#valentine’s day fic

[1800titz]

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

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

WC: 6.6K

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

Clay is innately erotic. 

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

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

It’s a cute shop. 

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

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

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

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

“Hello.”

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

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

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

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

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

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

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

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N swallows.

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

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

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

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

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

This is The Turning Point. 

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

But then it clicked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you. What now?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[pursuitseternal]

A “Decadent” treat for Valentine’s Day💝 Astarion x F!Reader with a sweet Sex Chocolate treat💝

Astarion x F!Reader | E | 3K aphrodisiac-infused smut

💝Gift for @bhaalbaaby 💝

Summary: You finally make it to Baldur’s Gate, coin burning holes in your pockets, a need to gift your companions to celebrate how much you appreciate them. You get a gift to, a box of chocolates from your Vampire lover, and some alone time in an alley

CW: semi-public sex, aphrodisiac sex, knife play, nipple play, blood kink, blood drinking in detail, panty snatching rogue, one feral vampire who wants your blood and more

Bites series | Ao3 link |Masterlist

“Decadent:”

🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫💝🍫

At last… out of the crowds of Rivington, you made it. The bottleneck of Baldur’s Gate, the Southspan’s Main Street stretches out before you all. And that gold you have been hoarding like a dragon burns a hole deep in your pack. Everything smells… good and foul. Bakeries and perfumeries and smithy shops and fish mongers…. And you can’t wait to buy something from them all.

After all your party has done for you and with you, a few tokens of appreciation wouldn’t go amiss. Karlach takes you by the arm, and you’re glad she can’t burn you to cinders by now. Because in all her hysteria, she would have certainly forgotten. Gale makes a none-too-subtle move to pull Astarion from your side, begging him to show all the booksellers. “Don’t touch me, Wizard,” he grimaces, mostly for show and humor. But there is a little irritation in his silken voice. “I have my own plans,” he comments towards Gale, but his eyes dart in your direction. That little lowering of his head so he gazes at you like the predator he is… your stomach instantly drops to your knees.

For a man who is horrific at planning, he surely knows how to calculate a breathtaking seduction… and they always begin with him giving you that look.

“Cmon soldier, let’s go find something new and sharp and deadly shiny!” Karlach tugs you towards the closest smithy, and away from where Astarion is eyeing you like you’re his next snack.

Your Cleric loops her arm through yours and giggles. “Yeah and maybe we’ll find you a little something else to wear that isn’t scaled armor and chainmail.”

“Ooooh, yeah,” Karach peers over the top of your head to cackle back at Shadowheart, “find you something Fangs won’t be able to resist.”

You manage one last look over your shoulder before they turn you into a shop, one last glance at that devouring leer from your lover. But you watch that seductive grin instantly swallowed by a scowl as Gale grabs his elbow too. You barely hear the Wizard whining something about books and spell scrolls…

You shrug. Astarion would manage. Some time where he wasn’t trying to bury his cock balls deep in your thighs for once might be good for him.

The shops flash by you, a whirlwind of coin and scents and giggles, mirth and merriment. Something you and your friends haven’t had… ever. You hold too many parcels and pouches. Of course it would be easier to stash most of it into pockets or your pack if you still wore your nice, sensible armor. But no. Karlach wouldn’t let you out the door to the clothing shop without putting on that sweet little gown you bought. So now, you walk down the street, arms laden with parcels, your thighs rubbing together without the practicality of pants, the slits up the skirt over the fronts of your thighs almost too high as you shuffle your load. Not to mention how the sun is beating on your shoulders and the tops of your breasts that hadn’t seen light since you began this journey.

You had too many things: a book for Gale, some soaps for Halsin, a bottle of Baldur’s Grape for Wyll… but you needed to return now. Karlach and Shadowheart wanted to push on, so many more stores around this corner or that one.

But you needed a rest. And someone to carry your shit.

It’s only after you make a right, you realize it’s the wrong turn. Crates line the alley, and your arms are just too sore to keep going. Resolved to rest a moment, you set your gifts down, looking at the end of the narrow way to where it hangs over the Chionthar River.

“Lost, darling?” you feel his breath on your neck even as his words barely leave his lips. Astarion hovers right over your shoulder, how he snuck up on you so quickly, you can only shake your head.

“Typical rogue,” you huff an exhausted laugh. “Just couldn’t help being a prick and being stealthy at the same time?”

“I believe you mean, typical hero, coming to save his damsel in distress, lost in the sea of the City,” he flashes you that fanged smirk that makes your stomach flutter. “How fortunate I am here, with my skills and knowledge…”

Your turn in the little space he’s given you, between that crate behind you now and his looming body before.

“My hero, come to the rescue,” you simper, very much aware of the ways his eyes are dilating as they dart over your cleavage, down your lean but unsunned arms, even to where your new dress sinches at your waist.

“Heroes are usually rewarded handsomely for their efforts, darling….”

You feel him closing in on you, his thighs butting up into your skirts, but you giggle as you reach for one long, wrapped parcel from the stack beside you. “Here, hero,” you tease. “A different sort of weapon you enjoy sheathing than the one I think is on your mind.”

His brow arches, a pleasant smile on his thick lips. He leans back just a bit, reluctant but curious about what gift you’ve set in his hands. The paper and cloth tumbles at your feet, revealing a shining new dagger, a blade nice and light as he pulls it slightly from its scabbard. “My, my,” he tries to sound smooth, trying hard to hide the lump in his throat at the thoughtfulness of your gift. “You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

He smiles, a true grin that deepens the wrinkles by his eyes, but it only happens once he turns away a bit, thinking himself mostly out of view. His hands slip the new blade into his belt, before pulling out something from behind his back. “But this time, you’re not the only one with a surprise, I am not woefully unprepared….”

A small square box in his cold, pale palm, he opens the paper lid.

Eleven little chocolate hearts fill the lining, except for one vacant spot that stares back at you. You feel him pressing closer again, the box basically pushed against the curve of your breasts.

“You got me… chocolates?” you cock your head, picking one up and giving it a sniff.

“I’ve always wanted to have a reason to… indulge in such finery. You’ve given me more than enough reason,” he purrs. Eyes fixed as he watches you bring it closer to your mouth. “They are so… sensual and delicious, I couldn’t help but hurry to find you for a nibble.”

You squint at him, sensing there is some… game at work here. “Seems like you got peckish on your way here,” you smirk at the empty spot. “Thought you didn’t enjoy the taste of anything that wasn’t blood, my vampire.”

“For this… I made an exception,” he grins wider, and you stare into his eyes, eyes almost black as he begins to press you against the rough wood of the crate. “Taste it, my dear… it goes down so smooth, so deliciously, you’ll… burn for more.”

You lick it, feeling a foreign heat that runs right from your tongue to your belly, a sweetness to its cream that you are unfamiliar with….

“They are a specialty around these parts, darling, a little something to, well…” he catches your hand, guiding the small chocolate between your lips, “why don’t you stick it in your mouth and swallow and find out.”

Something about that tingle on your tongue already, you seem to hum with your need for more… more of the chocolate, more of him…. No.

All of him.

You smile softly, closing your eyes and opening your mouth. It’s sweet and warm and… decadent. The little treat that he places on your tongue brings you to life. And you moan with abandon, delicious little noises as you savor its taste, until you do swallow it down. Eyes still closed to the world, you feel nothing now but the way his hands have found the bare skin of your thigh. Ghosting up your flesh, his nails skate beneath the hem of your skirt, drawing it higher… higher.

His touch is warm, you notice, the only thing warmer is your own increasingly burning skin. You pant, looking into his face where he looms above you. “What’s in those… sweets?” you need to swallow midway, and somehow, being so close to him to feel his breath on your cheek only makes the burning worse.

“Aren’t they sinfully good?” his voice is deep, rumbling as his hands find purchase beneath your clothing. It takes him no effort to lift you and set your ass down on that poor, helpless crate behind you. “Lovers’ chocolates… a specialty, an indulgence from the pleasure houses on these streets. And, as I’ve never had a lover with which to share them in two-hundred years…”

You are shaking as he slots himself between your thighs, the skirt of your new dress lifted quickly around your waist. With that infamous dexterity, he slinks his fingers beneath your undergarments and inside your cunt, the chocolates already flushing your skin and soaking your folds. “Seems like the right time to indulge in the decadence?”you are slurring your words.

“Indeed.” His fingers slowly stroke you, slowly pierce deeper into your channel as his other hand pulls you right to the edge of the crate. You don’t care it’s some alleyway… that anyone could see you or hear you. Not now with the chocolate in your blood, not now with his touch crooking and thrusting into your folds.

“You’ve indulged in your own little treats, haven’t you?” he whispers right against your lips. “This dress for one, by the hells, so much easier for me to do… all manner of things now.” Just to prove his point, his free hand steals into the neckline of your bodice, pulling that breast free. Moaning, arching, you writhe as he plucks at the hardening nipple. He smirks at you, a brief little laugh on his lips before he wraps them around it and sucks.

Even his mouth is warmed, his own tasting of the chocolate raging through his body, he did have a head start after all. With how your every nerve burns and your own sex swells to be sated, you marvel at how he’s taking his own godsdamned time right now—teasing out your arousal. As if he ever needed to work hard for you to be ready for him and his cock.

Ugh… the thought of it makes you salivate. You reach for his leathers, fingers shaking and fumbling with the ties. You groan, giving up on the laces completely. Pulling the waistband down, you ease his erection free. Even that beneath your touch is hot. Swollen. Ridged with veins so risen, you can’t look away from its… beauty.

“Even more eager than usual, aren’t we darling?” he rasps against your breast. His teeth, his fangs score slightly on the pad of your nipple, making you bite your mouth shut as you scream.

“Please…” you whimper as you try to pull his hips closer by his cock. But he stands firm, fingers still sweeping inside you, mouth still teasing your flesh.

“Oh I don’t think so…” he lifts his head to place a peck on your pouting lips. “There��s so much more of you to taste first, my little treat.” He grabs into your dress once more, lifting free your other breast before he devours it with the same skill and tenacity as the other.

His tongue is wet as he swirls it, lips so skilled at sucking your flesh, by now he knows every inch of your body. But it’s the way his thumb draws over your clit, a bit harder and tougher and timed to perfection with the lap of his tongue, you burst in a searing wave of climax. Barely a warning, and you are reduced to a moaning, gushing, flailing thing. His fingers are gripped firmly inside you, hard and thrusting as you ride out the waves of your orgasm.

But it’s the little pain you barely register, his fangs cutting into the top of your breast as he now feeds, that makes you almost come again, an aftershock to the intensity of the first. You gasp for air in your burning lungs, somehow you’ve managed to hold his cock through all your throes and shocks of orgasm. And now, he bucks into your fist, growing harder and harder the more and more he feeds.

Astarion’s fingers slide out from in you with a squelch, hips rolling with increased force into your grip. “You just had to treat yourself to a dress but insist on keeping those undergarments? Tch,” he sucks his teeth as he shakes his head in mock disapproval. “You’ll know better for next time, won’t you.”

“Whatever you think best,” you grin, half-unknowing the words coming from your mouth. Your hips buck for more… that heat in your body growing more and more unbearable, despite the soothing warmth from your single climax.

Gracefully, he leans in all the closer, unsheathing that new little dagger you got him. You feel it’s cool, deadly edge press softly at the base of your neck. “Shh, shh, shh,” he smirks with lust-dark eyes. Down to his dangerous smile, he mimics how you first met. “Not a sound now…. But those undergarments of your will just have to go… have to be sacrificed for what I need to do to you….”

You shake in anticipation, eyes fixed on his sultry, arrogant, fang-toothed grin as he slinks lower. That blade leaves your neck, perfectly intact. But as he steals its point beneath your skirts, its sharpened edge cuts the thin material of your underwear. Material ripping meets your ears as he performs the same little flick of his wrist against your other hip. Standing and returning his blade, he pulls the silky band out from under you.

“Seems I’ve done you a favor.” He leers down at you, palming your undergarments, smelling them, and putting them in his pocket. “You’ve already simply ruined these already, at any rate.”

You reach for his waist, the air kissing your wet folds too much now. He could stand there and taunt for so much longer, but it’s too much to bear. You guide that thick, warm, blunted head of his cock between your thighs, wrapping your legs around him until he’s filled you.

He practically mewls your name at the force. “Gods, I should have known not to underestimate what those chocolates would do to you, darling.”

He grunts the last word as you buck against him, trying to make him start taking you. Coaxing him just a bit deeper in. He doesn’t need more encouragement than that. Not with the way your cheeks must be glowing red with how hot they feel… not with the way you feel your arousal soaking the top of the crate now, growing cold as it leaves your burning body.

Hands grip the flesh of your ass beneath your dress, holding you firmly in place as he takes control. Eyes almost black, skin un-undeadly hot where he touches you, he feels so good… better than ever… the pulsing of his thrusts consuming you and sating that fire the chocolate has put in your belly. All you can do is grab him by that sweet ruffled collar, inch your way around his neck, and hold on for dear life.

That tightly held veil of refinement begins to slip, you hear it in the snap of his hips into you and against the crate, in the feral growls he makes each time he pierces harder and harder into you….

You crane your head back, mouth panting and wide as you show him what else you want him to do… you bear your teeth at him with a playful snap.

It’s more invitation than he needs, fangs sinking into the crook of your neck, the top of your shoulder. Bite… suck… swallow. Then he lifts again, repeating the same into your pounding artery. Bite… you moan so loudly…. Suck… his lips pull so hard on your flesh you can feel it bruising… Swallow… he lifts his head to pant for air. The most self-satisfied smirk on his sharp, pale face before he yanks your neck to the other side, leaving you a match set of bites there.

Bite…

You flood with pleasure, cresting over the edge harder than you could imagine.

Suck…

Your walls suck him in too, trapping him as he begins to stilt and buck harder. Climax for him sweeping him away harder too.

Swallow…

You scream into the mass of his silver curls, trying to muffle your cries where he’s lowered to feed on the top of your breast.

But he arches back, letting out his own panting groan, coming and ramming hard into you at last. You pray the crate doesn’t give under you with a laugh. Your hands steal into his hair, caressing down his smirking cheeks.

“How… many more of those chocolates did you get…?” the question barely carries on your breathless voice.

“Not enough,” he groans, licking the last trickles of your blood as he tucks your breasts back into the neck of your dress. What was your new dress. He chuckles, deep in his chest, cock still buried inside you. Reading your thoughts. “Don’t you fret, darling. I’ll buy you another dress. One for each I ruin.”

“Oh because…” you laugh, waving your hand down your front. “This level of violence will happen to my dresses again?”

“Every time you wear one, my love,” he breathes his own laugh before he finally… at long last… catches your lips in a slow and lingering kiss. “Undoubtedly every time.”

You shake your head even as his lips continue to work yours, as his hand winds into the hair at the base of your neck.

“Karlach and Shadowheart are going to give me such grief…”

“Only because they were right… I just couldn’t keep hand or fang off you, my darling.”

[tightjeansjavi]

chamomile

A/N: I was making myself a cup of tea earlier this evening and the idea blossomed from there 🥺

for @morallyinept Valentine’s Day masterlist 💗

~word count: 1.3k~

Summary: it’s Valentine’s Day and Dieter Bravo is alone and missing you

Pairing | Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings: mature, fluff, angst, language,implicit smut, one mention of dieter giving himself a handjob, mentions of alcohol and ouid, fwb’s, pining, assumed one-sided feelings, two idiots in love without realizing it, typical dieter behavior, reader has no physical descriptions, readers nickname is petal, +18 minors dni!

On the long, lonely nights where Dieter Bravo is away from you, his solace, his person, he always finds himself struggling to sleep. An hour here, and an hour there, but it can never compare to the deep, dreamy, snooze he gets when you’re laying next to him, tangled up in his legs, under his sheets.

He knows deep down he’s got it bad for you. So bad, he can hardly think straight on most days. Dieter, you missed your cue, again.

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose and shakes his shoulders to relieve any pent up stress he’s feeling and to get back on track.

Did you even read the fucking script, Bravo?

He scoffs, jaw ticking under the harsh studio lights that buzz in his ear like a swarm of angry bees. Course I did. He lies through his teeth.

How could he even think about reading his lines when he spent hours of his night staring down his phone as he deeply contemplated the pros and cons of calling you up.

If I tell her how I feel, it makes everything fucking weird.

Or you get to live out your very own rom-com!

Or she never wants to speak to me again

Or she also confesses her deep, profound love for you.

Or..she doesn’t feel the same way and breaks my fucking heart into a million tiny pieces!

Or your dreams come true, Dieter.

-

You met Dieter Bravo through a friend of a friend at one of the movie star’s infamous parties. Dieter was drunk, a bit of a stumbling mess, but when his warm, and slightly clammy palm wrapped around your own, you knew you were donefore. And how was it possible for a scruffy man such as himself to have the kindest, softest, warmest brown eyes you ever had the pleasure of gazing into?

No, you were not in love with Dieter Bravo. He was just your friend..with the occasional benefits. Nothing more, nothing less.

When Dieter finds himself alone in his too big of a house for another night, he packs a bowl, and then another, and another. He takes a relaxing bath, alone with nothing but the comfort of his own fist wrapped around his cock. His lashes flutter shut, plush lips parting as he sinks further into the chamomile scented bubbles.

You told him once that chamomile should help him sleep better. He sent his assistant out the next day to buy chamomile tea, and literally any and all the chamomile scented products that she could find.

You took a bath together once, and he vividly remembers dragging his nose across the base of your neck, inhaling the sweet aroma while you nearly dozed off in his saccharine grip. Muscles relaxed, limbs pliant under the soapy water.

But you weren’t here. You were thousands of miles away on a girls trip with some of your single friends. It was the trip that finally made it out of the group chat, and it happened to fall on the week of Valentine’s Day.

Wait, that’s today, right? Shit. How pathetic. He thinks to himself, stroking his cock faster, creating ripples in the sudsy water.

Yeah, so fucking pathetic. Alone on fucking Valentine’s Day, and higher than a goddamn kite.

He doesn’t come, and while that in itself should be frustrating, he accepts his fate of misery while the temperature of the water becomes too cold to bear and he’s forced to retreat.

He packs another bowl, yanks his leftover Taco Bell from the fridge and eats it cold, like the feeling of his heart.

His king sized bed feels even larger than usual, and he chuffs a laugh, taking another bite of his half eaten crunch wrap supreme.

That’s because I’m fucking alone on Valentine’s Day.

He knows he’s not really alone. But on a day that is all about love, he sure as hell doesn’t feel the love.

He misses the way you would roll over mid sleep and drape your arm across his bare stomach. Your fingers would play with the dark, soft hair that led down to his happy trail while you drooled into the crook of his neck, soft snores escaping past your parted lips. He found it endearing. You were like a koala, and he was the tree branch of your choosing.

He so badly wanted to be your tree branch right now.

Was that lame? Probably. But Dieter could give less of a shit about any of that. He missed you, and the feeling ate away at him, carving a hole in his chest and yanking his heart right out.

He didn’t mind that you would accidentally kick him off the side of the bed, or steal all the covers. He loved it when you would talk in your sleep, babbling about pure nonsense that somehow to his ears made perfect sense.

Okay, so he missed you…a lot. He wasn’t the only person to miss someone this much. Hell, maybe even his neighbor was going through the same feelings and emotions as he was.

Love. Yeah, that’s what he was feeling. He was in love with you, and you had no fucking idea how he truly felt.

He tossed and turned, fluffed down his pillows, scrolled on his phone, watching his favorite saved tik toks, and he even tried listening to the soothing sounds of a thunderstorm through a podcast on Spotify. None of it was working. He couldn’t sleep, and you were to blame.

That’s how Dieter Bravo found himself in his kitchen, fully exposed sans some fluffy slippers on his feet that had seen better days. He dug through his pantry till he found the familiar box of chamomile tea. He let out a sigh of relief and tore open the silver foil with his teeth.

His phone screen read 2:30a.m as the kettle on the stove whistled loudly in his eardrums.

The familiar scent of chamomile coated his senses in a warmth that could only be described as you as he let the tea bag steep in his favorite chipped mug.

His knuckles drummed along the countertop nervously as he stared down his phone once more. He let out a huff, bringing one hand to scratch at the patches in his scraggly beard.

As steam billowed from the mug next to him, he finally picked up his phone and dialed your number.

He chewed on the tip of his thumbnail, eyes dancing nervously as the dial tone rang, and rang. He was ready to hang up and toss his phone in the garbage disposal when you finally answered.

His heart skipped a beat and his weed-hazed mind couldn’t keep up with the rate that words were flowing past his lips.

“Petal? Hey, happy Valentine’s Day. Well—er, happy belated Valentine’s Day? ‘Suppose it’s already over. Uh—hope I’m not bothering you, I just couldn’t sleep, so I’m in my kitchen having a cup of chamomile tea, like you suggested. Fuck, I’m rambling, aren’t I? I smoked a few too many bowls so my brain is a bit scrambled. Anyway, I miss you, baby. I’m so lonely, and I wish you were here.”

His stoned rambling continued on as you listened silently, holding your phone close to your ear and swatting at your friend's arm when they asked who was on the phone. The club music was booming at the same rate that your heart was pounding in your chest.

“Hi, Dee. I miss you too. I've been thinking...when I get back, can we grab dinner sometime?" You warmly suggest.

His pupils are blown wide like two shiny marbles illuminated under the soft glow of the moonlight trickling in through his tall kitchen windows.

“Fuck yes. I’d fucking love to grab dinner with you sometime, Petal.” He rasps softly through the receiver.

banners made by the lovely @saradika 💗

I no longer have a taglist so please follow @tightjeansjaviupdates for fic notifications and updates!

[lizzie-is-here]

valentine’s day one shot

poppies and babies’ breath

bucky barnes x fem!reader

bucky really wants to ask you out. but he can’t even dance anymore, much less date.

Bucky Barnes was not very good at dating. At least, not anymore.

No, that skill belonged to Sergeant James Barnes, a dumb, 20-something that hadn’t been made into an assassin for 70 years.

For all of his skills, that one is failing. He can toss a knife like nobody’s business, lift 1000 lbs to impress you on a training day, and speak dozens of languages.

But he can’t figure out how to flirt with you. Don’t even start on asking you out.

It used to be so easy. Flash a smile and the dames would line up to go dancing with a man in uniform.

Bucky can’t really dance anymore. Or he doesn’t want to.

He’s considering all of this as he stands outside of a flower shop, peering in and probably freaking out the kid at the register.

“Uh, sir, there’s a sale on flowers for Valentine’s Day…” the boy says, muffled through the glass. Bucky nods, finally stepping inside.

There are paper hearts strung up around the shop, only reminding him of exactly why he’s here. He’s gonna do it today. He’s gonna ask you out.

Well, he’s also here because he lost a bet with Sam. But that’s not important.

Bucky’s a dark shadow wandering through the quaint aisles, out of place in the colorful array of flowers. He skips over the roses. Too cliche.

He considers daisies, lilies, sunflowers, and flowers he doesn’t even know the names of until he finally finds what he was looking for.

Poppies. Your favorite. Apparently because of some story with opium poppies, wallabies, and crop circles. He was too distracted staring at you to fully grasp the story.

Bucky carefully grabs a handful and starts toward the counter before realizing that the bundle of red in his hand looks pretty bland. So then he adds some small white flowers, a pretty wrapping paper, and calls it a day.

“Can you wrap this for me?” he asks, setting down the items. The kid stares blankly at his metal hand, but nods.

He can’t remember the last time he bought flowers. ‘44, maybe? For his ma? He never bought any of his dates flowers. Too pricey and too significant when the relationships never lasted long.

You, though. You were different. Maybe it was the way you never looked at him like the teen boy in front of him had, with apprehension and questions Bucky didn’t feel like answering. Or maybe the fact that his brain had been through the blender.

But he loves you. And that’s more than he can say for most of his past ventures. He wants to give everything to you while also being selfish enough to take everything you may give him.

Bucky considers that he maybe deserves to be a little selfish sometimes.

The kid finishes wrapping the bouquet and hands it over.

“$25,” he mumbles, still in awe of the war hero in front of him.

Bucky tosses a $50 on the counter. “Thanks, kid.”

———————————————————————

A knock on the door of your room in Stark Tower startles you from your haze.

You’re in a shirt and pajama shorts on your bed, desperately trying to find a show that isn’t about true love.

It all reminds you too much of your own loneliness. How bad you wanted to ask out your own crush but never quite got ballsy enough to do it.

Grumbling as you watch a pair of high school sweethearts reunite in the picturesque Hallmark town, you stand to open the door.

There you find Bucky. The very man you’re conflicted over. Holding a bouquet and in a red henley to match the poppies.

“Hey,” he greets, trying to avoid staring at your legs.

You smile. “Hi, Bucky.”

He holds up the flowers. “I- I wanted to get you something for Valentine’s Day, and also…” He goes beet-red and stares at the ceiling for a moment.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. You shake your head, waiting for him.

“Oof, okay. I wanted to know if you wanted to go out with me? Sometime? Whenever works for you is fine-“

You rest a hand on his arm that’s still cradling the bouquet. “I’m free tonight?”

Finally, a shy grin breaks out on his face.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Bucky swallows, gives you a very real, very swoon-worthy smile, and hands over the flowers.

“Well, doll, do you wanna go dancing?”

Because yeah. Maybe he can’t dance anymore. But he wants to try with you.

[thedreamingpiscesfangirl42]

GO GO GO!! ITS LIVE!! ITS POSTED!! GO!! RUN!! EAT IT UP, ZESTMILLA LOVERS!! 🥹🥹🥹

18k words 😭😭😭🩵 wow, I wasn’t expecting that much 😭🩵

[demigoddessqueens]

secret admirer

A/N — Can’t believe I’m writing for a one-time sketch character but it’s a Pedro character and 🤣😆 I just adored him

Summary: Mr. Ben receives an unlikely gift from a…secret admirer?

Tagging @loveforfandomsstuff

Pairing - Mr Ben x new teacher!reader

Valentine’s Day was always hectic at the school. Students clamoring to pass out their gifts and cards, teasing, and the overflowing heaps of discarded candy wrappers.

But it brought a smile to Ben’s face seeing the students enjoy themselves. Reminded him of back when he was young and in love….

Amidst all the chaos, Ben noticed his phone vibrating in his pocket. Fishing out, he saw a message from a number he didn’t recognize yet along with its following musical fancam attachment.

Happy Valentine’s Day!!

Here’s to hopefully talking to you soon

Adoringly,

Your secret admirer

At that, Ben quickly alerted his students about the imposing message.

“Class, what did I say since our last assembly about these…fancams? Who sent this?”

“Not me!” “Who, Mr. Ben??” “Mr Ben has a secret admirer?!?” “Who’s the lucky one??”

As you were rushing by to handle your next class of students, you heard the commotion coming from Mr. Ben’s home room along with a quick glance of his blushing face.

You tried your best to hide the growing smile on your heated cheeks as you walked on. Given that this was your first year as a teacher here, you were quickly smitten with such a man.

He was a kind man, a good listener and always made you laugh in the teacher’s lounge, and sat by you at the assemblies. Granted, you wanted to take things a bit further, and maybe this was the spark you needed.

[thebookshoparoundthecorner]

My Funny Valentine - chapter one is up now!!

Summary:

“You’re kind,” Crowley said with another small laugh. Aziraphale looked over at him. His gaze softened. “Y’know, people like that sort of thing. Kind people.”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley felt something strange stirring in his stomach, and he wondered if perhaps he’d had a little too much to drink. He was beginning to get the urge to do something stupid. To reach forward and take the angel’s hand. To trace the lines of his smile, and the creases of his eyes, and memorize what he looked like in case it was a long while before they saw each other again.

Whoa now, said the only logical part of his brain he had left, maybe it’s time to sober up.

Five times Crowley gave Aziraphale a gift on Valentine's Day, and one time it was the other way around.

(The first chapter is here!!! Apparently I’m addicted to doing 5+1 holidays fics now 😂Planning on getting chapter two up by early next week, and posting consistently throughout the rest of February!)

[2-guns-b1tch]

I’ve got my eye on you, Valentine! 💘

Pairing: General!Scarecrow x F!Reader

I’m super late for Valentines Day (I’m on vacation cut me some slack) but o finally finished this. Some characters may feel a little bit ooc and the pacing may be a little fast, but I tried my best I hope you guys like this.

Rating : General Audience. A little bit of angst, but mostly fluff.

For most of his life, Jonathan hated Valentine's Day.

He remembered the time at school when the day finally came and all the kids were exchanging cards, but Jonathan only found his box empty. Worse were the few times when he actually received a letter and there was that temporary feeling of happiness, only to later discover that it was all a cruel joke from his classmates.

Who in their right mind would have a crush on Jonathan Crane? The lanky, weird boy who always wore patched clothes and had his face buried in books.

Over the years, the date stopped being terrifying and became just annoying. Jonathan couldn't help but roll his eyes when he noticed that stores hanging up the pink and red decorations, how couples seemed even more clingy in public and the chubby image of the Cupid with his little bow was everywhere he looked.

Deep down, there was still that disappointment, the loneliness that seemed to follow him wherever he went, but he tried to cover up any silly feelings with his work and studies. He didn't have time for romance. He didn't need the chocolates or teddy bears or stupid cards.

And that was why Jonathan felt in a bad mood today.

"Valentine's Day. February 14th. Day to celebrate the martyr Saint Valentin.” Calendar Man whispers to himself as the Arkham staff handed out colored paper and blunt scissors to the patients.

For some reason they thought it was a constructive activity to make Valentine's Day cards. Nonsense. Nobody was interested in this stupid holiday. Well, except Harley who seemed to squirm in her seat with excitement.

Jonathan stares at you from across the room. You looked concentrated, your tongue tucked between your lips as you took the red paper and cut it into the shape of a heart. Your eyes meet for a second and you smile sweetly at him before Jonathan looks away.

You were a relatively new piece in Gotham's criminal world, but you had already done enough noise to be sent to Arkham by the Batman.

You and Jonathan got along well, you could even say you were friends, but nothing more than that. You seemed to actually pay attention to his lectures about fear and the human brain and he liked listening to you talk as well.

Maybe he could do something for you. You were kind after all. And funny, your laugh never failed to bring a smile to his lips. And smart. And beautiful. And…

Jonathan shakes his head. God, the doctors were right about him finally going crazy. You would never accept anything he gave you. Jonathan had always been the weird kid and that hadn't changed.

“Out of ideas, Jon?” Edward asks as he spies over Jonathan’s shoulder.

“No,” he says without looking at him. "I won’t do anything."

“Oh my friend, don’t be so grumpy,” Tetch says, cutting out several paper bunnies holding hands. “Would you like us to make a card for you?”

“No,” he says again, crossing his arms. “I don’t want anything from either of you.”

Edward follows his vision to you, a mischievous grin on his face. “Let me guess, you’re embarrassed to send her a Valentine’s card, aren’t you?”

Jonathan feels like he was back to his school days. Not exactly, since he didn't have any friends back then, but Edward was like an annoying friend pressuring Jonathan to confess to his crush.

“Don't say nonsense, Edward. I’m not in the mood for your jokes.”

Edward throws his head back in laughter. "Don’t be shy. You can tell us if you have a crush on someone. After all, we are your best friends, right, Jervis?”

Jervis at the moment seemed more interested in the paper hat he was making, so Edward decides not to wait for his answer.

“Come on, I can even help you,” Edward says, nudging him with his elbow. “Ok, write this down: What is a vampire’s sweetheart called? A ghoul-friend!”

Jonathan roll his eyes instantly. “That was terrible.”

“Trust me, women love riddles.” He winks, brushing his hair back.

“I won't take relationship advice from you, Edward.”

"What do you have to lose?"

“Let’s see…” he adjusts his glasses before starting to count on his fingers. “My dignity, my time, my patience…”

“You complicate things too much. Don’t tell me you’re scared.” The look Edward gives him is challenging, a smirk on his lips.

Jonathan opens his mouth to defend himself. Fear? He was the master of fear! He was the bogeyman that hid in the shadows. The nightmare of Gotham's citizens. But any complaints died on his tongue.

He stares at Edward full of venom before speaking again. “Pass me the damn crayon.”

Edward grabs a red crayon and hands it to Jonathan, still smiling smugly.

Jonathan curses under his breath as she folds a light pink sheet in half. The crayon stays in the air for a few seconds until he finds the right words and starts writing.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, from your friend Jonathan Crane.” He writes simply in his impeccable handwriting.

"Done. Satisfied?" He lifts the card into the air, showing it to Edward.

Edward wrinkles his nose. “This is so boring! It doesn’t even have hearts!”

“You're crossing the line, Edward.”

“Actually, he is right.” Tetch says in a moment of sudden clarity. “It’s a Valentine’s Day card, it should have lots and lots of hearts like mine!”

Tetch shows his card full of collages and details dedicated to his beloved and unreachable Alice.

Jonathan rolls his eyes again and sighs in defeat. He decides to add a small heart in the corner of the page, discreet enough that you might not notice it.

“Good enough,” Edward pats his shoulder before leaning back against his chair, looking pleased with himself.

The rational decision would be to throw the card away, but something about it stops Jonathan from doing so. Another dark part of him has the desire to add more details. Spilling out all his feelings and secrets until every corner of the paper was filled with sweet, silly things. But he holds back, clutching the crayon in his hand.

When the time runs out and the cards start to be handed out, his chest tightens.

Edward and Tetch were kind enough to hand Jonathan cards, although Tetch wrote nonsensical rhymes and Edward’s had a riddle that he answered before Jonathan could finish reading.

Even if Jonathan didn't want to admit it, he was grateful for them. Edward and Jervis could be difficult and annoying, but they were the closest thing he had to friends. It was an unlikely partnership, but it worked. Sometimes.

The two of you are the last people in the room when you get up and start walking towards him. It's at this moment that Jonathan realizes how fast his heart is beating inside his chest. How sweaty his hands are and how dry his throat is. He knows these symptoms very well. Fear. He was afraid.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Crane.” Your tone is light, but the way you say “doctor” sends a shiver down Jonathan’s spine. He swallows hard, giving a small nod.

"Evening."

"What you got there?" You ask.

Jonathan fumbles for a second before realizing you're referring to the cards in his hand.

“Oh, Edward and Jervis did this for me.” He feels heat rise to his face. Was he actually blushing?

"Can I see?"

Jonathan doesn't answer, just hands you the cards. Your lips stretch into a smile as you read what Jervis and Edward wrote.

“I didn’t know these two could be so cute.” Your gaze turns to him again. “They must really like you.”

“Don't be fooled. They can be truly horrible when they want to.” Jonathan says in a somewhat playful tone and you chuckle.

“And from who it is this last one?” You gesture your head towards the card in his hand.

He squeezes the paper even tighter between his fingers. He could just lie. Forget about this silly Valentine's Day idea and tear that damn card into little pieces.

But the way you look at him, full of expectation, makes Jonathan's heart melt inside his chest.

“Well, it’s… for you.”

“Oh, good, because I made one for you too.”

He stares at you dumbfounded for a few seconds in silence.

"Really?" It's stupid, but he can't help but ask. He feels like a kid again, like at any moment the curtain will fall and everyone will laugh at him for believing anyone could ever like poor Jonathan.

“Of course it’s for you, silly. Who else would it be for?” You wink at him, handing him the card.

Jonathan takes it with trembling fingers, handing his to you as well. The paper feels like it will disappear from his hands at any moment, but it is so real, so tangible.

You glued some big and small hearts on the front with “Happy Valentine’s Day” written on the bottom in red ink. He rubs his thumb over your handwriting, trying to savor every detail. When he finally opens the card an unconscious smile spreads across his face. You had made a simple drawing of a crow holding an eye in it’s beak and on the side it said “I’ve got my eye on you, Valentine.”

"Did you like it?" Your voice pulls him back to reality.

“I… Yes, of course.” He clears his throat, trying to compose himself. “But I’m afraid mine isn’t as good as yours.”

And then he notices the way you are holding the card, pressed against your chest like something valuable.

"I loved it. Seriously. But I think you forgot a little something.”

“Sorry for the lack of details. I don’t have much practice with this.”

You shake your head, chuckling softly. "It's not that. You forgot to ask me if I want to be your Valentine.”

He waits for the the joke to sink in and for the moment you brush him off with a laugh, but you don’t stop staring at him with a serious expression.

He hates it. He hates it how exposed he feels. How bare his is before you. He hates even more how he hopes this not some kind of joke afte all.

“Stop playing with me.” He almost sounds like he's begging.

"This isn’t a joke."

"You can’t be serious."

You cross your arms, frowning your eyebrows at him. "Why not? Why is it so hard to believe that I want this?

“Oh, please. This is ridiculous. Is this some kind of prank? I have been the target of this kind of joke before and belive me when I say they aren’t funny.”

“Oh my God! You’re can be so dense sometimes!” You sigh in frustration, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “Well, if you're not going to ask me, then I will. Jonathan Crane would you like to be my Valentine?”

If he was blushing before, now his face is burning hot. His brain is a mess of emotions, but it’s unable to actually form any coherent words. He can’t even remember the last time he was speechless.

You’re staring at him and he knows he needs to say something. Anything! Jonathan could never forgive himself if he ever let you go without knowing how much you matter to him. So he decides to do the only thing he is capable of.

He approaches you slowly so as not to startle you, his eyes searching for any indication of discomfort, but you dont move a muscle. He leans towards you and when he's sure you want this, he presses his lips against your cheek.

The kiss is shy and quick, barely brushing your skin, but when Jonathan pulls away you're staring at him as if he'd placed the stars in the sky.

“Yes,” He finally manages to say, “I would like to be your valentine.”

Before you can say anything, a guard appears in the room, interrupting your intimate moment.

“What are you two still doing here? You should be in group therapy. Come on, move before you get in trouble!" The guard orders.

In any other situation Jonathan would be annoyed, but now he just does what the guard says, pulling you out of the room with him.

The two of you sit silently side by side on the chairs positioned in a circle with the other patients. Jonathan knows someone is babbling something in the background, but all he can focus on right now is how your knee is touching his.

Jonathan catches you staring at him, your lips stretched into the sweetest smile he's ever seen and he can't help but smile too.

This may be the best Valentine’s Day he had in a long time.

[the-common-cowgirl]

Author’s Note: A modern Aemond smutty/fluffy One-Shot won the Valentine’s Day poll. I thought to myself, “what is more fluffy than a love that is only halted by death?” This fic is based on my favorite song “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” by George Jones.

Warnings: Major Character Death, a small amount of Smut, Angst, heart-wrenching fluff mixed with longing, hurt/no comfort.

Rating: Mature

Pairings: Modern Aemond x (Third Person) AFAB Reader

Releasing Valentine’s Day ❤️

Follow fics-by-the-common-cowgirl for updates when new fics are posted!

[sagesolsticewrites]

Today Was A Fairytale | Austin x fem!reader

You decide to surprise your boyfriend in Australia on Valentine’s Day! ❤️ 

a/n: Happy (belated, oops) Valentine’s Day! This is a week late, I know, and I’m so sorry y’all! But thank you guys so, so much for your patience 🫶 I do have plenty more WIPs that I’m working on, and I hope to have those out sooner rather than later for y'all. And my requests are open if y'all want to send anything in! ☺️ For this fic, covid doesn’t exist for Plot purposes lmao

Word count: 2k (technically 1,999 but shhhh)

Warnings: some allusion to sex towards the end (might qualify as fade-to-black smut??), I think that’s it? As always, please let me know if I missed anything!

Please like/rb if you enjoyed! 🤍

Masterlist | add yourself to my taglist!

As you stand on the escalator, hands firmly gripping your carry-on to keep yourself from shaking with excitement, you scan the area near baggage claim as it appears bit by bit, keeping your eyes peeled for a sign with your name on it.

Your sweeping gaze finally snags on your name, the flimsy paper in the hands of an older, very fashionable woman, with a bright smile and cheerful eyes peering through cat-eye glasses. Your smile widens, and you wave to get her attention as you step off the escalator onto the polished concrete floor. You still can’t quite believe that Catherine Martin herself was the one meeting you here.

You greet her, a little starstruck, before she sweeps you into a hug.

“Darling! It’s so nice to finally meet you!” She smiles, “You know Austin honestly hasn’t stopped talking about you since we started filming,” she teases as you made your way over to get the rest of your things.

You laugh shyly, “Well, that’s very sweet to hear, and I apologize on his behalf.” Laughter fading, you continue in a more sincere tone, “And thank you so much for letting me come on set for a couple days, I can only imagine how complicated it must be to organize that.”

Catherine waves the compliment away, helping you get your suitcase off the carousel with ease.

“It’s nothing, sweetheart! It’s very sweet that you want to surprise him, and I’m so glad we could help.”

Catherine explains the plan in the Uber on the way to your hotel: take a few days to recover from the jet lag from the 19-hour flight, and on Friday — Valentine’s Day — you’d be taken to set to surprise your boyfriend. 

After Catherine makes sure you’re safely in your room and assures you that you can call her if you needed anything — “absolutely anything, darling!” — before tomorrow, you finally allow a grin to overtake your face as you collapse onto the bed. As Valentine’s Day gifts go, you were fairly certain this wasn’t a bad choice.

You and Austin had been dating for almost a year, since March of 2019. Originally just your childhood friend, a friendship born of proximity when your family moved next door to his, your feelings for each other had blossomed into what was honestly the healthiest relationship you had ever been in. You had been with him when he was auditioning, when he was cast as Elvis, you had watched as he practically lived and breathed Elvis in the months leading up to the moment he left for principal photography in Australia. He was crushed that your first Valentine’s Day together was doomed to be long-distance, and as he kept saying how much he wished the two of you could celebrate together, the idea dawned on you.

And now here you were in Australia, on the opposite side of the world from your home in Anaheim, getting ready to surprise your boyfriend who was currently playing one of the most famous men in history.

-

You spend most of the first couple days of your trip sleeping, your body insisting on ten-hour naps to recover from the flight through seven time zones. You’re able to pencil in some sightseeing, too, though by the time Valentine’s Day rolls around you’re even more anxious to see Austin; you’re the closest you’ve been to seeing him in a month but the distance between your hotel and his set seems impossibly far.

Catherine is your escort once again, and on the way to set she explains the plan to you, detailing the scenes they’ll be filming and where you could fit in, and making it incredibly clear that pretty much everything you’re about to see is strictly for your eyes only; they couldn’t risk a leak only a month into filming.

Admittedly, you’re a little starstruck being on a movie set, and it’s all a bit of a blur as Catherine rushes you over to hair & makeup to get you ready for the scene. The crew slips you into one of their many spare dresses, and they get to work making your hair and makeup era-appropriate. As one of the hair stylists — a kind woman whose name you learned was Gail — is in the process of getting your hair into pincurls, the door to the hair and makeup trailer sweeps open. Every eye in the room swings towards the motion as Baz steps inside.

As in, Baz Luhrmann.

Legendary, acclaimed director.

In the hair and makeup trailer.

And he walks right over and gives you a hug (as best he could with you in the makeup chair trying to stay as still as possible, at least).

“Y/N! Happy Valentine’s Day, we’re so glad you’re here.”

“Thank you so much for helping organize this, Baz!” You smiled. “I really hope I’m not disrupting the schedule or anything too much.” You had gotten to meet Baz a handful of times as Austin was prepping for the role, and he was one of the sweetest people you knew. 

“Oh, it was nothing.” He waves away the compliment, “I love a good surprise, and I’m glad I’ll get to see you two crazy kids back together. I just wanted to say hello and make sure you were doing okay. You guys take care of her, alright?” He directs the last part to the crew, and bids you farewell with a “See you on set!”

Soon enough, your hair and makeup are the best they’ve ever been, and you’re almost afraid to move for fear of ruining the gorgeous blue gingham dress they’ve given you as you’re escorted to set by an assistant.

You take your seat in the front row, trying your hardest to hide your excitement as you catch a glimpse of Austin talking with Baz just offstage.Your breath catchesin your throat as you take him in. After not seeing him for a month, seeing him in person is in itself a bit of a shock, but underneath the slightly baggy pink suit and effortlessly disheveled hair, you see the sharp focus in his eyes that's something entirely Austin. Time is a blur as the rest of the scene is set up, and the last thing you hear before Baz calls “action!” is his suggestion to Austin to find someone in the audience to focus on. 

You holdyour breath as he, Xavier, and Adam walk onto the stage, the smudged eyeliner bringing out the blue of his eyes as he scans the crowd. You fight to keep the smile from your face in anticipation as his gaze sweeps past you, then snaps back as he does a double take. The Elvis facade fades, the anxious fidgeting and nervous manner he’s put on entirely forgotten as he freezes, his eyes locked on yours.

“Y/N?”

You nod, unable to hide your grin any longer as you give him a playful wave, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Aus.”

In a flash, the guitar that had been looped around his shoulders is set carefully on the stage and he jumps down to the floor to greet you, the cast and crew cheering him on.

You let out a breathless laugh as you’re swept up in his arms and spun around in a circle, his grip strong and secure and safe as always. As your feet finally hit the ground, Austin’s gaze sweeps over you, taking in your light blue gingham dress and 50s pin curls, before his eyes meet yours again and you’re finally, finally pulled in for a kiss. 

It’s a sign of how much you missed each other that by the time you pull away your carefully-applied, no doubt expensive, movie-star-quality lipstick is smudged beyond repair, and Austin’s artfully disheveled hair is a mess. Some part of you cringes slightly at the thought of messing up the hair and makeup crew’s hard work, but a much larger, much louder part of you — the part that had been missing him since the second he’d left — couldn’t care less.

“I— Sweetheart,” Austin laughs with a tinge of disbelief, still holding you tight as though you might slip away at any second, “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you.” You say simply, grinning. “And I knew how upset you were that we’d be missing our first Valentine’s together, so I thought I’d surprise you.”

“You flew all the way to Australia to surprise me?” He asks, as if to make sure he was hearing you right.

You nod, cheerfully humming an affirmative.

He laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“You’re ridiculous,” is all he says before pulling you in for another warm hug, lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “I love you.”

“I love you, too” you whisper back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck to hide your growing smile, toes curling at the familiar smell of his cologne — something warm and woody that you had gotten him for Christmas last year.

After what seems like not enough time at all, your very professional boyfriend regretfully pulls away — after all, he is here for a job. Baz is kind enough to let you stay and watch them film several scenes, but after seeing how distracted Austin is (he’s trying to stay professional, he really is, but you’re here and he’s missed you so much) he cuts the day short, offering everyone a chance to celebrate their Valentine’s Day properly. 

You’re glad you brought one of your nicer dresses with you, because that night Austin takes you out on the first non-Skype date you’ve had in a while. The two of you end up at a fairly nice restaurant, talking for hours as if you haven’t been apart at all. In lieu of the typical red roses, he gives you a paper rose to add to your collection back home; a tradition that began with your very first date, and one that you hope continues for as long as possible.

You spend a romantic evening together, followed by an even more romantic night, and the contentment you feel waking up the next morning in Austin’s arms is incomparable to anything else on earth. You don’t open your eyes at first, content with the feeling of your head on his chest, legs tangled together, his arms pulling you in closer, but you can’t help but smile up at him as you feel his eyes on you, and the softness in his gaze as you meet his eyes nearly takes your breath away.

Your hand, from its resting place on Austin’s chest, works its way up his neck to cup his cheek, almost as if you need to confirm that he’s really there, solid and warm next to you. You bite your lip to hide a smirk as your eyes catch on the marks scattered across his skin — proof of your, er, very enthusiastic reunion the previous night. He leans into your touch as you whisper a soft “good morning” to him, and he returns the greeting, mumbling it against your lips as you’re pulled in for a kiss.

He glances quickly at the alarm clock on the nightstand, making a note of the time: barely 9am. “What time is your flight, again?”

You mentally file through your sleep-scattered brain for your flight information. “My flight leaves at 1, but I wanna try to be at the airport around 11, maybe 11:30ish?”

He nods, seemingly incorporating that information into whatever idea he has brewing in his head. “I don’t have to be on set until noon,” he says, taking on a suggestive tone as he moves to hover over you, “Any ideas on how we could spend all this time?”

Grinning, you pull him down into a bruising kiss, making a mental note to send flowers to the hair and makeup crew as an apology for the marks they’re going to have to cover on him after this morning.

All in all, not a bad Valentine’s Day.

Taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @anangelwhodidntfall @austin-butlers-gf @butlersluvbot @killerqueenfan @kittenlittle24 @beauvibaby @kingelviscreole @sweetheartlizzie07 @coldonexx @londonalozzy @annamarie16 @adoreyouusugar @djconde58 @mirandastuckinthe80s @luke-my-skywalker @tubble-wubble @apparently-sunshine @kisseskae @whotfatemywaffles @gyomei-tiddies @friedwangsss @shynovelist @sassy-ahsoka-tano @she-is-juniper @hallecarey1 @adoreyouusugar @iheartcbe @nora-nexus-34 @finelineskies @dontbesussis @fangirl-imagines

[megumiswife4]

Levi x Reader short fic sounds like something that would be nice for Valentines day wouldn’t it??? 🫣

[daylightdiaz]

it might only be the second of january but am i planning a heartbreakingly angsty valentine’s day buddie fic? yes but that’s not the point

[queen-raven-imp]

New fic! OFMD BlackHands for Valentine’s Day!!!

Summary: When Izzy found himself serving Blackbeard, the two shared secrets with each other. Things that that no one else knew. Now, those things threaten to tear them apart, as Izzy blames himself for creating the Kraken, and Blackbeard is desperate to hold onto his First Mate.

[theangrypomeranian]

three of the four fics I'm putting out for Valentine’s Day are done and not to toot my own horn but I think they're super cute :3

[ravnheks25]

[church-of-lilith]

Barbara + Melissa - a charged valentine's day "friend" date after Barbara's husband either did something bad or doesn't exist.

thank you so much for sending this one in! I know it’s been a long time, but I did actually end up writing a full 3 chapter fic based on your prompt so I hope that’s alright!

here’s the link to it on ao3 if you’re interested in reading!

it’s too long to post here in response to your submission or else I would <33