Except, everything has.

“Why did you kiss her?” She tries to be calmer. You raise your foot to step forward, but her eyes narrow and her steely glare wards you away. Billie whines, yawns, and slinks her way back to her bed, lying down with a grunt that says she is over her mum’s return and very much done with this argument. “Am I not enough?”

Suddenly, you see it. Her insecurity. The cracks in the porcelain, the bubbling magma waiting to erupt. She doesn’t think she’s enough for you. And you don’t know how to express how wrong she is.

“I…” Flo wants to snatch up your hesitation and scream and cry and run away, but she takes another deep breath and waits patiently. “I made a bad decision, and if I hadn’t have done it I think I would have been married to her.”

“Bad decisions do seem to be ending your relationships,” she sneers.

“No, you don’t understand.” You shake your head, trying to shake off the memory, trying to shake off the current situation. “Her sister’s funeral was scheduled for the day your A-level results came out. We were all so proud of you, because how the fuck does a seventeen-year-old balance A-levels and a movie? I told her I couldn’t go. She made me choose, said if I didn’t then we were over.” Flo was there. She knows exactly what choice you made.

She grimaces, feeling guilty. “I was so horrible to you that day.” She had ignored you throughout the entirety of the celebrations, jealous of a girlfriend that hadn’t even bothered to come, because you looked beautiful and she didn’t want to think about that.

Florence realises that she’s taken you for granted her whole life because of the same insecurity that is tearing you apart right now. “I had no doubt you’d ignore me, Floss, but I was there because not being there didn’t seem like an option.”

“But that’s different,” she whispers, back on track. Louder, she states, “you should have told me before you kissed her. I deserve to know when my relationships have ended.”

“It hasn’t ended.”

“You said you would have married her.”

Grappling for words, your volume spikes and she flinches. “But I didn’t! I’m not married, am I? And I’m not going to be married at all because my girlfriend won’t accept my proposals.” Flo laughs and then hates that you’ve made her do so. “I kissed Irén to say goodbye, because I never got to. We are not due for a goodbye kiss, ever, so stop trying to get one!”

“You should have thought about that before you—” Every single part of your body has told you to kiss her now, and who are you to ignore that?

Flo has missed you, and she cannot deny that.

She pulls away from you for a moment, finding it very hard to keep her frown when you look like that, “I’m still so cross with you,” she murmurs, “and I don’t want you to ever do it again. And Irén has to be told that, explicitly. And I… I want to meet her.”

“What?!”

“For coffee…? Not to kill her.”

“Why do you want to meet Irén?” you ask suspiciously. From one extreme to the other…

With an impish smile, Flo says, “That is none of your business. Just tell her that we should do it some time. I have a feeling she won’t be able to say no.”

“Fine.” She nods and you cup her cheek to return to your overdue kissing. You lean in but sigh and pull back. “Don’t kiss Irén,” you start, wondering if maybe that’s what Flo is planning. “I know I did, but you can’t. If you’re going to kiss anyone, kiss Saoirse Ronan. Or Scarlett Johansson.”

“Both are like sisters to me,” Flo groans as if you should know this.

“To you. If you kiss them, I’m doing it indirectly.” She rolls her eyes and pretends she never heard that. “No, forget that. That means you’ve kissed—”

“Bring it up and I’ll never stand remotely close to you again.” Flo shudders and you decide that it’s her being cold, not disgusted. You find her hand, slipping your fingers between hers. They feel like home.

She exhales slowly and her breath brushes your neck. You sigh. “You don’t think you’re my type.” Flo is surprised; she wasn’t expecting something so earnest and serious to come out of your mouth. “Why?”

“I’m not wrong, though, am I?” You shrug because her question is irrelevant. To reiterate what you’ve asked her, you begin to repeat it, but she interrupts tentatively, “everyone I have ever seen you with has fit perfectly into your life… seamlessly. They’re not carbon copies of each other, but they are all your equals. They match you in intelligence and complexity, they have lives that are thrilling to hear about but not overly dramatic. They went to boarding schools and they vote for the Green Party because they’re influential enough for a stupid cross on a piece of paper to not matter and they want nothing more from life because they have it all.” Her list renders her on the verge of tears. “I don’t have that.”

“Yet I am not in a relationship with any of them, because someone with everything has nothing to lose.” People like that don’t realistically have time to love someone other than themselves, because in order to have everything for yourself, you’ve got to stop focusing on others. Too many girls have acted as if you were disposable (sometimes you enjoyed it, but that’s not the point). “You don’t need to fit into a category of my exes unless you want to become one, Florence.”

She laughs — a shaky, chesty sound — and manages to wipe the tears that now seem to be rolling down her cheeks without remorse. “I love when you call me Florence.” You raise your eyebrows. “Do it again.”

“Florence.”

“Ooh.” You smile. She seems happier. You know she’s not going to immediately listen to what you said, but eventually it will get through to her. “Also, sometimes I wonder if you’ve ever had to defend any other of your girlfriends that much to your family, and sometimes I feel like I’m just Toby’s little sister to you, and I hate how you pretend your work isn’t draining and that you don’t get tired like the rest of us humans. Oh, and I think about how your admirers must hate me for dating you because I was talking to my very own posh friend, believe it or not, and she said you used to be a sought after bachelorette—” Embarrassed, she cuts herself off. “Let’s have sex right now.”

“What?”

She definitely hasn’t been abducted by aliens; rambling is very much a trait of hers.

“No, ignore all of that emotional, sorry-for-myself stuff. I haven’t seen you for two very long days. The whole movie is fucked, and I’d like to be too.” She continues sputtering like a dying car, trying to explain her demand further, but you lower your gaze to the navy sweatshirt she’s wearing. Billie lifts her head, both of you turning her way once you hear the jingle of the tag on her collar, but reads the room quickly and (concerningly) easily and goes back to her snooze.

“Is this mine?” You tug gently at the fabric between her chest. Florence nods; she took it from you in July, when you wouldn’t have noticed its disappearance. “You decide this relationship is over and you still wear my clothes?”

“I didn’t want it to be over,” she replies, irked by the jab. “I don’t want it to ever be over.”

You smirk. You could apply that to another situation. She presses her lips to yours again, a steady kiss, a pleasurable one. It’s you who bites down on her bottom lip gently, and it’s you whose tongue is in her mouth, not the other way round.

Flo can’t help but wonder how you kissed Irén. Was it like this? Is the way you kiss her reused, was it ever even original? Maybe you kissed Irén like this before you ever thought about her own lips. No, that’s not something you’d do. The way you smile into her when she sighs and moans can’t be what you do for every girl you’ve ever kissed. You didn’t love them.

All you’re thinking about is a way to get the sweatshirt off her without stretching the fabric. It was expensive, and if it becomes any more baggy it will drown her.

- - -

Despite the initial reaction, Florence allows for everything to be fixed pretty simply. Yes, she’ll secretly work through her emotions with Livvy, and you’ll do the same in your own way, but the relationship concerning the two of you seems to be strong enough to withstand two errors.

It takes two long conversations — one with Flo, one with Toby — to repair most of the damage, alongside a short phone call with Flo’s publicist, a woman who has no reason to like you and therefore does not, to convince her you’ll never be naughty again. Flo and you wonder if your relationship needs confirming, and after another phone call with her publicist, the woman acquiesces and allows her client to tell the world profoundly and proudly that the woman who fucks her is you. (She doesn’t exactly phrase it like that, but they all know.)

With that, it feels like she’s free to love you now, something that she hadn’t even realised had been restricting her. For instance, on a random Tuesday she throws jeans at you and takes you to a local restaurant, unafraid of the giggling teenage girls who approach to ask for a photo. You even take the photo.

Millie and you fly out to London a few days later, and you miss your girlfriend. She calls you during your meeting, the first time she’s had the chance in two days, and you end it to talk to her. No one appreciates that except for the two of you, but not a single soul dares to argue with your stern look.

You lean back against the leather desk chair, propping your legs up on the new glass table in the Chaos boardroom. “Hello,” you greet, smiling but not prepared to make the first needy comment. “You okay?”

“Yes!” She’s excited. It must be, what, four in the afternoon there? What could have possibly happened. “I have news. Good, great, FANTASTIC news.”

“Do tell.” You chuckle as she glazes over your tone.

“Justina called.”

Your silence isn’t promising at all. You find Flo’s words rather disappointing. You’d expected to hear she’d won an Oscar or something with that level of squealing. “Flossie, babe, I don’t know who Justina is. Why did she call?”

“Justina Blakeney, interior designer.” She sighs. “Y/n, the famous one who’s doing our flat.” Oh. Oh!

“Is she done?! Is it done?!”

“She said she’ll happily give you a tour today!” You wish Flo could be here to see it with you, because it’s something that should be done together. Your girlfriend picks up on your hesitation. “Hey, we’re wrapping next month. The London Film Festival is in October, so I get to be home for at least two weeks. You’re there now. Go look round, make it smell like you.”

“I’ll ring Toby to see if he’ll smoke with me.”

She laughs sarcastically, in a way that tells you to absolutely not do that. “Justina said to just meet her at the building. That way you can sort out the concierge service — you’ll be better at that than me.”

“Okay,” you agree, noticing the suits waiting outside. They try not to make it seem like they’re watching you, but they definitely are. Who is so important that the meeting ends early during a discussion about the entire management system? they must think. You roll your eyes. “I have to go. I will look around and sort everything once I am done with my meetings. Hopefully I can just go straight into working at the flat.”

“I’m glad it’s our flat.” You’ve set up a joint account for bills. Toby was in awe that she even got you to talk about money.

“Me too.” You can envision the way her soft, very kissable lips smile, hearing it in her voice. “I love you, yeah? Talk to you later.”

The meeting bursts back into session when they see you’ve hung up (technically it’s a new meeting, but it’s the same people talking about the same thing who have clearly all misheard your ‘this meeting has ended’ for ‘give me fifteen minutes and then continue to bore me to death’). You glance at Millie, satisfied with the notes she is taking.

Notes like that are handy, and you have her email them to you as you hail a black cab to take you to your new home.

It’s not too far from the Chaos head office, conveniently, and you know your city quite well. Especially seeing as it’s Holland Park, a twenty minute walk from your family home. That’s unfortunate because now you will have no excuse to avoid checking what has been stolen by the staff in the house.

You ask Flo why she bought a flat so close to where your mother lives, and Flo is in disbelief that your mother spends any time in the city, coming back at you with the question of her current location. Sheepishly, you text that she’s in Surrey, and find that your girlfriend does love to brag when she’s right. It’s not like Mum wants to see you anyway.

“Is this it?” the driver asks, his gruff voice sort of soothing once you realise what exactly you’re about to do. Not only is this the first permanent (to an extent) residence you will ever have, but it is shared with a woman you fall in love with more every time you think about her. Which is a lot. Meaning you love her a lot.

Justina, you presume, waves. You haven’t had a chance to look her up yet, and so you pretend not to see her for a moment, acting as if you are replying to a deathly important email, and search the web. Yes, that’s her. She’s American, she’s good at what she does. Known for colour. It comes as no surprise that Flo has chosen her, and you’re sure your girlfriend will adore the place.

“It’s so great to meet you!” she says enthusiastically when you emerge from the car. “Although, I did have to change half my designs when Flo called me. Congratulations. And props to you for letting her choose everything.”

You laugh. “I don’t mind what it looks like.” When you stay in hundreds of hotels, design becomes a blur. Nothing is special.

She leads you inside the building, giving you a brief rundown because they’ve been working on it for a while and seem to have good bearings if the happenings. There’s a swimming pool only accessible to the ten apartments in this block and a gym with new equipment. Justina mentions a cinema room, but doesn’t go into detail. You suppose Flo has designed your own private place to watch really, really bad horror movies — anything else is ‘watched’ in various states of undress paired with very inappropriate noises and activities.

Justina talks during the journey up the lift. “This place is pretty new. We looked at a few townhouses together, but she wanted a very specific vibe, and this place was great. I mean, your apartment has tons of space, and the whole complex is beautiful.” You nod. You know how to deal with interior designers and architects and such because of the hotels. “And we went for something really colourful.”

“How much designing did Flo do?” When did she do it? They’ve been working on this place forever. Flo is very particular and surprisingly fussy when it comes to her first-ever, real flat.

“Quite a lot!” Justina says happily, proud of her client’s enthusiasm. The doors ping open into a corridor with glass walls and plants everywhere you look. You walk a few paces forward, and then Justina turns right. Your new home has a hot pink front door.

“She definitely chose that.” It’s almost like Valentino paid her to do it. You smile. “Fifth floor.” You commit that to memory (it’s not difficult) and wait for Justina to pat herself down, presumably to find the keys. She pulls out a small keychain, handing it to you.

“It’s your place,” she explains. You grin. She didn’t expect you to show much emotion, but her heart grows from your pure, unbridled joy.

The door swings open and you feel consumed by Flo. Like, how will you ever miss her? The flat is her essence; her heart and soul. There’s a grand piano in the living room, a record player beside it. The sofas are all a different colour; green velvet to brown leather. Justina gives you a little tour, and you hang onto her every word, in awe of the place. Your place.

There are three bedrooms; yours and two for guests. Both guest bedrooms are safe from the speaker system in place, connected to the record player and your phones, and have views of the park. They smell like lavender, you note, and Justina is thrilled that you pick up on that. Each room has its own lavender bush.

Eventually, you get to your bedroom. On the outside, the door is the same black-painted wooden one that the other rooms have, but it’s deep blue on the inside.

Your bedroom is large but cosy, with a TV against one wall with a sofa facing it, and a bathroom on the other side.

The bed itself is massive and high up, and when you sit it feels like diving into a cloud. Justina clears her throat and glances upwards. You follow her eyes.

Flo has put mirrors on the ceiling.

You blush. “I gather she designed this one?” Justina nods.

- - -

“So where are you right now?” Flo is enjoying the modern technology that is FaceTime.

“The study. I’m supposed to be working.” As if your laptop is even open.

“I love what she’s done with the wallpaper. It’s beautiful.” It’s funky. “Is it practical, the room? Everything works?” For someone so far from a job like yours, she understands the office necessities. Maybe she memorised what goes in there while coaxing you out of the hotel’s version with varying methods on many occasions.

“Yes, it all works. I’ve sorted your clothes out roughly, and I need to start collecting mine when we stay at the hotels.” Your wardrobe is currently what’s in your suitcase. Chaos London has a few items you’d like to bring back, but you’re sure you have enough clothes between Budapest and Flo’s wardrobe to keep you going for a long time. “The mirrors on the ceiling were a nice touch.”

She smirks. “Can’t wait to be freed from the deadest book on Earth.” Dune is okay. You read it and it was so long. She tried and ended up on top of you with the book thrown across the room and the page number lost; a perfect excuse to never pick it up again.

“I bet I could fund a movie for you,” you brag, enjoying the look of horror that she gives you. “Can you imagine the headlines? Are you a gold digger or am I after fame?” Your joke has a truth to it, that lingers bitterly at the back of your throat. That’s what people currently like to debate. To them, your relationship can only be a play for power.

“On Saturday, I’m bringing Billie to you. She needs to get used to home.” You smile. Home. It’s home.

“And you? We need to christen every possible surface as soon as the universe allows us.”

“Latest I can book a flight for is Sunday evening. Up for a challenge?”

tags: @pewpughpew @ridleypugh @jeyramarie @flosbelova @kassies-take @delfiore @yelenabelovasbxtch @xsophiesx @slut4milfs69 @sunshadesnrainbowz @wandasbb @karsonromanoff

#florence pugh fanfiction #florence pugh x reader #floss got hot #florence pugh #florence pugh x you #florence pugh one shot #black widow #florence pugh imagine #fanfiction #florence pugh x y/n #marvel #florence pugh angst #florence pugh fluff #florence pugh smut

[alerrison]

DMC (the makers of one of the popular embroidery threads) sells this BEAUTIFUL chest that comes with a skein of every color floss they make and I have wanted it for ages. But it costs $500.

which is NOT a bad deal because you get about 500 skeins on floss, so like.... buy the floss get the chest for free! Still can't justify the purchase

but I have wanted it for so long, especially just so I can have ~all the colors~ and my mother is like "what do you even do with that much thread?'

BE ABLE TO SWATCH THIS PROJECT I'M TRYING TO PICK COLORS FOR. I have about 300 colors and NONE OF THEM are the right shade of blue DDDD:

#“okay got the right color fabric finally let me pull out my color card and find the right shades of blue” #“ooh 793 looks about right! ...don't have it” #“3807? ... nope....” #rinse and repeat for about 3 different shades of blue and the only conclusion I have #is that I own no blue threads #(a lie I have many but hot damn not a single on are the right shade) #I was really hoping I could swatch and pick my colors without a trip to Joanns first D: #I think I have a decent red and brown for what I'm trying to go for? #but even some of my red color options I don't have #(also my floss are in 4 different plastic containers and I just think having a wooden draw would be sexy y'know?)

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

UPDATE What's up, it's the proposal guy. You said you wanted to know how this turned out, so I figured I'd tell you. First some context though, because I'm mean and I wanna keep you in suspense longer.

1- I don't wanna doxx us so I'm not telling you where we live, but suffice to say, neither of us are American, and gay marriage has been legal here for less than five years. For both of us, this is the first relationship we've had where marriage was even an OPTION, and I think that's where we've been getting some of that whole 'this has to be a REAL proposal with EVERYTHING' idea.

2- I gotta figure out how to explain this properly. So, I'm pretty used to being the GUY guy in relationships? I was always the one who did the nice gestures, not the one they got done for. Before I met my dream guy, I didn't really notice or care that it was such a thing, I just assumed that's how shit worked. Also, I promised I wouldn't talk a lot about his stuff here, but his last boyfriend before me SUCKED. Anyway point here is, it turns out we both REALLY like feeling swept off our feet sometimes, and a big part of finding each other has been getting to feel special for once? That's a stupid sappy way of putting it the point here is I think all that's what morphed into "I need to be the one getting proposed to, also it has to be completely perfect", and then our Petty & Extra genes got involved.

So I'm sitting in bed thinking about all that up there, and watching all the comments coming in basically being like "Dude, you are BLOWING this" on repeat, and telling me to compromise, and I look up and see him flossing in the bathroom and making all these doofy faces at the mirror, and it's like a switch just flips in my brain, and I'm like "Oh, I'd rather he gets to have his perfect proposal than we both have an okay one". I'm gonna do it.

Morning rolls around, and while I'm 'out for my jog like normal' I hit up a pawn shop for a temp ring (the ring pop thing is cute but NOT HIM). I found one I was at least confident wouldn't get ruined the first time he got his hands greasy (he fixes old machines as a hobby it's hot as hell), got back home, and hid the box in the toe of my nasty ass workout shoes in the bedroom closet, since I figured he'd check there last.

He was still asleep, because he stays up late no matter what and then is SHOCKED he's tired the next day, so I called and booked a table at our usual anniversary spot. (Side note about the 'he picks bad restaurants' thing. This isn't an 'I like Greek, you like Chinese' situation, dude's just BAD at finding places. He either assumes pricey is tasty and I get to eat some overrated gourmet bullshit, or he'll try and find something hip and underground and risk giving us food poisoning again, and he REFUSES to give up and pick somewhere we've been before when it's his turn to plan date night. I'm obsessed with him <3.) Date was set, I'd propose on the 21st.

Some of you might have noticed this, but fun fact! It's currently the 16th.

Last night I'm doing dishes and he's been sent to our room for mug collection duty, and he's taking FOREVER, so I go check just in case he found the ring, because the man's a gift tracking BLOODHOUND. Turns out he hasn't, he's found my Angry Box.

I assume other people have an Angry Box? Basically, we had this huge messy fight right when we first moved in together, and I never wanna let it get that bad again, so I have this shoebox where I keep a bunch of our stuff I can look at if we're fighting and hopefully cool off. There's one of those photo booth roll things, letters we wrote when he moved back with his parents for COVID, the wine cork from our first date, shit like that. Anyway, he's just sitting on the floor staring at it, and I explain about the Angry Box, and then he! Proposes!!! Kind of.

He definitely didn't have anything prepared, because by 'propose' I mean 'ugly cried & rambled at me for several minutes before I figured out it WAS a proposal', but once I got on the same page it was amazing. I said yes, and he had to admit he didn't have a ring for me because he was CONVINCED he'd win and I'd do it, so I grabbed mine because, yeah, he was right. He was like "this is the ugliest ring I've ever seen" and I was like yeah well the plan is to replace it later and he went "No. You can pry this off my cold dead fingers. After I'm buried with it." So I guess it's not a temporary ring anymore.

I'm just gonna go ahead and skip to this morning. I pointed out we still have the reservation, and he said I should propose there anyway because "We can get a free dessert. They have those creme brulee shot glasses you like. And for love, or something" and I said ok deal, but that means you gotta get me a ring to keep it fair, and his eyes LIT UP. When I swung by his work for lunch he was still on the phone with a jeweler and he had a whole page of notes on three other ones. Pray for me.

OH PS: I was RIGHT that he'd been the one behind the cat biting me, but it wasn't about the proposal stuff, it's because I paid my baby sister three dollars to shout 'fuck you' every single time he enters a room she's in for (if you ask me, he should be madder at my sister for charging so little), and he did it by giving her a bunch of treats for biting his hands too, so now neither of us can pet our baby girl without oven mitts on. HOLY SHIT I love this man.

Oh my goddddddd I love everything about this <333 I awwww'd out loud on a voice call, like, six times while reading. You two are friggin perfect for each other and so obviously smitten with each other and I wish y'all all the happiness in the world

PS Are y'all planning to have a big wedding? If so oh boy I can't WAIT to get that one in the inbox

Original post

#aita #am i the asshole #aita update #the saga of proposal anon

[jchall110]

Teeth are stupid. I should be able to get veneers for free because my mouth is fucked.

#when i got my braces off my retainer wasn't sized right so my teeth didn't stay straight #so now one of my front teeth goes behind the bottom ones #i have about eight cavities #and that's after getting six of them filled last year #one of the fillings chipped on me this weekend and will need to get redone #my gums aren't super healthy and are real sensitive so no matter how often I brush and floss they always bleed a little every time #my teeth are real sensitive so i don't do well with really hot and really cold foods #my breath is always a little bit bad because of all of this #and I'm super self conscious about my smile #so they should just. take em all out and give me fake ones for free

[mykoreanlove]

just another day at the dorms - minho version

“Where is she? Where is y/n?” Minho searched the dorms frantically, ravaging everything in his way.

You were about to leave for the night, eager for your first real blind date. Dating was still forbidden, so you had to be sneaky which made the whole thing even hotter.

Your hand was already on the door handle but before you could open it you felt yourself getting yanked to the side. His lips crushed onto yours without a word, forcefully dancing with your tongue. You didn’t need an introduction though; you would have recognized Minho in every universe.

His hands travelled down your body, kneading, and groping his favorite parts. He lifted you up and walked both of you towards his room – not breaking the kiss even once. You felt yourself falling on his big bed, he was attached to you like glue.

“Don’t leave me y/n, please. Don’t ever leave me.”

Minho thrusted onto you, showing you exactly just how much he needed you. Your clothes were gone seconds after and you found yourself on top of him, taking him all in as you circled your hips around his dick.

“Mmhmm, my kitty cat is doing such a good job”, he hummed in pleasure.

He was right, you did a very good job – at fucking a taken man.

You threw your head back, intensifying the rhythm of your circles as he sucked on your perky tits forcefully. “Fuck, kitty, this is gonna bruise tomorrow”, he smirked.

You slung your arms around him and whispered in his ear: “This is the last time, Min. I’m ditching my date for you and you better-“, your speech got cut off by your moans, as he was thrusting from underneath you, hitting all the right spots.

“You were saying?”, he retorted. You grabbed his full hair and pulled his head back; you had him looking up to you now. “Don’t play with me, Min. I mean it.”

Before you could even blink, he spun you around, making you lay on your belly as he was thrusting into you from behind. His sweaty body lay on yours, his heaviness pushing you into the soft mattress. You felt his hot breath on your ear as he whispered: “But I like playing with you the most, kitty.”

Minho raised his upper body and started leaving kisses all over your backside – starting from the neck and working his way down to your ass. “God, you are perfect, y/n”, he hummed in appreciation. Minho spanked your ass before thrusting the hardest, making you see stars for a minute. He emptied himself inside of you and collapsed on your back.

“Sorry about your date.”

You sighed into the fluffy cushions. “What about your girlfriend, Min? Are you even sorry for her?” He nodded his head, still buried in your neck. “I am. But I can’t help it. She is not-“, he paused.

“What? Giving you attention? Fucking you properly? Caring about you?”

Minho got off of you and rolled on his side. He caressed your face with the palm of his hand, he was in total agony of your beauty. “She’s not seeing me for who I am. To her I am Minho, the idol, the perfect guy. I am up on a pedestal in her mind. She really has no idea who I am. Who I really am.”

You frowned at his explanation. Ever since you met him you were very well aware of his flaws – he had anger issues, he rarely flossed, he could be too cold at times, he loved cats more than humans, he left his damp towels all around the dorms and got impatient when you messed up his choreographies.

How peculiar to think that he, or anybody really, would be perfect.

“But you, y/n”, he inhaled deeply, “you are different.” His fingers brushed your lips, making him inhale in anticipation. “Different how?” He got up and towered over you, his body only inches away from yours. The silver chain around his neck fell right in between your cleavage, making you squirm at the coldness of the metal.

“You”, he kissed your swollen lips,

“see”, another one on your left cheek,

“me”, followed by a kiss on the right cheek,

“for”, a kiss on the nose,

“who”, followed by a kiss on your temple.

“You are”, you whispered in realization. He smirked and crushed his lips onto yours again, for the second but not last time that night.  

#mykoreanlove #skz scenarios #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #stray kids au #skz x reader #stray lex you #skz lee minho #lee minho x reader #lee minho x you #lee minho #stray kids x you #lee minho x y/n #lee know scenarios #lee know angst #lee know x you #lee know imagines #lee know x reader #lee know smut #lee know fluff #skz smut #skz lee know #skz minho #skz x y/n #skz x you #stray kids minho #stray kids x stay #stray kids x y/n #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic

[sometimesanalice]

Wildest Dreams (Part 2)

Summary: After meeting Bradley during Fleet Week, he shows you whether he is more of an officer or a gentleman in the bedroom. And while you haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night, you also hope he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, Fluff, and Bradley in Summer Whites (minors dni)

(Author’s note: this was written as part of @laracrofted’s 1989(TV) Challenge! This a 2 Part series.)

You don’t remember finding your keys in your clutch.

Or the elevator ride up to your floor.

Or the winding hallway to reach your apartment.

What you do remember is the way his fingers toyed with the flimsy strings of the bows tied at the nape of your neck as you searched for your keys. You remember the heat in his eyes and the way they trailed over every inch of you as the too small lift climbed to your floor. You remember his lips on your neck and the way the embossed wallpaper that lined your hallway felt against your back.

And you already know you’ll never forget what it feels like to be pressed up against your door by Bradley Bradshaw and the way your world explodes into technicolor at the easy slide of his tongue against yours.

His hands can’t seem to stay in one place very long, like he wants to commit the shape of you to memory. You grip his shirt tightly as you try to pull his body even closer to yours. He moans his approval when you rock against his thigh, the thick fabric dragging against the soft skin between your legs.

His uniform has been driving you wild all night. And for as good as he looks in it you want it off. You want him naked. You want to know if he got his callsign for the reason you think he did.

Your hands trail down his chest, down his abs on a mission. You can feel the way he tenses under your palms as they move lower, lower. There’s no hesitation in the way you grasp and stroke him with one hand as you work to unbuckle his polished belt with the other.

Rooster groans into your mouth, the brim of his hat just grazing your temple, “You didn’t have me fooled for a second, I knew you weren’t a good girl.”

The way he says it makes it sound like it’s the best compliment in the world.

You feel his smile against your lips before he moves to take advantage of your amused laugh by dipping down and licking a line up your neck in a what that had your knees threatening to give out in your tall, sparkly heels.

Rooster’s hand slips under the short hem of your shiny dress. His mouth finds a spot underneath your ear that has you gasping as his thumbs slide under the waistband of your panties. He pulls away only to work them down your legs and watch as they puddle at your feet-

“What the fuck are those?” 

“U-underwear?” The word comes out a stutter the moment Bradley starts moving his big hand slowly, purposely up, up, up the inside of your thigh. 

The high-cut thong was something you’d purchased on a whim. The floral embroidery on the barely-there sheer mesh contrasted with the thin silky straps of the bright pink panties that had caught your eye right before you’d gone to check out with the set you’d bought as a gift for your friend’s Bachelorette party. 

You always did enjoy a theme. 

You’d barely felt them all night. That is, until you’d gotten in the cab with him, and then you were almost hyperaware of them and how wet they were getting. But pooled on the floor of your entryway, they look almost indecent.

“That’s some damn dental floss and you know it,” he rasps as his fingers find your clit. You suck in a sharp breath at the contact. His hot mouth returns back to that spot under your ear, “Now I’m mad at myself for not getting to see them on you.”

Your body erupts in goosebumps at the way the coarse hairs of his mustache feel against your skin. You’re so wet that his fingers have no problem sliding and circling and gliding over that sensitive part of you.

“You want me to put them back on for you?” you offer breathily, hips tilting forward trying to seek more of his touch.

“Don’t even think about it,” he states heatedly. Like he is personally victimized by even the idea of you putting a layer back on.

And then he sinks two thick fingers into you.

“Bradley,” you gasp, your hands flying up to clutch his biceps.

“Mhmm?”

“I-” Your words are lost to a keen when he flicks a thumbnail over your clit. It’s a little mean, but it has your toes curling and tensing in the most delicious way.  

His firm thigh keeps you pinned open as he works you. His lips and tongue mapping out the areas that make you squirm and pant. Your whole body seizes when he teases you with the possibility of another one of his fingers.

“You what, pretty girl?” You can feel his smirk against your neck.

Oh, fuck him. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. You’d be more annoyed at him if he wasn’t so good at it.

“I-I,” you try again, “I had-oh god, that feels good. Your hands.”

“Hands of a pilot,” he says, satisfied and smug, “I’ll be sure to pass along your compliments to the Department of Defense.”

Rooster’s eyes are molten with pride as he takes you in, from your kiss swollen lips to where the tendons of his forearm are shifting and flexing beneath sunkissed skin half hidden under the hem of your skirt. 

He is frustratingly still so put together while you’re quaking against the door like a leaf in the breeze. You want to make him just as needy for your touch as you are for his, you can feel how hard he is pressed against you.

Your hand goes for his zipper, you’re only able to tug it down half way before Bradley catches you by the wrist and pins it above your head with a tsk.

“I had plans, Rooster,” you pant, finally are able to get out the words.  You’ve never had a man make you feel this good this quickly, he’s picked up on every cue your body has given him. He’s got you teetering along that edge, but he’s still toying with you rather than sending you over it.

“And what were those again?” he hums teasingly, his thumb making infuriatingly featherlight circles against you, “Remind me what was on your agenda.”

Bradley doesn’t give you the chance to reply because he’s hooking his fingertips against you and dragging them against that spot inside of you that causes your head to fall back against your door with a gasp. He shows you just how well practiced in giving pleasure he is as he does it again and again and again.

You try to arch into his touch but his strong body pressed against you so securely that you can’t do anything more than take what he gives you. The short hem of your skirt is riding dangerously high, gathered and bunched between the two of you.

“You’re not playing fair,” you whine as he runs his teeth along the tendon of your neck, “I was going to suck your cock.”

“It’s all yours, baby. You just need to come for me first. I’ll even let you wear my cap as a reward.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“Damn straight,” he says before licking deep into your waiting mouth, “Now show me you can be a good girl and come on my fingers.”

You don’t get a chance to reply because Bradley’s thumb changes up the patterns it’s making on your clit making you cry out. There’s nothing teasing about his touch, he’s playing your body to pull exactly what he wants from it. His movements are controlled and precise even as you writhe against his hand.

When you come it’s with his name in your mouth as your orgasm coasts over you in a whiskey wave. The heat and force of it radiating through your whole body from your fingertips to your toes. Bradley murmurs sweet words into your ear as shivers work their way down through your spine.

You’re still breathing hard when you flutter open your eyes just in time to see him pulling his shiny spit-slicked fingers from his mouth with a devastating smirk.

So pleased with himself, so damn handsome.

Not to be out done you kick away that hot pink thong and pull his face to yours seeking the taste of yourself from his mouth. He welcomes your tongue with a satisfied moan, his hungry hands running up your back to tug at one of the sets of ties on your dress.

“Nuh-uh,” you tut against his mouth as you push him up against your door, “It’s your turn, Lieutenant Commander Bradley Rooster Bradshaw.”

You’ve only managed to undo two of the little white buttons on his uniform, and while you’re dying to see more of his skin, the hard length of him against your stomach has your full attention.

Your knees only just skim the floor before he’s hauling you back up.

“Wait, wait. C’mere, baby,” Bradley says, his hands on your elbows, “Show me your bedroom and then I’ll let you have my cock.”

“‘Come on my fingers’, ‘show me your bedroom’,” you parrot back to him, stroking him through his pants, “You’re going to give me a complex if you don’t let me give you a blow job. I have a theory about your callsign and I need answers, Rooster.”

“You can, I promise,” he huffs a laugh, running his thumb under your bottom lip, “We’re skipping over a few things, let me be a little romantic with you before we smudge that lipstick up.”

You try to ignore the way your heart somersaults at his words and the affection in his eyes.

“It’s longwear,” you reply, with a cheeky half shrug,  “But you’re certainly welcome to try.”

“We’ll see about that,” he smirks, dipping down a bit to get an arm underneath you and picking you up like it’s nothing. Your legs wrap around his waist as he carries you from your entryway and past your kitchen towards the open door on the right where your bedroom is, the lamp on your nightstand that you’d left on before leaving for the evening guiding the way.

“How is your hat still on?” you mutter before laving at the scars on his neck that had caught your eye earlier at the bar.

“How is your tiara still on?” he tosses back, leaning his head to the side to give you more access to the skin at the base of his throat.

“It’s a headband.”

“It’s cute.”

You pull away with a grin, “I knew you wanted to try it on. Big, strong, Naval aviator has an affinity for pretty shiny things.”

“Guilty as charged,” Rooster agrees. His hands run down the sides of your waist as he sets you down, his fingers stroking the material of your sparkling pink dress. “Where do you want me, baby?”

You don’t answer him, instead you press him back lightly until he takes the hint and sits on the side of your bed, legs wide so that you can step into the space between his thighs. He makes an enticing contrast of tan skin and white uniform against the pale blue of your comforter.

Holding Bradley’s heated gaze, you take the pristine white hat off of his head and set it on the nightstand next to you. The sight of his sunkissed curls is a treat you weren’t expecting to see and you can’t help but run your hands through his hair.

You take a minute to indulge in the feeling of his soft strands between your fingers as he leans into your touch. There’s a ribbon of desire that is still wrapped around the two of you, one that pulls tighter with every pass of your hands.

“Take your cock out,” you murmur.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a wink, his voice like rich espresso.

He’d gotten his way, now it was your turn.

You lean forward to kiss him, wet and deep, before finallyfinallyfinally sinking to your knees in front of him.

Rooster is all efficient hands and fingers as he unzips those dizzyingly snug pants the rest of the way down. You swear that smirk of his gets a little wider as he pulls his cock out for you. 

You’re almost annoyed at how perfect it looks, at how big it is. But that feeling fades quicker than it came on at the pretty way his large hand fists and pumps himself. It makes your breath get caught in your throat as you watch.

And then he’s holding it out for you like an offering, “This what you wanted, sweetheart?”

You don’t shy away from his intense gaze as you flatten your tongue underneath him and obscenely lick up the length of him.

“Goddamn,” he says hoarsely, as he throws his head back.

You beam, pleased and preening, before you pull him fully into your mouth. That smirk is entirely wiped off his face and you can see the way his jaw is clenching and releasing as his face is angled up towards the ceiling. Your hand replaces his on his cock to stroke him in time with the bob of your head. He groans low and ragged at the twist of your wrist at the base of him as you swirl your tongue right underneath the firm ridge of his head.

You feel your Bridesmaid headband slide back on your head with all your enthusiastic movements, and it falls to the floor with a metallic clatter. You wait until he’s looking back at you before you hollow your cheeks as you draw his cock further into your mouth.

“Knew that smart mouth of yours was going to look so good around my cock. God, you’re so fucking pretty,” he says, running his thumb along your jaw, “That little pink dress of yours did a number on me, I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

Bradley’s pretty praise and compliments goes straight to your head, like a rush of bubbles from a freshly popped bottle of champagne. You like the way he is gazing at you- his eyelids heavy but his eyes greedy- and the way he looks sitting on your bed, his presence filling the space of your room.

“If you like it so much I can tell you where I got it from,” you tease, “Don’t think they’d have your size though.” You treat him with another long lick, taking a moment to catch your breath to work him in your hand. It slides easily over him with the mix of your spit and his pre-cum.

“We both know how much I like pretty shiny things. I like seeing them on pretty girls, but I think I like seeing them on the floor even more.”

Rooster reaches out to slide his hand up the valley of your breasts and up around your neck to the back of your dress where the duo of bows of the halter top are still tied and starts tug on the ends of them.

You run your fingernail gently along the underside of his cock, smirking to yourself when it jerks in your hand. You take the tip of him between your lips, flicking him with your tongue as you let him work on the bows.

“Jesus, what kind of knots did you tie on this thing,” he grunts, still pulling on the thin pink strings.  

“I thought you Navy men were supposed to be excellent with knots,” you say with a laugh, moving your hair aside so that he can see better.

“I fly planes that land on ships, the only knots I’m tying are the ones on my boots.”

“Well now, that’s a shame,” you say with a sigh, blinking up at him with your best doe eyes. You give him a couple more slow pumps and watch with pleasure as his eyes flare with heat as he catches on to your meaning.

The way he moans your name sounds like both a curse and a prayer.

You pull away from him and sit back on your knees reaching up behind your neck. He watches you with rapt attention as you untie one and then the other. You hold it up with one hand at your collarbone and run the fingers of your other hand over the swells of your breasts before sliding it behind your back to release the final bow dancing along your mid-back.

And then you let go of the top.

It flutters down to your waist and you’re bared before him.

“Fuck me, knew you couldn’t be wearing a bra with that sexy little dress,” he groans as you pull him back into your mouth.

His fingers fly to your hair as you work to take him further and further into your mouth. It’s impossible to look away or close your eyes when his heady gaze is trained on you so intensely. He goes slack-jawed as you swallow around him, humming your approval to his reaction around his cock.

It’s easy to lose yourself to the rhythm of it. Of the staccato of his breath and sounds of satisfaction coming from in his broad chest. Of the weight of his cock pressed against your tongue.

Bradley’s thigh is taut and tense under your other hand with the strain of holding himself back. You are almost tempted to tell him to use your mouth how he wants, but there is something so exciting about having this man wrapped around your finger and at your mercy. He’s looking at you with such open want in his eyes that it makes that place low in your stomach spark with desire.

You pull off of him to drop a few open mouth kisses to the length of him. You look up at him from under your eyelashes, making sure you have his full attention when you use your tongue to trace along the thick vein on his shaft.

“How’s my lipstick holding up, Rooster?”

He barks a laugh, his smile wide and broad with amusement, “Hasn’t budged. Guess I’ll have to work harder to make a mess out of you then, huh?”

“I guess you will.” You shift forward like you mean to brush a kiss to his lips, but pull away with a mischievous smile right before his lips could meet yours. He groans and leans forward chasing after your mouth.

“C’mere, pretty girl,” Bradley says, hauling you up off of the cream-colored carpet of your floor. He hastily shoves your dress down the rest of the way down your hips and onto the floor before pulling you into his lap.

“But-” The words die in your throat as you whimper at the contact of your soaked cunt as it rubs up against his thick cock. Rooster runs his nose along the line of your neck as your hands tangle in his curls. He squeezes your ass with his hands encouraging you to continue your rock and grind against him.

When you tug him back up to your mouth, he goes willingly with a self-satisfied smile. You keen when your nipples catch against his nametag and the ribbons decorating his chest and you’re reminded that he’s not nearly naked enough for your liking.

“Why are you still dressed?” you huff, your insatiable hands roughly pulling at the buttons of his shirt, “If you were as interested in furthering those civilian-military relations as you claimed to be earlier, Sailor, you’d take that uniform off.”

“My apologies, ma’am,” he drawls, not sounding the least bit sorry, “Please allow me to show you just how committed I am to cultivating strong bonds with the local community at hand.”

And in a move so smooth and powerful, Bradley’s got you pinned to the bed. It doesn’t even register to you until he’s crowding into you, his head dipping down to drag his teeth over your peaked nipple. His large hand comes up to cup and massage your other one as he laves over you in broad and long strokes of his tongue.

He rolls against you teasingly and the way your thighs come up to bracket his hips is almost instinctive as you sink further into the cloud of your bed under his sturdy weight.

That mustache feels even better against your chest as it did against your neck when he had you pressed against your front door. But the drag of those damn buttons is impossible to ignore even as his hot mouth works its way down your sternum and stomach.

“Bradley.”

“Yeah, baby?” He nips at your hipbone as he strong-arms your thighs open further for his wide shoulders to settle under.

You’re so tired of feeling that sure-to-be-well-made fabric under your hands and against your body. You want to feel his skin against yours. You want his heat. You want to smell like the cedar and spearmint scent of his cologne.

He’s been derailing your plans since the moment you saw him enter the bar, but in this you will not be swayed, “If you’re not naked in the next ninety seconds, I swear I’m going to kick you out.”

“I can work with ninety,” he says with a toe curling glint in his eyes right before he licks into you.

The coarse hairs of his mustache against that most intimate part of you has you seeing not only stars, but entire galaxies. He slides his hand under your back to get you to arch further towards him. His tongue is relentless against your needy clit and when he sucks it has your hips canting right into his charming mouth.

“Can’t keep those hips on the bed, can you? Keep tryin’ to chase my mouth,” he smirks at your frustrated whine when he pulls away from you all too soon. He’s all lithe grace as he moves and stands up at the end of your bed.

You can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed. There’s no reason to be when he shoots you a wink so easy and playful and so endearingly cocky that you think you might just melt on the spot.

“Tick-tock, Lieutenant,” you say breathily as you sit up and lean back on your elbows.

“Now you’re just being difficult on purpose. That ok, baby, I think you’ll enjoy it when I fuck that attitude right out of you.”

“Promises, promises.”

You already know that lazy smile he’s wearing is going to take you down as he starts to undo the buttons of his uniform. He’s definitely past the ninety seconds you’d threatened him with, but there’s no way in hell you’re going to kick him out now.

Rooster does it slowly. One by one until he is shrugging it off his frame. He looks like sin standing there tall and broad with his belt dangling open and his cock hanging out proudly from the open fly of his formfitting pants.

“Oh, this is getting good now,” you muse, not unaffected by the increasingly unclothed man in front of you.

Feeling brave you bring your fingers down to your clit, teasing yourself lightly as he pulls his thin undershirt up and over his head. And finally, you get to see all of that bronzed skin on display. The sight of the smattering of chest hair between his full pecs and the ridges of his abs in the soft light of your nightstand lamp has your mouth watering at the sight in front of you.

“That’s it,” Bradley says lowly, his eyes glued to the shiny, slick part of you, “Show me how you like to touch yourself.”

You let your legs fall open wider for his gaze as you continue to touch yourself. Your heart hammers against your chest as you put yourself on display for him. As you show off for him. With every passing second your need for him ratchets up even higher. He gives himself a few pumps, his cock still shiny and wet from your mouth and pussy, before he’s shoving his pants down his thick thighs and kicking them off.

He works his way back up your bed and props himself against your tufted headboard and pulls you back into his lap. You sigh as you lean into him, your bare skin against his. At last. He feeds you his tongue as he tips up your head for a fevered kiss, his hands skimming up the length of your spine and into your hair as he commands your mouth with his.

“What’s it going to be, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your lips, “Do you want to be fucked by an officer? Or do you want me to be sweet with you? I’ll show you just how much of a gentleman I can be.”

A shiver works its way through your body and you feel the way his lips pull up at your response to his raspy voice and the sultry promise laced in his words. The night has been building up to this, the feeling of his hands in your hair and having his clothes on the floor in your room shouldn’t feel so right. But it does.

And if you’re only going to have this one night with him, you already know what you want. You knew it from the second he kissed you back at the bar.

You pull back just enough to lean over him to grab his hat off your nightstand. His hands flex on your hips when you set it on your own head. It’s heavier than you’d thought it would be and it tilts down your forehead a bit. Rooster tips it up for you and adjusts it, his eyes seeking an answer you have yet to give him.

“I want to be fucked by an officer, Lieutenant Commander,” you say, running your thumb down the divot of his chin.

You’ve never felt more powerful than you do at the sound of his wrecked groan.

“Grab that condom, baby,” Bradley’s voice is thick with need.

“Yes, sir,” you say cheekily, pulling open the drawer next to the bed.

You aren’t expecting the hand that connects with your ass or the sound of the sharp slap that seems to reverberate throughout your bedroom or the way it makes you even wetter than you already are.

The tequila and champagne from earlier wore off long ago, now you’re just drunk on him.

You pass him one of the gold foiled squares and watch as he rolls it on with ease as you hover above him on your knees. He’s got you so spun up in such a short amount of time, you’d know from the moment you saw him that he was trouble, you just didn’t realize at the time that he was going to be your kind of trouble.

He holds his cock in one hand and guides you onto it with his other hand heavy on your hip. You expect him to rock up into you, to give you both that air stealing bliss, instead your jaw drops open at the way he’s coaching you to sink onto him slowly, slowly, so so slowly.

It’s been awhile since you’ve taken something other than your fingers or one of the toys discreetly hidden in your bedside drawer and he has you whimpering as you stretch and spread around him. You can feel his want in every devastating touch, in every heated kiss. You cling to his shoulders to keep you from floating away.

“There we go. Nice and easy,” Rooster murmurs, watching the way his cock disappears into you, “Felt how tight you were around my fingers. I know ‘m big. You’re doing so good for me.”

He’s got a hand wrapped around the base of your neck and around your waist holding you there when your hips finally connect, keeping you from squirming as your body works to relax around him. Your pussy flutters around him at the sheer size of him.

You gasp in surprise as a shiver of an orgasm flurries through you unexpectedly. 

“Goddamn,” he grunts, you can hear the relief in his voice as he continues to rock up into you gently pulling out more of those ripples from you.

He’s still holding you in place, controlling just how much of him you’re getting, his fingers are pressed tightly into your hipbones. His hair is a mess and his eyes are hungry. Bradley is flushed the prettiest shade of pink along his cheekbones and across his chest.

You’re about to tell him so when your eyes snag on a patch of scarred skin on his shoulder and you suddenly must know what it feels like under your tongue.

The second your seeking tongue glides over it Rooster’s hips jerk into you in a way that steals all the air from your lungs. You wrap your arms around him and bury your face into his neck as he does it again and again in smooth, measured strokes.

But it’s not enough. That whisper of an orgasm was nothing like you know it could be. It did nothing to take the edge off, all it did was make you more desperate for him. 

He feels so solid beneath you that you need more of him. You start to roll your hips against him trying to get him to move faster, to fuck you in the way he promised he would.

“Oh, you wanna take the lead, huh? By all means,” Bradley says, putting his hands behind his head in a way that makes his biceps look massive, “C’mon, pretty girl, show me what you got.”

Not one to turn down a challenge, you reach behind you to brace your hands on his thick thighs and lean back. You’d show him alright.

Show him just how good you look wearing his hat. Show him just how good he looks buried in your cunt. Show him just how good he looks covered in your arousal. Show him just how good you look working his cock as you roll your hip and raise yourself up and down on him.

“Jesus, fuck. Look at you. Good girls don’t ride cock like that. Shit, you look so damn pretty. You feel so good like this, you’re taking me so well.”

His eyes are torn between watching your face and the way your breasts bounce and the way his hat on your head bobs in time with the rhythm you’ve set. The new angle has the pressure building up swiftly in your lower stomach. And it’s so good, but it’s not what you want. It’s not what you need.

“Stop being such a gentleman, Rooster. I thought you were going to fuck me,” you say, leaning forward and nipping at his bottom lip.

“Pretty sure I told you I was both,” he says tracing a finger down your soft stomach to your pussy, you shiver as he starts making tight circles on your clit, “But if you wanna be fucked, then you’re going to be fucked.”

Bradley shows you just how honed his body is in the way he pulls you off of him and onto your hands and knees in front of him. Your arms never had a chance at keeping you up when he roughly pushes into you. He grips your hips tightly forcing you to bend and arch up further to meet his powerful thrusts.

His hat topples off your head and onto the edge of the bed, where his next drive of him into you sends it dropping onto the floor.

“Tell me how much you like getting fucked by an officer, sweetheart, I want to hear it.”

“It’s good,” you moan into the crevice of your elbow, trying to muffle some of your whimpers.

“Just good? The way your pretty pussy is clinging to be, I’d say you’re feeling more than ‘good’,” he taunts, slapping your ass for good measure in a way that makes you jerk back against him.

“Just think there’s room for improvement, you’re so chatty for someone who could be fucking me harder.”

“Had to work you open before I could fuck you. This how you want it?” he snaps his hips harder and faster into you. You gasp at the sensation and clutch at the comforter beneath your hands.

“Yes, yes.”

The pace he sets is desperate, hungry, and unrelenting. When he skims a hand up your back, tangling it in your hair and tugs, you swear you’ve never made the sound that he pulls from you before.

Every time you adapt to rock and grind of his hips and start to thrust yourself back to meet him, to take him deeper, he changes up his tempo forcing you to only take what you’re given. His touch is so electric you feel like you could light up a whole city.

Your room is filled with the sounds of skin connecting on skin, of sharp breaths and shattered sighs and pitchy keens. The angle he pounding into you has the ridge of his cock rubbing against that spot that has you trembling and writhing beneath him.

“Oh fuck, fuck. Bradley. Please.” You’re babbling nonsense now and you know it, but you’re so, so close.

He knows it too because when he slides his hand around you to run his thumb over your aching clit you shatter around him with a choked sob into your arm. You don’t fight the waves of pleasure crashing over you, you let them pull you under.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he rasps as you quake under his touch, “Good girl.”

His own hips start to stutter against you and his breathing starts to run ragged as he fucks into you. He is clutching your hips so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if you were wearing his fingerprints tomorrow. His groan as he comes is the best sound you’ve ever heard.

Somehow through the haze you realize that you’re not just smiling, you’re beaming.

Bradley is so perfectly heavy on top of you and so warm. You’re so thoroughly worn out and well fucked it’s all you can do to lay there with your eyes closed as you float in that post-orgasm bliss. You make a noise of disapproval when he pulls out of you.

“Gotta get rid of the condom, baby,” he says with a little laugh. You feel the bed shift as he makes his way to your bathroom, already missing the feeling of his body against you.

You know you should get up. Maybe take your makeup off or get some water, but you’re just so content. So satisfied. You’ve had a few one night stands before, but you’ve never felt so comfortable with someone before.

You hear Bradley’s steps get closer as he comes back into your bedroom, but the feel of a damp washcloth gliding up your thigh to the center of you takes you by surprise, “Oh, that’s warm.”

“Is it too warm?” he asks, pausing. You were lucky if your ex would hand you a tissue, so Bradley’s thoughtfulness makes something in your stomach flutter.

“’s nice. Thank you,” you sigh, arching into his tender touch.

You know you should take over, it’s too intimate of a gesture. You should, you should, you should. But you don’t. You let him clean you up while you will your heart to stop fluttering behind your ribs.

You’re pliant and boneless as he climbs back into your bed and pulls you against his chest. Your body shouldn’t fit so perfectly against his. It shouldn’t, it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t. But it does.

“You still with me?” Rooster teases lightly, brushing back some of the sweaty strands of your hair that were clinging to your forehead.

“Just resting up for round two.”

You feel his smile as he presses a kiss to your cheek, “Mmhm.”

Time slips away under the gentleness of his warm hands. Your breathing slows down to match the way he smooths his palm up and down along your spine. You don’t realize how close you are to sleep until he’s pulling you back from the wisps of slumber that were rising up to meet you.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks quietly. You think you hear a string of hope threaded through his words.

It’s late, but not too late that he’d have a hard time finding an Uber or a cab to take him back to wherever home is for him, but you’re not quite ready to let go of him just yet.

“Yeah, you should stay,” you murmur into his chest.

You feel as he pulls up your comforter around the two of you. You nestle in even closer to him, draping your arm over his stomach and tucking your head under his chin. He reaches over you carefully and turns off the little lamp on your nightstand.

“Ok, I’ll stay.”

It doesn’t take long until the sound of Bradley’s steady breathing lulls you to sleep.

When you wake up, the first thing you notice is the way your body aches in the most pleasant of ways. You allow yourself to stretch luxuriously, your high thread count sheets skimming against your still naked body.

The second thing you notice is the sound of the shower running in your bathroom.

You’re glad to have this moment to yourself to grin madly into your pillow.

Because he stayed. He’s still here.

Once that rush of giddy energy works its way through the rest of your body, you get up to find your clutch with your phone in it and bring it back to bed with you. You shoot a text off to your best friend so that she doesn’t worry and get caught up on all the things you missed in the chaos that is the group chat. The amount of missed notifications are in the triple digits, you love to see girls supporting girls.

A few minutes later Rooster comes out of the bathroom with one of your fluffy white towels wrapped low around his hips. There’s still a part of you that still can’t believe last night even happened even as he stands in front of you, giving you a wide grin when he sees that you’re awake. 

His hair is damp and the sight of those curls make you want to run your fingers through them again. Those muscles of his look even better in the morning light that is filtering through your blinds, you’re getting more than an eyeful of him.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Bradley says gesturing to the open bathroom door, “I wanted to sneak in a quick shower just in case. You seem like the type of girl who would know about her Third Amendment rights.”

“You never know, there’s still time,” you say with a coquettish little shrug and a Cheshire cat smile, “Although it seems rude to kick someone who made me come three times last night.”

“Four,” he says, the left side of his mouth ticking up a bit as he leans a hand on your dresser.

“Four?”

“Mmhm, four. I know what I felt.”

“Would you be up for reminding me how that fourth one went?” you ask, teasingly pulling the soft sheet down your body to sit up on your knees at the edge of your bed.

“Sure would, ma’am. Anything to solidify those civilian-military bonds,” Rooster says, strutting towards you.

He’s ducking down to greet you with a kiss when you stop him with a hand on his chest, “Wait, what time do you have to be back?”

You see that easy smile of his falter for just a moment, “18:30. Sorry that’s-”

“I know military time, Bradley,” you say with a smirk, toying with the loose knot of the towel. You do the math in your head, there’s still almost seven hours before he has to go. It’s an easy decision when you offer, “What do you say, Lieutenant, you want to spend the day with me?”

Rooster answers with an enthusiastic kiss and greedy hands that tell you everything you need to know. It doesn’t take long before you’re pushing off his towel, pulling him on top of you and getting  tangled up with him again.

It only took you a few passes of his tongue to realize what he was spelling against your clit before he had you coming on his mouth. 

L-I-E-U-T-E-N-A-N-T-C-O-M-M-A-N-D-E-R

And then after he reminds you of just how that fourth orgasm went, you set him up with some coffee in your kitchen as you go take a shower and get ready feeling entirely too weak in the knees for a man you’d just met.

You opt to skip the make-up and go fresh faced to have those extra minutes with him instead. Although you do end up finding a spot beneath your ear, a remnant from his mouth last night, that you do have to take a minute to conceal.

Swathed up in your silky robe, you sift through your closet looking for something to wear when your eyes catch on a different pink dress. There are other comfier, easier things you could wearbut it’s the tie on the mostly open back that seals the deal for you. You grin to yourself as you tug open the bow before pulling it on.

He lets out a low whistle when you emerge from your bedroom.

“I know it’s not sparkly, but I think it’ll do,” you joke, twisting your hips a bit so the material of your floral print ruffle sundress floats around your calves.

“It’ll more than do,” Bradley says, staring at you with the same open desire as you’d probably given him when he’d emerged from your bathroom wrapped in that towel.

You turn and look at him over your shoulder, “Do you mind tying this for me?”

You could easily tie it yourself, but it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as having him do it for you.

“That ok?” he asks, his voice dropping a few notes lower as he fiddles with tying the flimsy straps in the back for you.

“It’s perfect. Thank you, Rooster.”

He drops a kiss to your shoulder when he’s done and then spins you so that you’re facing him.

“What about me? How do the Summer Whites measure up?” he asks, clearly fishing as he gestures to his uniform. It’s still white and pristine and surprisingly devoid of any wrinkles from the night it spent on the floor of your bedroom.

You give him a contemplative once over taking him in, “It’ll more than do. Although, you’re missing a little something.” 

You walk over the island where you’d set his hat earlier so that it wasn’t forgotten on the floor in your bedroom and pick it up. He bends a little for your benefit as you place it on his head. 

“Cute,” you say, adjusting it so it sits just right, “But I think I wore it better.”

“I think you did too,” Bradley says, tugging you in for a thorough kiss before he laces your fingers together, “You ready?”

“Yeah, let’s get this show on the road,” you say with a wink, repeating the same thing that you said back at the bar when you decided to take him home with you.

The first stop is to your favorite little café not too far away from your apartment. Coffee and food were very necessary after the way the two of you had worked each other out the night before.

Bradley had looked so cramped in your little VW Golf on the way over that you decided to ditch it there and walk around the area instead. The two of you popped in and out of the bookshops and plant shops and record stores that dotted the area. You were surprised to learn he had really great taste in music and ended up picking out a few new vinyl records to take home with you.

In line at the checkout, he’d plucked your credit card from your hand, nodding to the sign advertising the store’s military discount and whispered into your ear, “I won’t tell Uncle Sam if you don’t.”

A ten percent discount never felt so thrilling.

You caught more than a few men and women checking him out in his Summer Whites as you walked around. But you couldn’t blame them because he’d caught you checking him out more than once. But it wasn’t your fault that his ass was a revelation in those tight pants. And he clearly knew it.

When you see the marquee for the small theatre on this side of town that is known for playing the classics and art house films advertising a showing for State Fair you offhandedly mention how much you like that movie as you peek in the widow of one of the antique shops, and then next thing you know he checking his watch and pulling you with him to the box office window for tickets.

“If you don’t let me pay for something here soon, you’re going to give me a complex,” he complains when you stop him from pulling out the credit card that he has tucked in the pocket of his uniform.

“Sorry, Rooster, it’s still Fleet Week and rules are rules,” you joke, bumping him out of the way with your hip sliding your card to the attendant before he can argue with you any further.

“Baby, I need you to stop Richard Gere-ing me,” he says, taking the tickets and wrapping an arm around your waist then leading you in the building.

“Alas, they’re playing Pretty Woman today, but I think you have the potential to make a pretty Julia Roberts,” you tease him, “I’d bet red would look very fetching on you with those undertones.”

The pinch on your right butt cheek makes you jump, startled. You whirl to see if anyone caught him, but the lobby is fairly empty. You turn to send him a heatless glare, but his face is the picture of innocence.

You shake your head at him amused, “Ok, fine. Just for that I will allow you to buy me a small soda from the concession stand, Bradley.”

He looks very pleased ten minutes later when he’s carrying a large bucket of popcorn, three types of candy, and two giant cups of fizzing soda as you go to find your seats.

“So much for free Fleet Week drinks,” you tut, taking a sip of your drink.

“But I did get laid today, so I’ll call it a win,” he winks.

The two of you trade whispers as the lights go down and the music of the opening credits starts to play. You grin as you reach over for some popcorn and hear him humming along.

Just as Vivian Blaine starts strutting away from Dana Andrews, her hair bouncing vivaciously with each step, Rooster angles over, “Hey, that’s how your friend looked last night walking away from Hangman. He’s been harassing me all day to get you to give me your number so he can call her.” 

You hold back the snicker that tries to escape your throat when he gets shushed by someone a few rows back, whispering even louder, “Sorry!”

You lean in closer, admiring the way half of his face is illuminated from the screen and confide, “Where do you think she learned it from?”

You and your best friend had taken the same film studies class in college and she tested out the move that night at the bars near campus with an almost perfect success rate. It’s been her go-to move ever since.

“No shit?”

“I’m serious,” you say with a giggle.

The shusher makes their displeasure known again and this time the both of you burst out laughing.

“We should probably go before they start throwing popcorn at us. I don’t think even with military grade detergent that you’d be able to get butter-flavored oil out of those Summer Whites.”

Bradley agrees readily and your heart flip-flops knowing that he’d rather be talking with you than sitting silently for the next two hours. He even tosses one of the boxes of candy to the shusher on the way out as an apology.

The two of you head to the beach instead, sitting on the sand and watching the waves. Tossing some of the popcorn kernels to hungry seagulls who approach. The two of you are both a little overdressed for it, but if anything, that makes it more fun.

You’re surprised at how easy it is to talk to him, to tease him. Surprised that he’s more than just a pretty face with a good body. The way he is so at-home and comfortable in his own skin makes you feel like you don’t have to try to be impressive, you can just be yourself. 

As the sun sinks lower in the sky, you’re both increasingly aware there’s a ticking clock above your heads and that this has to come to an end soon. And far too soon you end up making your way back together to where you’d left your car a few blocks away from the café you’d taken him to for brunch.

“Do you need to drop by your place for your things?” you ask Rooster, toying with your car keys.

“I packed last night. I asked a friend who is shipping out with me to grab them for me,” he says, scrubbing a hand down the side of his face.

“Not Hangman?” You wonder fleetingly if your friend ended up caving and giving him her number or not.

“Not this time. Which I’m not too mad about since he snores.” You know he is trying to make you laugh, but you just press your lips together and nod.

“So I should head there.” It’s not a question. You know your time is up.

“You probably should,” he says, with a sigh and a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

It’s a quiet ride as he directs you to a public lot near the Naval Air Station where he says his friend Bob is going to meet the two of you, explaining that he doesn’t have the pass that would allow you to drop him off inside the gates.

There are a few cars in the lot, but he points out where you should park near an older, but well maintained Chevy truck. When you look over as you pull into the space a couple spots away a man in glasses waves, you don’t miss the two duffle bags that are in the second row of his cab.

“Hey, I’ll be right back. Don’t leave yet, please,” Rooster says, unbuckling and getting out of your car. And for whatever reason, you do too.

You linger in front of your car as you wait for him to come back to you. You watch as his friend Bob passes him a pen and some paper, you can tell he’s trying to fill it out quickly based on the way his hand seems to be flying over it.

There’s an intensity to the way that Bradley walks back to you. Your feet are pinned to the asphalt beneath you as his eyes stay trained on you.

You both stand there nearly chest to chest just taking the other in. 

He’s still too breathtaking for words in his uniform as the golden hour light makes the sun-streaked strand of his hair gleam like threads of gold. His eyes slowly run over your face and down the dress he’d carefully tied you in this morning.

If this is it, if this is all you’re ever going to get with him, this is how you want him to remember you. Standing in a nice dress and staring at the sunset.

He reaches out and cups your face in his warm hand.

“Say you’ll see me again,” he says, holding your gaze. You can see every color of brown reflected in his pretty eyes.

Your heart seizes in your chest, “Bradley, I-”

He lightly puts his thumb over your lips to stop you before you can finish.

“Listen, I really like you. But it wouldn’t be fair of me to ask you to wait for me, so I’m not going to.” You’re unprepared for the rock that sinks to the pit of your stomach. “What I’m going to do is give you this,” he says handing you the thin paper packet, “This has all the information you need to get on base if you wanted to meet me there in two months when I get back. They give it to all of us when we get our deployment papers mailed to us, I’ve just never had a reason to fill one out for anyone before.”

You hold it in your hands and look at it. The letters are slightly sloppy in that way that men seem to have. The sheet is filled out his full name, Bradley Nicholas Bradshaw, as well as what you assume is his military I.D. number and other crumbs of information about the handsome man standing in front of you.

And you’re reminded again, that you’ve only gotten to see just the tiniest sliver of him.

“Say you’ll see me again,” he repeats, quieter this time, “Even if it’s just pretend.”

You hear what he is really saying: lie to me, please.

His friend is waiting for him in his idling truck.

And Bradley is waiting on you.

But you feel like you’re out of time.

This was supposed to be one night.

One night, one moment.

So why does this feel so big? Like you were on the precipice of something monumental.

You haven’t even known him for twenty-four hours and yet you’ve never felt like this about anyone else before. The potential of him and of what this seemed like it could be was too good, too perfect. And it scares you. Because the reality of it could crush you if you let yourself give into it and he changed his mind. You don’t want to get swept up in a daydream or a flight of fancy.

What-ifs are just heart aches, not heart breaks.

You can’t give him what he wants, not right now. But you can’t lie to him either.

Even if you want to. Even if you’re dying to.

“Stay safe, Lieutenant Commander Bradley Rooster Bradshaw,” you say, softly not trusting your voice.

Bradley leans in and tips your chin up with a finger under your chin, your eyes flutter close and your breath catches in your chest when you feel his warm breath ghosting over your face. He brushes the softest kiss you’ve ever been given against your cheek. The sweetness of it melts against your skin like a snowflake, like a wish.

“I hope I see you again,” he murmurs, lips lingering.

And then he’s gone, taken away on a summer breeze.

Those two months had moved slower than you thought possible.

You’d learned that your best friend hadn’t been able to give Hangman her number when she’d ended up being the one to try and corral the gaggle of drunken bridesmaids at last call and shepherd them into the waiting cabs. Apparently, she’d tried to look for him but by the time she’d had a moment he’d already left.

That packet of paper you’d kept on your island had taken on a life of its own.

At your friend’s wedding, you’d stood off to the side in your intricately beaded bridesmaid dress watching on with a glass of champagne in your hand as she had her first dance with her new husband. And let yourself imagine what it might have felt like if he’d have been there too. The next day as you had nursed your hangover, you’d regretted indulging those thoughts in addition to drinking the full bottle of champagne you’d snuck away with.

It felt like you were just going through the motions. Like your head was somewhere else, with someone else.

The more you tried to talk yourself out of it and forget about how he’d made you feel, the more he chased you in your dreams.

All the hours you’d spent wondering about what-if you went, what-if you waited, what-if you met him there had led you to this moment here and now. 

The drive had been made, the papers had been handed over and you were approved for entry, it was all happening.

You at Naval Air Station North Island wearing the same pink floral ruffle sundress that you had dropped him off in two months ago.

The smell of jet fuel and rubber mix with the ocean air as the planes start to land one by one and make the slow taxi along the long airstrip that leads to the ramp where they are to park. The perfect lines of them were just as immaculate on the ground as they were in the sky.

As more and more of them make their final descent, the more antsy the crowd of friends and families of the squadron members get. There’s an excited tension steadily building as they wait for the go-ahead to leave the hanger to greet the people they’ve been missing.

You can hear your heartbeat beating in your ears like a drum.

He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.

You hope you’re not making an idiot of yourself. You hope that he hasn’t forgotten you. You hope he remembers why he wanted you here in the first place. You hope he still wants you.

When the final engine of the final plane is turned off, the officer in charge announces that everyone is free to exit the hanger and another cheer goes out. This one much louder than before when the aviators had done the flyover in their faultless formations.

It’s a rush of people as they stream around you out of the domed arch of the hanger and onto the open tarmac under the cloudless blue sky.

The names on the planes had been clocked well in advance by their keen, anticipatory eyes. They know exactly which aircraft they’re heading to and who is going to be climbing out of that cockpit to greet them with equal enthusiasm.

You can see the beaming smiles, you can hear the giddy laughter.

Yet your feet stay stuck on that line between the cracked industrial cement floor and the sundrenched tarmac as you watch all those happy moments happen around you.

It’s the sound of a raspy, full bodied laugh that catches your ear and has your head whirling to the left.

And there he is.

Even from a distance the sight of Bradley Bradshaw has your heart fluttering in your chest.

You see him meeting up with a couple of other pilots with his helmet in hands. You recognized Bob by his glasses, but they’re joined by a fierce looking woman. Rooster is all smiles as she gives him a friendly, playful shove before slipping her hand into Bob’s.

There is nothing you want more than that smile of his to be directed at you.

You catch the way he seems to be checking over his shoulders and looking around to observe the joyful homecoming scenes unfolding around him.

It feels like half hope, half agony when you take that first step out of the shady hanger, onto the tarmac, and into the bright San Diego sun. There were still more than a few warm summer days to look forward to.

Summoning more courage, you take a few more tentative steps in Rooster’s direction. You feel like you’re holding your breath, waitingwaitingwaiting for him to look over and see you.

You’re noticed by his dark-haired female friend first, who nods her chin in your direction. You see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he takes a deep breath before he turns towards your direction and sees you for the first time in two months.

And for a moment, it’s just you and Bradley.

Across a crowded bar. Across a teeming tarmac.  

His eyes locked on yours and yours locked on his.

That easy smile he’d already been wearing is transformed into a wide grin that lights up his whole face.

Your stomach swoops and your feet start moving like they have a mind of their own towards him. He hands his helmet to Bob before he’s taking long strides to meet you halfway. You’re almost toe-to-toe with him, but you stop a respectable half-step further away than you’d like to be.

The two of you are a little greedy in the way you take in the other up close.

You can almost feel the warmth of his brown eyes on your skin, he’s looking at you like he is trying to soak up every inch of you. He has a heart-fluttering crinkle around his eyes as his gaze sweeps over your dress. And you know you’ve made the right choice by wearing it.

Rooster is more tan than the last time you saw him. Sweat dots his temples and his pretty curls are a little flat, no doubt from the shiny red and yellow helmet he’d all but blindly shoved into poor Bob’s hands. You notice that his lips are chapped and his nose a little sunburnt.

He’s still handsome as hell. Maybe even more so now.

“Hey, Sailor,” you greet him, giving him a grin of your own. “You look awfully familiar. Although I think the flight suit is throwing me off, maybe if you put those Summer Whites back on it’ll help jog my memory.”

He laughs and slides a finger under the thin strap of your dress and gently tugs you in even closer.

“Huh, that’s funny because I definitely remember you,” Bradley says, scooping you up with one arm, “Pretty sure you’re the girl of my dreams.”

And then he’s kissing you in a way that you’re pretty sure is going to screw you up forever.

Your wildest dreams never could have prepared you for the reminder of how good it feels to be held in his arms.

Your wildest dreams never could have prepared you for how good it feels to have his lips sliding against yours again.

Your wildest dreams never could have prepared you for a man like Bradley Bradshaw.

He was real and he was in front of you and he wanted you.

“I need you to stop smiling so much, sweetheart, so I can kiss you properly,” he says, pulling back to nudge your nose with his.

“My apologies, I’ll try to take this more seriously,” you tease, still smiling as you pull his face back to yours.

As Bradley presses you even closer, you realize this might not be a bad idea at all, but possibly the best one you’ve ever had.

There's no man quite like Bradley Bradshaw! Whether he is in his Summer Whites or in a Flight Suit he's That Man™️!

Many, many, MANY thanks to @gretagerwigsmuse for her support and endless cheerleading! He's finally got his pants off, Jordan, we did it!

If you missed Part 1 you can read it HERE! Or if you haven't read the story that started it all check out Hey, Sailor!

Moodboards: One || Two

You can read my other stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @shanimallina87 @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

#bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #rooster x you #rooster x reader #rooster x female reader #top gun imagine #top gun fanfiction

[violetsandfluff]

Broken Ring

“They won’t have to cut it off, right?” you whimpered, feeling your lower lip tremble as you gazed forlornly at the glistening gem on your ring finger. Your doctor assured you that swelling in hands and feet was common during pregnancy, but it still shocked you when you couldn’t wiggle your ring past your knuckle.

You called Harry in a panic, explaining tearfully that the ring was stuck on your finger.

“I’ll be home in thirty,” he consoled you. “Put some ice on it ‘til I get back, okay? Don’t worry about it, lovie. It will all work out.”

You followed his instructions, icing your inflamed finger diligently until he got home. Paying such close attention to your ring brought you back to the day Harry had proposed to you.

The sunlight streaming through the trees overhead and the sound of the water lapping at the shore was permanently etched in your mind. Harry had been so young, only twenty years old at the time of his proposal. Now he was almost thirty, and proud to be expecting his first child.

“I didn’t expect you to be home so soon,” you sniffled as he walked into the kitchen, scooping you out of your chair and into his lap.

“Neither did the cops,” he joked. “Let’s see your little finger. Did the ice help?”

You removed the wad of ice and soaked washcloths from your hand only to find your finger more swollen and purple than you had left it.

“Ouch,” Harry said softly, tracing his finger over the bruised skin. “It’s hot to the touch, dove. Is it painful to touch?”

You shook your head slowly, a wave of tears threatening to spill out of your eyes and onto your cheeks.

“Try to twist it off,” he suggested. “Slowly, gently, like a Chinese finger trap.”

You tried to twist the ring off fruitlessly, every ounce of hope in your body dwindling. Harry’s face twisted in dismay as it became obvious that the ring wasn’t budging.

He tried oiling the skin, icing it more, and even wrapping it with dental floss, but nothing could help the ring over your swollen knuckle.

You had never dreamed that the ring you grew to love and treasure so much would meet its end at the mercy of a jewelry saw at urgent care. It was of utmost importance to you because of all of the memories it held. Now it was just a severed stone and band in the bottom of a clear Ziplock bag that you gripped as if your life depended on it.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Harry murmured into your hair as you clutched the accessory to your chest and leaned into him for solace. “I’ll buy you another ring, whichever one you want.”

“But…” you stuttered, “it’s not the same.”

“You can keep this forever,” Harry said. “We can get the diamond changed into a necklace or even put on a different band.”

“It feels like a broken promise,” you argued. “I’m never without my wedding ring.”

“All you need is right here,” Harry finalized, tapping your chest ever so slightly. “You’ve got every part of me right there, forever and always.”

Taglist: @madybeth21 @fishingirl12 @sortingharryshairclip @groovychaosavenue @mrspeacem1nusone @tenaciousperfectionunknown @cayleyhannha-blog @whitemancumslut @xxrosebunny @hsdaydreaminghaze

#Harry styles #Harry styles blurb #Harry styles fanfiction #harry styles angst #Harry styles fluff #husband!harry #doctor!harry #Harry styles comfort #harry styles x plus size reader #harry styles x fem!reader #Harry styles au #dad!harry #dadrry #flutterfly alley #yellow 💛 heart

[luveline]

Hello,dear writer!if your requests are still open,how about an s/o that gets really lovesick for eddie when drunk?

absolutely!! tysm for ur request!!! ♡ fem!reader

"Eddie," you say, sweet but clumsy, smelling way too much like red wine.

He frowns at you because you've lost your jacket and an earring, and he hadn't known there was red wine in Harrington's house to drink.

"Where've you been?" he asks, a concerned murmur. Your neck is hot under his hand as he pulls you toward him, an intoxicated flush.

Your earring is definitely missing.

"Steve found wine. His mom's wine. And she's, like, super rich."

"Yeah? So you had the whole bottle?"

"Two glasses," you correct.

Your voice is lilting, near melodious as you talk, and your smile is uninhibited. Being drunk has made you look very, very pretty. Eddie wants to sit you down in his lap and tell you all about it, but sober you is really gonna miss that earring.

He follows down the crook of your elbow and takes your hand into his. You make sure to thread your fingers and squeeze three times. He squeezes back.

Through the hallway and into the kitchen again, he finds Steve and Robin in states similar to your own. Being drunk hasn't made either of them any prettier — Steve has his head in Robin's lap, eyes glassy and somewhere else as she pets his forehead.

"Steve," she coos, "you're so dumb."

Eddie laughs. You spin, stop, and beam at him. Your tenacity is kind of creepy.

"What?' he asks. He looks down at the front of his shirt. "I got something on me?"

"You have the nicest laugh ever, teddy."

"Oh, you're drunk. Can't believe I forgot."

You ignore his serious tone and bring your joined hands up to your chest. "Laugh again? It was really nice."

"Let me think about it."

You look over his shoulder at his friends, who seem to be having simultaneous breakdowns. Robin has dissolved into laughter thin and delicate as candy floss. Steve complains in her lap about being a spectacle for her, "You're fucking so mean. Where did Y/N go?"

"Hi Steve."

"Oh, she's right there. Hey! Are you gonna come and save me?"

You step closer to Eddie and drop your cheek into his chest. He raises his eyebrows in surprise as you begin to nuzzle like an overeager puppy.

"With my boy, sorry."

"Ugh, whatever. Why are you in here?" he asks Eddie.

"You want me so bad, Stevie-kins."

Steve chokes on a breath and turns into Robin's stomach, muttering, "This is all your fault. Told you not to let me drink wine again."

You've lost all will to move on, melting and melded to Eddie's front. Your hands rove over his waist until you've found what you want — the hem of his t-shirt. You slide a hand underneath and he tries not to laugh as your fingertips tickle as they climb his back, nail scratching gently against the dip of his spine.

"What's the matter with you?" he asks, wondering if maybe you're clingy because you're upset.

"Y'smell really nice. Nice and," — you wrap both arms around him tight, the soft of your stomach squished to his — "warm and... You're such a good hugger. Best hugs ever."

He ignores your drunken little hiccups and instead looks over your head to scour the floor for your earring.

"Sweetheart," he says, dipping his face to speak into your ear, "I'm never letting you out of my sight again." Because you're wasted, he doesn't say. Extremely wasted, considering you'd been apart for half an hour.

"I don't wanna be away from you either. Ever. Makes me so sad when you have to go."

He softens. "Maybe we should go home, huh? Get you into bed."

He rubs circles into your back to sweeten the deal. Eddie's nothing if not persuasive.

"No, just wanna hug you," you mumble.

"You can hug me in bed."

"Wanna hug you now."

Eddie's not an idiot. If a pretty girl like you wants to hug him all night then that's what's gonna happen. Your back rises under his hands, your drunken breathing slow and sluggish, and you make a contented sound that vibrates into each of his fingers. He pats your back in return, to say Yeah, the feeling's mutual.

"Kiss?" you mumble.

He leans back. You smooth all the hair out of his face in preparation, eyes widened by an obvious infatuation. You almost step on his toes as you raise off your heels and give him a surprisingly lovely kiss. You taste like wine, and you're a smidge too far to the right, but the tips of your noses touch and you're soft as silk under his hands.

"Love you so much," you murmur into him, turning your face to one side.

He kisses you harder than he means to and then holds you at shoulders length. "Love you, sweet thing. Home now?"

"Mm, yeah please."

He cups your cheek. You smile until your lashes touch at the corners.

-

#eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #eddie munson x fem!reader #fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff

[bruisedboys]

congratulations on the milestone!! is it possible to get a jupiter with steve harrington and the prompt “jawline kisses”?

thank you!! and omg this prompt with steve was heavenly, ily

summary: steve gets some jawline kisses. fluff, established relationship

gn!reader 700 words

It was the kind of kissing that made you dizzy. The kind that tasted like candy floss melting on your tongue and sounded like poorly contained giddy laughter. You almost couldn’t breathe, your head swimming with lack of air and too much love, but you didn’t care.

Your hands were buried in Steve’s hair, fingers all tangled in his soft unruly locks, nails scratching gently at his scalp. His hands were on you, on every inch of you he could reach. Your thighs, spread overtop his own, your hips poised just above his, and now they were sneaking under your shirt, palms smoothing over the soft skin of your stomach and waist.

You sighed so dreamily you would’ve been embarrassed if you’d been with anyone but Steve. With Steve it didn’t matter, the sounds you got out of each other were music to the other’s ears.

Steve mumbled something unintelligible against your lips, a low hum that vibrated on your mouth. You giggled, pushed back just a millimetre to give yourself space to talk. Your hands dropped to his shoulders.

“What?” You were so breathless it came out as a raspy whisper.

Steve was no better. He sounded half drunk when he finally got the words out, chest heaving. “I said, what do you want for dinner?”

You snorted, then fell into a round of sticky giggles that were hard to get rid of. Steve grinned lazily.

“You’re dumb,” you told him, your tone nothing but fondness. “You’re kissing me stupid and you want to know what I want for dinner?”

Steve looked offended. He pouted, his swollen, kiss-raw lips pushed out dramatically. “Well, yeah, I’m hungry. Look, we could have pizza, or Chinese, or I could make that soup you like …”

Steve’s list of dinner options suddenly became unimportant as but your eyes caught on the freckles that decorated his cheekbone and trailed down to his jaw. Like little constellations on his skin, they begged to be kissed and touched and loved. You tried to listen to his mini rant, you really did, but you couldn’t help it — you leaned in while he was still talking nonsense and pressed a kiss to his jawline, right on a patch of freckles.

Steve’s breath caught and he trailed off, dinner plans all but forgotten. You smiled against his skin, kissed the same smattering of freckles, this time longer and sweeter.

“What are you doing?” He asked, sounding breathless and somewhat anguished. His hands found your hips and he pulled you closer on his lap, your hipbones pressing into his stomach. He obviously didn’t mind whatever you were up to.

“Nothing,” you said innocently. You pulled away, met his frazzled eyes and brushed your fingers over the spot you’d just kissed. “You have four freckles right here, did you know?”

"Yeah," he breathed, looking like he maybe hadn't even heard what you said at all.

"They're pretty."

Steve made a noise that sounded like something was stuck in his throat. You grinned, leaned in again and fit your mouth to his jaw. If anything his speechlessness encouraged you, and you spread your mouth over his jawline, bottom lip pushing underneath the bone while your top lip spread over the top, his skin smooth and velvety under your lips. You left a trail of precise, blazing kisses along his jaw, lips warm and sticky with fondness.

Your tongue brushed over his hot skin and he audibly sighed, shoulders going slack under your hands, more melting popsicle than boy. A moment later his hands were on the move - he must've decided it was his turn to undo you, his fingers dipping beneath the hem of your t-shirt and climbing fast. You pulled away abruptly when his fingertips reached your chest, hands dropping to his wrists, your t-shirt halfway up your torso and rising.

"Steve," you chided, breathless and giddy, lips swollen. You gave a half-hearted tug at his wrists but he didn't budge. You didn't really want him to. "Dinner."

Steve met your eyes, your equally heavy breaths mingling in the small space between you. His jaw was shining with your kisses. "M'not hungry anymore."

#★ mal writes! #✿ 300 celebration! #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington x gn!reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x reader fluff #✉️ #stevesmixtape!

[melannen]

Dracula cross-stitch sampler pattern

Since I've had time on vacation, I finished up a cross-stitch pattern I started a year ago in the first Dracula Daily round, based on the words Dracula uses to greet Jonathan Harker when he comes to the castle: "Welcome to my house. Come freely, go safely, and leave some of the happiness you bring".

I wanted a sampler for my front hall, but all the patterns I could find were very Hot Topic Goth. Nothing wrong with that, but my goth aesthetic is more "creepy thing found behind the wall in an old attic", and I wanted a pattern that my aunt wouldn't realize was anything out of the ordinary. I was looking around for inspiration and stumbled on an 1871 sampler by 12-year-old Jemima Clements in the Victoria & Albert Museum in London. It's a little bit early for Dracula but the aesthetic was spot on, so I spent a long time squinting at a zoom of the best download of it they had to copy the wolves and the letters, and then left it for almost a year because I got frustrated trying to figure out how to get a good-formatted pattern out.

When we came up on a year I transcended frustrated and went with the good-old fashioned grandma method and transferred my pixels to a spreadsheet. So on the off chance you want a creepy Dracula sampler for your front hall, I now have it in .pdf and a downloadable Google Sheet. The .pdf is formatted to print on legal paper, but it will be a bit small that way; you are welcome to fiddle with the spreadsheets to get it the size you want.

PDF of the pattern of the Dracula quote ^this will not work if your browser redirects to https because my webhost messed that up, but it should work if you force http

Google Drive link to a shareable/downloadable Sheets file

The pattern uses 7-10 different thread colors; I don't believe in locking in brand-name floss, so the pattern includes color description and it's up to you to find stuff in your stash that looks good together.

I could not come up with a decision on the border, so the options are:

Make all the flowers plain lavender

Use a variegated purple for the flowers

Pick 4-6 different shades of lavender/light purple and alternate them - this is most similar to Jemima's border

Use the "allium flower" pixel art pattern I coded into the pattern (recommended only if you recognized the allium flower pixel art pattern I used.)

#dracula daily #dracula #cross stitch #cross-stitch #sampler #embroidery #pattern #welcome to my house #come freely #go safely #and leave some of the happiness you bring #don't recommend putting this on the front door since the caveats on the welcome are pretty vague #wolves #the children of the night #not the music the original sampler meant #(probably but never underestimate the creepiness of twelve year old girls) #(I don't know why else you'd do howling wolves for a prayer about music)

[randombush3]

Floss Got Hot Masterlist

i have plans guys

one

two

three

four

five

six

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A guide to the latest couple in Gay Hollywood: Florence Pugh and her new billionaire belle

DeuxMoi story: 5th September 2022

Texts with Toby: 5th September 2022

Florence Pugh is newly single?: 6th September 2022

#florence pugh fanfiction #florence pugh x reader #florence pugh #black widow #florence pugh x you #fanfiction #florence pugh one shot #marvel #mcu #yelena belova #floss got hot #randombush3 #florence pugh x y/n #florence pugh smut #florence pugh fluff #florence pugh angst #florence pugh imagines #florence pugh drabbles

[half-algorithm-half-deity]

Tips for making actually cheap punk clothes from someone that has spent a maximum of $11 on any specific project over 3 years:

Bottle caps make AMAZING pins. There's countless ways to make bottlecap pins, but I mainly do it by 1) filling the cap with hot glue and 2) gluing a safety pin to the back. It's up to the individual. But the point is: Save bottlecaps.

DRINK CANS ARE AMAZING FOR MAKING SPIKES! Any aluminum can works - Monster cans, beer cans, etc. - all you have to do is cut off the tops and bottoms; make it a flat sheet; cut the metal into small semicircles; and roll it into cones. They stay in place easily with hot glue, and when you put them onto anything, they look just as good as store-bought.

Save Can Tabs. They can be put onto jackets, made into chains, earrings, necklaces, or anything else you want.

Literally anything can be made punk. Jeans, cargo pants, denim jackets, t-shirts, shoes, hoodies - the sky's the limit. Don't let these tiktok punks tell you that only their $80 Social Distortion pants and $120 denim jackets can be punk. Any clothes you pull out of a dumpster can be punkified.

Old T-shirts that no longer fit and have a design on them can be cut out and made into backpieces. Band shirts are particularly great for this, so if you thrift a Motorhead shirt that's too small, you can cut out the design and sew it onto a jacket and bam - you've got an exclusive piece of merch.

This one's more of an opinion, but: If you're patching up a jacket, sew the patches onto the outside of the jacket. If you're patching up pants, create holes where you want the design, and sew the patches from the inside of the pants.

Do research. If a "thrift store" calls itself a cheap alternative store, but has $50 jeans, it's not a thrift store. It's a vintage reseller, and the clothes are almost always WAY overpriced.

Shoplift carefully. Go somewhere you don't usually go - a large chain like Walmart or Target or Staples, not a local business - and take small things. Don't go somewhere that you're a regular at, or shoplift multiple times in a short period of times, or do too much at once. You will develop a track record and have more of a chance of being caught. However, the workers don't get paid less for you stealing, and the big suits in corporate won't notice or care about a missing pack of dental floss.

Experiment! Have fun with it! I've been Frankenstein-ing my jacket for years and counting - I've taken off the sleeves, added new sleeves, painted on it, put patches on it, added pins, anything you can think of. Be loud, be ugly, be weird, be happy.

If you have a painted patch or spot on pants/a jacket/whatever and it's old, but you want to take it off now, or if you just made a mistake, acetone can get pretty much any amount and age of paint out of any fabric. By acetone, I mean most nail polish removers or rubbing alcohols.

Now, I hate buying things for making punk clothes, but there are a few things that, in my opinion, are investments that last FOREVER. This includes: Hot glue guns; nail polish remover (for the last tip, mainly); paint pens and containers of paint (fabric or not); sharpies; dental floss or just normal thread; fabric scissors; and SAFETY PINS. None of them are very expensive, but they'll come in handy for years.

ESPECIALLY SHARPIES. That's the one thing I won't debate is a perfect investment. You can get a set of 12 colors or 12 black ones for like $9, and you can use them for EVERYTHING. The color also won't bleed when washed, as opposed to most pens and markers.

SAFETY PINS ARE A FASHION STATEMENT IN AND OF ITSELF. They're super useful in making clothes and jewelry, they're cheap and easy to find, and just nice to line the hems of your pants with.

When you make a square patch, fold in the edges slightly so that the edges don't fray. This makes it slightly harder to sew on, but it keeps the patch in good condition for longer - unless the idea is to look tattered. Then don't.

Don't be afraid to add something random and weird to your clothing because "oh people are gonna see it and know I like this weird niche thing" - that's the whole point! It's an expression of who YOU are, not what people want you to be. If people - especially other punks - judge you for it, fuck them. Unless...

No swastikas, no iron crosses, no symbols of oppression, no TERF shit. I'd say that's the only rule of punk - to say "oppression is punk" is going against everything punk stands for. Of course, if you do it anyways, you should at least know you deserve the beating you get at a basement show attended by underpaid and rage-filled faggots.

Of course, these are just mine, and there's plenty more that I do not know. If you've got your own way of doing things that goes against mine, that's awesome. But if you need to start somewhere as a kid punk, I hope this helped.

#punk #punk fashion #punk rock #skate punk #punk music #art punk #eco punk #alt rock #diy fashion #alternative fashion #crust punk #diy punk #diy patches #diy or die #battle jacket

[ashmouthbooks]

Tiny Books Bang 2023

The Kaer Morhen Book Club by @jackironsides, typeset by @catspawbindery . Amyda has received her copy, and so has the author! so here we goooo

I JUMPED at the chance to bind this - agonised for a while about whether or not I got my first choice in claims - as this was a fic I already know and love and I had IDEAS for what to do with it. Amyda's typeset was so inspiring, including a frontispiece and medieval-esque fonts, and since the fic features medieval romance novels (chivalric, really) I thought it would be fun to try to emulate the binding of the novel Starcrossed Love as described in the fic:

He waves an octavo at them. The cover has beautifully marbled paper, and black leather enclosing the spine with gilt decorations pressed in.

And there it is, with its dark calfskin binding, a single star stamped in gold on the spine.

This is an octavo binding (though printed on A4 paper, so a very small octavo - an A7-sized book), it has a leather spine (animal: unknown), marbled cove papers, and a star foiled onto the spine with a hot foil pen. for endpapers I chose Japanese Chiyogami paper as I'd stumbled over this particular pattern by accident and thought both the colour scheme and pattern matched the medieval vibe. the headbands are green and gold embroidery floss.

I struggled a little with the leather - which I've never worked with before - so my own copy (the first trial copy) didn't come out as well, but lessons learned and the typesetter's and the author copies came out beautifully.

my copy, using a different, thicker leather for the spine, resulting in no visible hinge at all:

it doesn't look bad, but it's not the vibe I wanted and I had to do a lot of infilling to account for the thickness of the leather since I didn't have any leather paring tools.

the author's copy is a different colour scheme for two reasons: I sourced the leather from the leather scraps bin in Shepherd's, London, and the pieces were very small. I was only able to find two pieces large enough to cover the spine of an A7 (I'd brought along a dummy to test the scraps against) and the two pieces were different colours. I also didn't have enough of the medieval-esque Chiyogamy for a 3rd set of endpapers so I chose a wildly different but striking Chiyogamy paper to match the colours of the leather and marbled paper. the headbands are dark blue and pale blue embroidery floss.

bonus: all three copies together:

#bookbinding #fanbinding #the witcher #my bindings #jackironsides #tiny books bang 2023

[vampire-meta-knight]

DIY Goth Shorts

Goths of Tumblr, grab your sewing needles and safety pins, because have I got a fun and easily-customizable project for you!

I’ve been gothifying shorts and pants for a couple years, now, and they’re just so much fun to make! Very affordable, too, since all the shorts I get are either thrifted or from Walmart. From then on, I add anything I see fit—patches (bought from Hot Topic and Etsy or DIY), beads, chains, safety pins, fabric paint, embroidery, charms, ribbon, lace, buttons—you get the idea. Lots of my lace trim comes from thrift stores, charms are easy to find in bulk online, you can get beads at Walmart or your local craft store, embroidery floss and needles can be found at Walmart and are cheap (and easy to learn how to use!), and if you don’t want to buy patches you can easily make your own by creating stencils with freezer paper (tutorials are on YouTube) and dabbing on fabric or acrylic paint with a sponge brush.

I’ve also tie-dye bleached and dyed some black shorts for a cool black-and-red and black-and-purple pair. I’ve customized long pants for colder weather, as well, which may get their own post if people are interested.

If all this sounds intimidating to a new crafter, worry not! I have some really simple pairs that took no skill. I don’t have pictures, but I have one pair that just has 2-inch safety pins on the hem and a chain pinned at the pocket. That’s it! No sewing, no painting, just pins!

I also have a pair that has sew-on-studs on the hem and one patch on the leg for a less-busy design if all the eclectic clutter isn’t your vibe.

Point is, you can add whatever you want to some shorts to make them uniquely yours. They can be as busy or plain, colorful or monochrome, girly or grungy as you like! Heck, they don’t even have to be goth. I encourage anyone who knows how to hand-sew or embroider to customize their clothes, no matter their style. It’s fun!

#goth subculture #gothgoth #goth diy #diy #goth fashion #goth #alternative fashion #mine

[ithinkthiswasabadidea]

‼️‼️ (BELATED) UPDATES FOR OUR LOYAL JACK'ED NATION ‼️‼️‼️

A longer post of the Insanely Cool Adventures of the Most Muscular Man, Jack'ed Tavarios:

Backed up the bro Astarion "The Ass Man" Ancunin, when our boy got THREATENED 🙅😱❌️❌️ (ASTARION ALSO HAS A STALKER ⁉️😰)

ROADTRIP ‼️ Found our way into the Underdark 😝🤯🍄

Got JUMPED by a dental hygiene asshole ⁉️ (floss game goes INSANE) 💪😤��🔥

Gave bro a DASTARDLY book 😈💯💯‼️

Had an.... awakening experience with a guy who had maximum rizz and a firm grip , and wearing leather in a dark corner of a dungeon 😳

NO PAIN NO GAINZZZ 🔥💯💪😈💦

Which had an affect on more than just Jack'ed WHO IMMEDIATELY GOT PROPOSITIONED BY THE BRO ASTARION ⁉️⁉️😱❤️‍🔥

Jack'ed got in a PREDICAMENT ⛓️😤😤⛓️

Met a bear who was a BEAR ‼️‼️🔥🐻🔥

And killed all the goblins JUST LIKE CRUSHING A WORKOUT 💪😈🔥🔥💯💯

GONNA THROW A RAGERRRR W/ THE TIEFS‼️ WE BE POPPING THE BIGGEST BOTTLESSSS 💯🍾🍾🔛🔝

AND FINALLY we may no longer be able to refer to our bro Astarion as our bro......

but bro is majestic..... 😳😳❤️‍🔥

bro is sensual.... ‼️😍❤️‍🔥

bro is........ SEXUAL⁉️ 😈🍆💦💦💦

🔥🔥 JACK'ED IS NOT IMMUNE TO HOT ELF ACTION🔥🔥

World and Mind (and dick). Blown. Jack'ed is now on a journey of sexual self discovery 🤯💯❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

But hey - MASSIVE GLUTES AND TRAPS AND DELTS AM I RIGHT😳⁉️‼️ knew there was a reason why "The Ass Man" got his nickname 😜😈

THANK YOU FOR THE CONTINUED SUPPORT, LOYAL FANS AND FRIENDS OF JACK'ED NATION ‼️🔥💯💯🙏❤️

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #bg3 #astarion ancunin #bg3 astarion #halsin #abdirak #bg3 abdirak #oc Jack'ed #bg3 blogging #long post #i crammed so much into this bc i was putting off collecting all my screenshots #i have since done EVEN MORE so assume these posts are a couple weeks behind what im up to doing in game

[sequinsmile-x]

Can I make a request. Can you please write a fic where Emily and Aaron on the bed cuddling and discussing everything. How they fell in love how they thought they’ll never get a chance and how admired each other from distance. Fic where they just remember everything 🥰 thank you 🫶

I love this idea! <3

This came out REAL fluffy haha, so I hope you enjoy it bestie!

-x-

Our Story

Aaron tells a story to try and lull his newborn daughter to sleep.

If only his wife would stop interrupting him.

-x-

Warnings: so incredibly fluffy so please floss afterwards

Words: 2.5k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily sighs contentedly as she stands under the stream of hot water, her eyes closed as she lets the last of the body wash slip away from her skin. She was exhausted, so tired she thinks she might actually fall asleep standing up if she stayed in the shower too much longer. As she turns off the water, the white noise gives way to the sound of crying from the bedroom and the deep timbre of her husband’s voice, and she blows out a breath. 

Violet was six days old, a tiny little thing who hated sleep and loved to be held by one of her parents - her mother if she had her way, which meant that the five minute shower Emily had just had was nothing short of a luxury. Aaron had gently nudged her towards the bathroom, Violet tiny and safe against his chest as he shifted back and forth on his feet, trying to lull their newborn to sleep. He was exhausted too, insistent on being there for the baby as much as she was, bringing her snacks and water whenever she had to nurse, keeping her and Violet company in the middle of the night even when she told him he could go to sleep.

Even though they’d barely slept since their daughter was born, and a few weeks prior because of how uncomfortable Emily was at the end of her pregnancy, she knew they’d never been happier. It was a life she’d always wanted, one she’d never dared to dream she’d ever get. Her happiness so intertwined with Aaron, Jack and Violet’s that she knew it could never be untangled, the four of them stitched together like the world's finest tapestry. 

She groans as she pulls on her pjyamas - a pair of Aaron’s sweatpants since hers still didn’t fit, and a nursing t-shirt and bra - her body still sore and aching from labour. She grimaces as she wipes steam from the mirror, her reflection making her recoil slightly. Her hair, which she hadn’t had the energy to clean, was piled on top of her head in a bun, and the bags under her eyes were so dark she knew if she even bothered to put make-up on they wouldn’t be covered. 

“Well,” she says to herself, plucking at the material of her t-shirt, scrunching her nose up at how it gathered around curves she still wasn’t used to, “That’s as good as it’s going to get I guess.” 

She stretches, grimacing again at the way her whole body feels like it hurts, and yawns again before she takes a deep breath, called towards the bedroom by her daughter’s cries, an ever present ache she seemed to have in her arms these days when she wasn’t holding her. She smiles as she opens the door and her eyes meet Aaron’s.

He’s pacing back and forth in their bedroom, talking softly to Violet, his lips against her dark hair as he whispers things only she can hear. He’s got her secure to his chest, his hand bigger than her back, and Emily thinks she has never loved him more than she does in moments like this. 

“Look Vi,” he says, smiling at Emily as he talks slightly louder so she can hear him over Violet’s cries, “Mommy is back,” he turns his attention to his wife, “You could have stayed in there longer, we would have been fine.”

She smiles and walks over, resting her head on his shoulder to look down at her little girl as she wraps her arms around her husband, “I know you would have been,” she says, kissing him through the material of his shirt, “But I think if I stayed in there any longer I would have fallen asleep.” 

Aaron chuckles as he turns his head to capture her lips in a kiss, smiling as he pulls back from her, “You look beautiful.” 

She presses her lips together as she blushes, shaking her head at him, “Usually I’d be mad at you for lying to me,” she says, trailing her fingers through his hair, “But right now I think I love you for it.”

“Not a lie,” he says, kissing her again, “You’re always beautiful,” he insists, and she rolls her eyes, but she’s cut off by Violet crying sharply, seemingly fed up about still being in Aaron’s arms when Emily is right there, “Okay, princess,” Aaron says, kissing the baby’s temple, “I get it, Mommy is back so you want to go back to your favourite person,” he looks at Emily, “Want to get into bed and I’ll hand her to you?”

She nods and walks over, groaning in discomfort as she climbs under the covers and rests her back against the headboard. She smiles lovingly at Aaron as concern splashes across his face. He’d never been any good at seeing her in pain, and he’d been a wreck when she was in labour, no matter how much he tried to hide it from her, but he’d never wavered. Always exactly what she needed him to be - both her physical and mental support as she brought their daughter into the world. 

“I’m fine,” she says, reaching out for Violet, smiling as he passes her over, “I had a baby less than a week ago.” 

“I know,” he replies, climbing into bed next to her, smiling at the sight of his two girls together, “I was there - I’m the one whose hand you almost broke.” 

She shakes her head at him and rests Violet against her chest, making sure she’s as settled as she can be. She’s stopped crying now, but she’s awake, stubborn in a way both of her parents would spend their lives insisting was the fault of each other. 

“It’s going to be a long night,” he says, looking down at Violet, and Emily hums in response.

“You should carry on talking,” Emily says quietly, “Your voice settles her I think,” she looks up at him, smiling softly as their eyes meet, “Or at least it always did when she still lived inside of me.” 

He smiles at the thought of it. He’d spent months talking to her belly, laying his head level with Emily’s bump as she sat up in bed and read her book. He’d tell Violet about anything and everything, and Emily always swore she moved less when he was talking, as if the deep timbre of his voice soothed her. 

“What should I talk about?” He asks, shifting closer and resting his arm over his wife’s shoulders, letting her lean against him. 

Emily shrugs as she tilts her head to look at him, a yawn escaping her as she replies, “Don’t ask me I think my brain is shutting down from lack of sleep,” she says, smiling when he kisses her, “What were you talking about before I came in?” 

Aaron clears his throat, something close to embarrassment flooding his chest, which is only enhanced when his wife tilts her head at him curiously, “I was telling her about us.” 

Even if she wanted to, Emily wouldn’t have been able to stop herself from smiling. There were moments when he’d still surprise her, when this soft side of him that belonged to her and their children would come out and it would take her breath away. It was a type of affection she would have once thought he wasn’t capable of, a part of himself he would only allow to be seen by those he trusted and loved the most. A type of affection she knew he would always partially see as a weakness, the blood of the man who had taught him as such running through his veins. 

It was a privilege to be loved by him and a privilege to love him, and she knew she’d spend the rest of her life trying to be worth every second of it. 

“What about us?” She asks, her voice soft as she makes it clear she isn’t making fun of him, that she genuinely wants to know. He sighs and kisses her temple, giving himself a second to breathe her in before he speaks again.

“About how we met, how we fell in love and had her.” 

Her smile gets wider as she looks down at Violet, the baby awake but quiet, and then she looks back at her husband, “Did you tell her that you hated me at first?” 

He rolls his eyes as he always does when she says that, “I didn’t hate you, Em,” he says, placing his hand over hers on Violet’s back, “I never hated Mommy.” 

“He just didn’t trust me.” 

He raises his eyebrow at his wife, “Are you going to let me tell the story or not?” 

She presses her lips together to stop herself from laughing and she nods, “Of course, honey. Sorry.” 

He shakes his head lovingly, “Now where was I before Mommy came out here and interrupted us,” he says thoughtfully, reaching out to run his knuckles over Violet’s soft cheek, “Oh yes, so Mommy came back from Paris, and she was sad because she’d missed the team-”

“You got to Paris already?” She asks, interrupting without meaning to as she furrows her brows, “I was only in the shower for five minutes.” 

“I had to skip over a lot of it,” he says completely seriously, as if Violet had the means to understand anything they were saying, “It’s too much violence for a 6-day-old.” 

She nods, understanding his reasoning and she snuggles back into his side, her head against his shoulder. It was a part of their history that she wanted to forget anyway, no matter how much it had brought them together. The similarities of what they had experienced painful and difficult, and she knew if she could she’d go back in time and save him from any of it - even if it meant she didn’t have him now. 

She knew he’d do the same for her, that they loved each other enough they’d sacrifice their own happiness if it meant the other had never been hurt in the way they had. 

“Mommy came home from Paris,” he says, starting again, “And she was sad but wasn’t hiding it very well, at least she wasn’t hiding it from me. So I asked her to tell me when she was having a bad day and that I’d help.” 

“When Daddy says ‘asks’ he means ‘told’, sweet girl,” Emily says, kissing the top of Violet’s head, “Keep that in mind for when you’re older and he ‘asks’ you to be home by your curfew.” 

“Then she started to spend more time with Jack and I,” he says, carrying on like she hadn’t interrupted. “We went to the park, to the zoo, your brother loves the zoo, princess, so I hope you’re ready to spend a lot of time there. And then one evening, after Jack went to bed and Mommy and I were having dinner in my old apartment - she kissed me.” 

“You kissed me!” She exclaims, her outrage briefly overtaking her desire to settle her little girl down, her mouth hanging open as Aaron dares to smirk at her.

It was something they’d bickered over ever since they told the team they were together. Penelope asked who kissed who, which one of them had finally made the move they’d all seen coming, and they’d both demanded it was each other. She smiles as she shakes her head at him, both of them secretly aware it didn’t matter. 

That kiss had changed both of their lives for the better. 

“We’ll continue to agree to disagree on that one,” he says leaning in to kiss her almost as if to prove his point. He smiles as he looks down, spotting that Violet is now mostly asleep, her tiny fist wrapped tightly in the neckline of Emily’s shirt. He knows he can technically stop now, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to finish telling their story, “After that, we realised how much we love each other. So Mommy moved in with me and Jack, and then I asked her to marry me and she said yes,” he smiles as Emily kisses his jaw, everything she didn’t quite have the words first the moment in the tender affection, “Then we got married in Uncle Dave’s backyard. It was one of the best days of my life.” 

“One of the best days?” Emily asks teasingly, tilting her head to look up at him, her eyebrow raised. He carefully removes his hand from Violet’s back and cups Emily’s cheek, leaning in to kiss her, smiling into it as he presses his forehead against hers. 

“Tied in top place with when Jack was born and Vi,” he says, talking to her directly now, “And when you called me at work to tell me we were having her,” he turns his attention back to a now fully sleeping Violet, “Mommy doesn’t cry a lot,” he says, smiling as Emily somehow finds a way to pinch his side even though she’s holding Violet tightly, “But I had to go to work early and she was here. She took a test and she called me in tears, she didn’t make any sense. I rushed back here thinking she was hurt and then she told me about you.”

“You should have seen him sweet girl,” Emily says, kissing the top of her head, “He was so out of breath I thought he’d run all the way home,” she looks at her daughter, smiling when she sees her mouth slack open, “She’s asleep.”

“I know,” Aaron says, running his hand up and down Emily’s arm, “Want me to put her down in her bassinet? Let you get some sleep?” 

She hums, tightening her hold on her daughter. Even though she was exhausted she didn’t want to let her baby go - even just to let her husband lay her down just a few feet away

“In a minute,” she says, closing her eyes as she rests her head back on his shoulder, “I just want to sit here for a minute.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” he says, “Whatever you want.” 

They fall into a peaceful silence, a rare commodity in their home these days, and they enjoy it, letting it lay over them like a warm blanket.

“Aaron?”

He turns to look at her, keeping his voice as quiet as she had, not wanting to disturb their sleeping baby, “Yes, Em?”

“Our story is my favourite.” 

He smiles so widely she thinks it must hurt, and she does the same, her cheeks aching with a type of happiness she thought wasn’t real. The stuff of stories and tales told to children to make them seek it out, only to be disappointed when they grew up. But she had it right within reach, wrapped around every single part of her life. 

He leans in and kisses her, pulling back just far enough to speak.

“It’s my favourite too.” 

-x-

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