#(her gardens are SO important they are literally her life work)

[adviceformefromme]

YOUR RE-SET PART 2

Part one is here for reference.

Once you start removing all the shit from your life, they’ll be an empty space. You might not like this, but it really is an opportunity to start planting the seeds of your dreams, creating your dream life. Part 1 was clearing your garden, preparing the soil. Part 2, is actually planting the seeds. You've removed the weeds in your life, you’ve distanced yourself from the friends who bitch and moan, you also decided to create some space from the toxic relatives that remind you of the shame, and traumas from childhood. You started a little meditation and journalling practise, eating a little better, thinking kinder thoughts… but this is where you really start creating a magical life. This is your moment, no distractions, you are truly re-rewriting the script of your life. 

See it as a cross roads. Do you choose to go back to what you know, or do you spend the next four months of this year taking serious actions to become who you were destined to be? 

So how do you bring the vision boards to life? How do you truly re-set so that you finally shed the old skin of your past and become who you were designed to be?

1 - You need a vision. This needs to inspire and motivate you, so trade in one of your Netflix shows, or social media binges to create your vision. Screenshot images from Pinterest or wherever, add them into a keynote on your laptop, or use Canva, however you make your vision board let it be your absolute wildest dreams. If it's living in one of those houses from Architect Digest magazine in the middle of Norway, go find those images. If its being a badass CEO who makes eight figures, find an image that represents that. Add activities what your day is like, fashion inspo, locations, events, whatever you want your life to look like go create the vision. And make sure it inspires you. You want to feel that little fire in your belly when you look at it, if it’s not giving that energy, keep working on it till it does. Its really important you remind your self of this vision with affirmations as you look at it, ‘I am’, ‘I feel’, ‘I love’ use these power statements as you speak life as you go through each image e.g ‘I am living in my beautiful home on the coast of Spain, it feels so peaceful to wake up to the sunrise and hear the crashing waves as I look out from my balcony, I am so in love with my home, its represents who I truly am, I love my coffee table books (list them out).' Go on a rampage as you speak life into your vision board (do this as a consistent practise daily or weekly).

2 - Part of your re-set is looking the part. You will have a vision completely unique to you of what the dream version for you looks like, smells like, walks like, dresses like. Your goal is to get crystal clear on this and BRING HER TO LIFE. This will be done in steps, but literally start figuring out what you need to do in order to look the part. This might involve a different hair style. If you always dreamed of long hair but your hair is textured - go get a weave or hair extensions, if you are obsessed with those lamination brows and lashes, go figure out how you can look and feel as your dream girl. Stop using money as an excuse, if your hair is too expensive, find someone more affordable, or do it at home. If you can’t afford designers but see yourself living that life go buy a replica and FEEL the part until you can get there. This is about you looking and feeling like your best self, and it might seem unimportant but how you look affects how you feel and that physical glow up adds LEVELS of confidence to a woman. So start moving away from what you know, have known and step into your truth. Let go of the shame from family, friends. Stop living in their shadows, hiding from their opinions and judgements. This is your moment. 

3 - Create a routine of greatness. What does your day need to involve for you to show up as your best self? As you reflect you’ll see there are things that work and things that absolutely don’t work in your life and now is your moment is to start adjusting. This is for food, exercise, keeping your home clean, keeping organised. This is also about knowing yourself. For example, if you usually walk your dog in the morning but by the time you come home, you don’t have enough time to do your hair and make-up or eat a healthy breakfast - SHUFFLE your morning. This is about making life work for you. Not you working for life, working to survive, rushing everywhere. No, this is about your life, working to suit you best. So take inventory of what is not working and what is and start adapting. Another example. If you want to whiten your teeth and those strips are not working out for you because they feel horrible and you always forget. Go get a whitening powder you can brush on your teeth after you clean them, plus you brush your teeth everyday, so adding an extra step of brushing with the whitening powder at the sink is a much more effective routine that works for you. Do you get the message? Start re-adjusting your routine so there is more flow, and structure aligned with how you want to live.

4 - You need to fucking exercise. It doesn’t matter how you do it. Just make sure you do it. And exercise that is actually consistent and motivates you. This is your confidence booster, your discipline trainer, your toned body enabler, your energy replenisher, your anti-depressants, your anti-anxiety medication, your meditation, your self love. It’s all that and so much more. If you’re new to exercise start small, and progress. Keep those little promises to yourself and if your annoying friends want to see you, only meet them if they join you on a class which allows you to kill two birds with one stone. 

5 - Your passions. Remember those things. The things as a a child that used to bring you joy. Now you have all this free time since you stopped scrolling you can actually remember life before 4 hour binges on tiktok and Netflix. Go grab your skates, your paint brushes, your boombox, your knitting kit, your colouring pencils, your baking materials, your swimming goggles, your library card - whatever the fuck is your passion. GO POUR INTO THAT. Just once a week, even for an hour if that’s all you can manage, but focus on that. This is how you attract more of that positive energy into your life, you connect with your inner child, you soothe her and make her feel so wholesome. 

6 - KEEP REFLECTING, as you continue on this journey to becoming your best self, things will work, you’ll trip up a few times, you’ll learn so much about yourself but it's SO important to keep moving forward. For example if you realised you don’t like your social circle, but noticed you keep judging your friends - you are still swirling in low vibration, because that judgmental inner voice is still keeping you in the gutter. Your daily meditation practise, and reflecting would reveal this to you, and without noticing you are still staying stuck. The purpose of this whole re-set is to elevate yourself, your life and start living your dreams. So daily, weekly, as often as you can. Reflect. This worked, this didn’t, this is what I can do better next time, become your own fucking guru. Know thy self. Keep moving forward. Keep checking yourself.

...And remember know one gives a fuck about this journey you’re on, no one is rooting for you, no one cares if you literally remain the same person you’ve always been. This is truly on you. This is your opportunity to take major leap. To quit being the person who feels like she deserves a better life, who wants more. Now you get to actually BE more, live more. This is a transition. You’re moving out of the old shadows and into the light. This is your moment for change, so embrace it. Live it and keep pushing forward. 

#manifesting #lawofattraction #levelup #levelup confidence lawofattraction powerofthemind #growthmindset #levelupjourney #manifestyourreality #hypergamy #manifest #manifestingmindset

[cherry-titz]

Hi friends! @1800titz here. This is my contribution to the collaboration, and I’d like to start off by saying that I am so, so, so beyond excited to work with the immensely talented @cherryjuiceblues!! Thank you for working with me Soph :’)

We have loads of goodies planned, and we’d like to kick things off with Mr. Hitchhikerry. (Sidenote: he’s a little late to the party, this WAS supposed to be a spooky piece for Halloween but SHDJDJCJDJD don’t worry about it. Life got in the way a bit, but he’s finally HERE so WOOOO). A little idea based on this reddit post. This one has great big warnings. DARK HARRY. VERY DARK HARRY. With a piece like this, I want to really emphasize: this is purely for entertainment purposes, and there is 0 correlation intended to the real Harry Styles <3 just a spooky faceclaim.

With that disclaimer out of the way, here’s some content warnings: dom/sub themes, choking, (light) spanking, degradation (and praise!) ((some good ol’ LET’S PLAY SIMON SAYS)). THE WOOF WOOF is for humiliation purposes only <3 GREAT BIG WARNING FOR A DISTURBING CONFESSION OF INTENT TO HARM.

Also, I writhe in my seat as I write, wanting to put in lengthy context of prediscussion and safewords and aftercare and everything important I always talk about, BUT. You’ll see. He’s an …interesting character and I tried to keep hitchhikerry true to himself.

PLEASE DON’T HOOK UP WITH STRANGE MEN YOU PICK UP ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AT NIGHT. PLEASE DON’T PICK UP STRANGE MEN ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AT NIGHT. Enjoy ٩(◕‿◕)۶ (WC is 11K)

She doesn’t do hitchhikers. 

Not figuratively, not literally. 

Y/N was raised outside of the scope of the seventies, post-Bundy and his hitchhiking antics, and since the evolution of serial-killer lore, she’s never been fond of a stranger hopping into her passenger seat and then cutting her up into itsy-bitsy parts to hang around his back garden like string-lights, or something. An ear there, a palm with crooked fingers there. Morbid stuff. 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers, but she doesn’t think about that, hurtling down some back-country road, a poorly lit vale through a field of tall, boundless grass. It’s not the first thought budding behind her skull when she sees his silhouette through the shone of her pearly brights — a blip by the line of tall shrubbery — even a good distance away. And from her distance, he’s just a little blip in a cream, hoodless sweatshirt, feet planted into a bed of patchy grass. Her first sane thought, as she squints through her windshield, has to do with why someone would be out on this road, at this time of night, with no feasible form of transportation, and how. As her Honda nears and passes some fork off, a dirt bend of clearing into the winding field of nature, the man’s hitchhiking, signature thumb morphs into a wave of his arms, and his foot steps out, toying at the edge of the road. It doesn’t quite breach the threshold, but her speedometer decreases enough for her to catch baggy denim, distressed at the knees, and a slow wave of his arms, raised. He doesn’t launch at her car, forlorn, as she passes — thank Christ. But even then, his frame swishes by, out of sight, coated by darkness. She casts her gaze to the rear-view, and the image of him scrubbing over his face with an exasperated palm shrinks in size the further she gets. 

The young woman gets about a hundred feet before she nudges the break with her foot to a halt, sighing as the car settles with a subtle lurch. She makes another glance to the rear-view. Now, she can’t see him, not in the shroud of night, but she squeezes her eyes shut for a second, and then twists the wheel until the car curves. A tire slips off onto gravel and grass with the U-turn, but she steers herself back onto the road and drives into the same direction she’s just come from. 

He looks surprised to see her reverse, form pivoted toward the same headlights that’d just passed him with a crease over his brow bone. Y/N slows and breaks as she nears, absent-mindedly pressing a fingertip over the lock button on her door. TV Girl is still playing quietly from her car speakers when she cracks the window, stopped beside him across the road, and beckons with her chin raised just enough for her cadence to seep through the opening, “Do you need help?” 

“Yes, yeah, I—“ the man makes a quick glance towards the side of the road where vehicles would be incoming, a sharp turn of his chin, and then a step towards her parted window as Y/N twists over the volume toggle. “I just— my car broke down,” he raises an arm and points towards the dirt clearing that slips into the field, “I was coming this way, and my phone’s died—“ 

He pauses, shaking his head down at his converse, his voice a baritone croon with charming, foreign dialect, “I know this is so odd, and you probably don’t want a stranger in your car. But f’you could just order an uber or something, I could give you the cash for it?” the girl watches his ring-clad palm disappear into the front pocket of his denim hastily, only to retrieve a wallet, “—If that’s alright?” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. 

And still, her pupils rove over the charming stranger, trailing from his soft dark curls, swiping over his lashes as his head ducks, down the slope of his nose, to the cushiony pink of his lips. Irises graze down his neck and catch a white tee under the collar of his cream pull-over, and they brush down his denim, to his battered, white converse. The young woman watches his hand stretch out, cautiously, a wad of neatly folded cash cupped by pads of fingers with short, yellow-lacquered nails. 

“No, don’t— …I can give you a ride,” Y/N tells him, her tone soft as her gaze wanders over his frame. 

A downward shift plucks at the corner of his plush mouth and his jaw flexes, a hesitant look shaping over his features, “It’s— I couldn’t— s’like a thirty minute drive, and I don’t wanna take you out of the way…”  

His large hand is still stretched out toward her, and she admires the cross inked over the back of his hand, on the fleshy area between his thumb and forefinger. Her brows pinch together, and the window whirs as the glass partition sinks. The girl raises her hand and points back with her thumb. 

“Are you going in that direction?” 

Wordlessly, the attractive stranger nods — a single dip of his chin. 

“I’m going that way, too. I can give you a lift.” 

Another look of hesitancy flits over the curly-haired stranger’s face, a soft, dubious touch to his facial features. He purses his strawberry mouth. 

“If you’re sure.” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. 

And still, she slips her hand over the unlock button, and the doors click to signal unshuttering as the man culls his wallet and stuffs the cash back in, sticking that back into his jeans. She watches him wind around her car, his gait trailing behind, and her eyes follow his side profile, bathed in the red of the brake lights, through the rear-view. The passenger door slips open. She rolls her window the rest of the way up. 

“Thank you,” the man tells her in his low baritone, raking fingers through his curls as he slides into the seat beside her and shuts the door. 

He smells heady and fresh — expensive. But it’s not overpowering, by any means. A blend of tantalizing notes; cologne blotted in increments that mesh well with his natural musk. The pleasant scent is the first thing she notices when he climbs into her vehicle. The second is the sculpt of his side profile — lengthy lashes over the crest of his cheekbones, his nose, a plush, pink mouth, a stray curl splayed over his forehead. He’s a little older than her, at least by a handful of years; there’s this innate, aged quality to him, and she can witness it in the shape of his features, in the soft dusting of stubble over his jawline. Y/N catches glimpses of his side profile discretely as the music track shifts, eyeing the bob of his Adam's apple as he cranes his neck back against the headrest. The screen over the center console reads 1:02 AM. 

“Long night?” 

It’s a shit attempt at small talk, but the young woman turns the wheel in her palms, hopeful that the man is interested in something more than an awkward silence, sparsely filled with the mellow keys of electronic-indie leaking from the speakers. She heard him expel a breath more than she sees it in her peripherals, and as the car embarks on another U-turn, he tells her, with laughter suffusing his cadence, “Yeah. Yeah, s’been a long night.”

She does make out that he pivots a bit towards her, and his tone is earnest when he says, “But it’d be a little longer without you, I think. Thank you, again. Feels like I can’t say it enough.” 

Her mouth quirks softly. The young woman keeps a haphazard left hand on the wheel, vision bouncing from the poorly illuminated road ahead and the phone in the cupholder. The LED display lights alive as she swipes her thumb over the lockscreen and toggles onto the maps app, cueing him by nudging the electronic in his direction. 

“Um. If you could just type in the directions— I’m sort of shit in these parts, to be honest.” 

She casts a brief gaze toward him and sees a soft divot pinch into his cheek as the corners of his mouth crook up. His fingertips, warm and rough — calloused — brush over the back of her hand with the handoff, and then his thumbs are working over the screen before an address and a winding blue line of directions with an eta of thirty-four minutes teems the screen. 

“Hi, by the way,” the man says in his honey-smooth cadence, “My name’s Harry.” 

“Hi,” Y/N grins, shooting a bashful glance into the attractive stranger — Harry’s — direction, before fixing her irises up ahead. “I’m Y/N.” 

“Y/N,” the man parrots — God. She could listen to him drone on about the most monotonous topics in that voice. He doesn’t. Instead, he uses that same timbre again to say, “S’a pretty name.” And she has to ignore the flurry of butterflies that swarm her innards at the entirely innocuous compliment and the heat that suffuses her cheeks. “Are you from around here?” 

“Ish. Sort of,” she slows at a curve through the field. Her brows pinch, “I mean, I’ve lived here for a bit now, but I moved from Oregon.” 

“Oregon? That’s sick. Any particular motive?” 

Y/N lifts a subtle shoulder, because there isn’t. She pauses before she answers. “Dunno. Just needed a change of scenery.” 

Harry twists the ring over his pinky and nods down at the motion, lips pursed with intrigue, “Adventurous.”

The young woman’s mouth crooks, because he’s, evidently, from the opposite hemisphere.  

“That’s admirable,” the man motions with his chin. 

Her mouth is still smiley when she rounds another curve, in the opposite direction, and mirrors his dialogue, “What about you? Any motive?” 

“My motive?” his inflection is cheeky and playful, “You don’t think I’m a native?” 

The girl makes a wry sound of amusement; an obvious inclination of disagreement. The handsome man grins, all raspberry-tinted lips and friendly teeth. “Just …visited, and never wanted to leave,” he declares with little expansion on the topic. Simple, short, sufficing. 

There’s a little moment of lull between them when she straightens the car out and the track slips into the chorus. 

Harry shifts in the passenger seat and asks, in that same deep timbre she could sink into and drown in, “Where are you headed from?” 

Where is she headed from? Y/N blinks at the road ahead, digits flexing over the steering wheel. Truth be told, it’s a late hour to be out and about, especially in this deserted neck of the woods. Every cozy little farmhouse in these plains, distant beyond the fields of grass, has lights off. No other car passes. 

“I was on a …date,” the young woman tells him. 

Harry nods and swivels in his seat to face her a bit. “Good date?” 

Y/N pauses, the fragments of the story rolling around behind her skull. And truth be told, …it wasn’t a very good date. But it wasn’t a date to begin with. In all honesty, she’s not about to tell this attractive stranger that she’d driven forty minutes for a routine hook-up with an old tinder match, only to be stood up outside his door. 

He was a character whose path happened to cross with hers for purely carnal purposes, and their flings were like rolls through seasons, rendezvous blotted into her timeline where either had a smidge to make room. She’s not going to talk about that. It’s piteous, basically. The young woman doesn’t risk side-eyeing him. This man seems like he’s well off in that department, and she doesn’t want to discuss her shit intimate life and the way that Cody decided, last minute, that he was more interested in going out for miller lites with his buddies than entertaining the idea of sleeping with her. 

He didn’t even have that impressive of dick game anyways — that’s the brutal candor. It wasn’t that he had this particular lack of satisfaction guarantee, but the sex was okay. It didn’t tick all the boxes or leave her fulfilled, not in the real sense, but it was sex, and it was decent. Maybe the most brutal part is the way she’d driven all the way to see him, even knowing that the sex wasn’t going to be top notch. 

Apparently, her silence stretches too long, and the pause gives away the answer she mulls tactics over hiding. 

“Bad date,” the girl hears from beside her — it’s in this thoughtful sort of way, like Harry’s slotting puzzle pieces together in the lull.   

Y/N shifts her fingers over the wheel, the sound of skin sliding over leather meshing with the starting notes of a Cage the Elephant track. Her thumb toggles over a button on the wheel. She skips it. 

“No,” the girl responds, eventually, but she doesn’t even sound fully convincing to her own ears. There’s this high note to her cadence, and she hears it in her own waver of honesty. She wants to cringe up, a little, at the sound. “Not …bad. Just. Well, you know. What about you?” 

For the first time since she’d gotten back onto the road, Y/N casts her gaze to him. A glimpse, a twist of her chin, enough to take in his side-profile for a smidge of a second, more in a way to incite switching the topic and pivoting the point of conversation than the inconspicuous stare she’d made appreciating his features. The corner of his plush mouth curves up, and he makes a little sound; a puff of air through his nostrils like he’s bridling mirth. 

“Was my date bad?” Harry says, in this playful sort of way. Like he’s teasing her. 

“No— your— whatever you—” 

Y/N huffs. She rolls her shoulders back against the seat, a heat teeming over her cheeks. Why was she so nervous? Why did he make her so nervous? Harry makes another sound of amusement, the cushion of his lips unsealing to display straight white teeth. 

“I was at a friend’s,” Harry expands, opting to stop drawing out the teasing, enough for Y/N’s shoulders (that’d grown rigid) to relax a little against the seat. “Was actually having a good night, believe it or not. And then, you know.” 

Unfortunately, she does know. He’s sitting in her car, after all. 

“Do you know what went wrong with it?” she ponders. 

“Well,” Harry the pads of his fingers over the door, and it takes every fiber in her not to sneak a glance at the motion, not to admire the yellow polish, washed with darkness, dim in the car, “the check engine light was on for a bit, to be honest. But— no,” the man pauses with a little simper, shooting her a glance, “Cars aren’t my specialty.” 

They talk about loads of things — she learns all about his friends and the sort of outing they’d had (game night it’d been, Uno, and he’d beckoned her opinion on a debate that’d arisen — whether a draw four could be stacked onto a draw two). That had spawned another conversation on card games —

(“Is it like Go Fish, then?” 

“No,” she snorts, “not at all.” 

“Not at all?” 

“There’s a board and it’s— more complicated.” 

“There’s a board,” Harry parrots, shifting with his elbow brace on the center console like an armrest, “And it’s just, like. Cards, like, in a deck of cards?” 

“You’ve never played cribbage?” Y/N repeats in disbelief.)

She learns about his job, and his cat, and his collection of vintage vinyls. He’s amiable, and he answers every question she directs his way with this smooth sort of charm. He’s easy to talk to, and the span of the drive cuts shorter and shorter through intriguing conversation. But she leads the way for the majority of the inquiries. 

It’s not until they’re at the halfway mark before he asks his own, rather than redirecting one of hers. 

“Can I ask you something?” Harry drums his fingertips over the plush of his mouth, and Y/N struggles to fix her eyes back onto the road once she’s spared him a glance. 

It takes her a second to hum out an agreement, too. 

“It was a bad date, wasn’t it?” 

The girl expels a breath and drums her fingers over the wheel, casting her gaze onto the screen of directions. 

“It wasn’t even a date,” she confesses, “he was like—“ she blinks, lashes fluttering as exasperation at the reminder leaks through, “A tinder hook up, and we didn’t even end up hooking up.” 

Before he can interject, Y/N tacks on, begrudged, “He wanted to hit the bars with his posse of Mag-con wannabes, instead.”

And then there’s this sort of pause that has Y/N thinking that maybe she’s overshared. The man with the sun-polished nails isn’t an old friend she’s having a gab with, catching up on the phone — he’s a stray man she’s plucked up off some deserted road, and if he judged her for her choices, it’d kind of be justified. Namely, the one where she’d driven out in the middle of the night for impromptu cock. 

And anyways, this all feels a bit surreal — the beginnings of a therapy session with a stranger who’d hopped into her sedan for a lift, filling the void of a psychologist in a great, big leather armchair.  

Except Harry sounds earnestly disbelieving when he says, “You’re kidding.” 

She purses her mouth and readjusts her fingers over the steering wheel. “He sort of …canceled when I was already at his door? Forgot to text me that the plans changed. That’s what he said.” 

“What a dickhead.” 

“Mm,” Y/N hums. 

“He’s a moron for passing up the opportunity,” Harry tells her. It’s not in an awkward way, or anything creepy, either. He’s got this air to him, she finds — an ability to make a comment like with effortless delivery of charm. He’s not even looking at her when he says it, only risking her a brief glance that she catches in her peripherals. She still side-eyes him from her seat in surprise, the edges of her mouth curling up bashfully. 

“M’serious,” Harry says, dimples pinching into place beside the upturned-curl of his plush mouth. 

And the thing is, Harry is so friendly. He’s kind, and interesting, and despite the way Y/N had assumed allowing for his presence in her car would be the world’s greatest chore, she’s pleased to be in his company. 

That’s why she lifts a wry shoulder and tells him, “The sex was bad anyways.” 

The man’s face pivots to face her, then. “Yeah?” he coaxes for expansion in his molasses-slow croon of a timbre. 

“It was just a little boring.”

“Boring?” 

“Not— maybe not boring. Just, you know. There was nothing…” Y/N drums digits over the steering wheel, “I don’t know.”

The man beside her clears his throat. 

“Was he a missionary in the dark type of bloke, then?” 

“Yes,” she responds, almost instantly. Because missionary in the dark is, perhaps, the best way to describe Cody’s sexual nature. Down to the T, practically. She can’t fathom how many times she’d lay there, hoping he’d switch up into something different, something where his hands weren’t resting shallowly on the bed sheets beside her shoulders, something where his face wasn’t tucked into the crook of her neck, his mouth biting back everything but soft hisses of air as his hips rocked at an mediocrely slow pace. 

Harry’s mouth quirks. 

“But not even that, it’s like. He wasn’t bad at foreplay, or anything. It wasn’t the best. But, you know. It was all sort of… plain.” 

The young woman pauses before she continues with an apathetic, one-shouldered shrug, “And there’s nothing wrong with plain. It gets the job done, and, you know. That’s what some people like.” 

There’s a shift in energy, from there. It’s subtle, but Y/N can feel it, and she wonders whether the morph is a one-sided experience. It happens with the honesty of the context, with the way she swears jade winds over her figure from beside, with the rasp of his voice beckoning something playful. 

“But that’s not what you like.” 

Y/N takes a second to answer. “No.” 

“What do you like?” 

Maybe that phrase is where it hits her. Where she recognizes that the subtle shift in energy is not one-sided. Not by any means.

Y/N risks a haphazard glance into his direction. 

“Not …that,” the girl laughs. It’s a nervous, giggly kind of sound, but it’s not because of him.  

It’s different now, she thinks. He’d been so timid at first — all bashful gazes through lashes glimmering under the beam of headlights, hesitancy shaping his features. Friendly dialogue — alluring, but curt in anything beyond friendly. This is different. This is blunt and forward. This is his eyes raking over her, this is his tongue swiping out over the plush of his pink mouth, this is his dimples peeking as the corners edge up.

“What do you like?” Harry asks again, a note of flirty, lighthearted amusement to his smooth cadence.  

Y/N sighs, the corners of her mouth tipping up. “I don’t know. Oh my God. Why are you interrogating me?”

Harry laughs. His brows rise, and he tips his chin down so the green sparkles at her. “You don’t know what you like?” 

“I don’t know,” she huffs, good natured. And then she gives. “Something… rough. Something exciting. I don’t know, pull my hair, make it hurt a little. Don’t… lay there in the dark and…” her speech morphs into giggles, “Groan into my ear about how tight I am while I’m laying there like a dead fish.”

Y/N doesn’t know how she ends up pulled over in some deserted parking lot. She doesn’t know how her headlights end up off, how the stranger’s hands sew into her hair, how his lips mesh softly with hers, hungrily. Well. She does know, but she doesn’t care about the details in between. Because he’s hot, and he tastes of mint, and the tips of his fingers press into her scalp and tug a little when they brush through, when he slips a palm over the nape of her neck through the work of his cushiony mouth. It’s thrilling, and it’s sexy, and it’s dangerous, she thinks, but that thought becomes clouded and pushed back to the dells of her mind. 

“Such a pretty little thing,” Harry murmurs when they disconnect, fingers splaying over her cheeks. Her heart hammers in her chest, and his irises trail after the motion of his thumb, bumpily dragging over the side of her lips, all the way to her cupid's bow. That same pad of his thumb pauses and tugs, drawing her bottom lip down to show the slightly parted seal of her teeth. 

And then he’s taking his thumb away and nudging the tips of his index and middle finger, coaxing, “Open your mouth, open your mouth.” 

The pads of his digits meet the tip of her tongue and prod in, brushing over her taste buds, until he’s tapping onto the center of the muscle and crooning, “Stick it out. Tongue out for me.” 

A little hum escapes her, plucking at her vocal chords when she complies, only for him to trace further with his fingertips and nudge until he strokes the back. He holds them there and makes a little motion with his chin and a soft tut when her irises stay pinned on him, glazing with a sheen of watery protest at the depth of the intrusion. 

“Ah— don’t you gag,” he tells her softly, every syllable of every word coated with these notes of dominance that almost seem …innate — like the headspace is a pair of shoes for him to slip into with ease. 

It’s filthy, it’s so filthy — this stranger’s fingers in her mouth, this man she’s never seen a day in her life, a complete, nameless stranger, not even an hour prior, prodding into the warm wetness behind her lips. And her, following his aimless direction, just to please him. She doesn’t gag through the way his fingers crook, her tongue twitching and her throat bobbing, her sight growing blurry with the coating of sheen. It’s worth it, immensely, when Harry hisses out a soft curse and groans softly, his brows pinched. 

It’s worth it when he takes his fingers away, and Y/N’s jaw is coated with her drool, when her tongue is still out, when Harry says, in this soft, strained voice, like it’s praise, “Christ, you’re a filthy thing.” 

She finds that this impromptu rendezvous sort of gives her whiplash. She’s parked in some empty parking lot with her lights off, and an alluring stranger’s just untucked his fingers from her mouth. Maybe someone would deem this a new low — having a shag with some hitchhiker she’s scooped off the side of a back-country road. But he’s eyeing her like she’s prey, and he rolls from one action like pages flitting and flipping in a book, and every detail keeps her on her toes. She can’t keep up. Y/N pants wetly, like she’s not sure whether to slip her tongue back into her strawberry mouth, because she’s not. 

Not until he swipes another thumb over the tip of the lax, twitching muscle and beckons, like he’s a little amused, “Aren’t you?” 

Slowly, her tongue retreats, and that’s when his hand slips and cups over her throat, and that’s—

Her pulse thunders like it’s straining to beat out from below her skin, and Harry adjusts his grip, that same, wet thumb drawing short, slow lines over the point like he wants to test the race of her heart, like he wants to know that the pattern has skyrocketed since his palm has made homage over her windpipe. The man hums, pupils trailing and lingering slowly. 

“Tell me—“ Y/N shifts in her seat, spine straightening out against the cushion, and something wracks down every individual knob when his blown gaze pins her the same way his palm pins over her neck, “Tell me you’re my filthy plaything.” 

The press of his hand isn’t harsh by any extent, not until she parts her lips to answer — that’s when he nudges a little firmer. A little harder. He cocks his head at her in this condescending way — like her stifled sound of surprise entertains him, like the subtle, almost unnoticeable jolt of her eyelids, widening, pleases him. Judging by the slight quirk at the edges of Harry’s plush mouth, it does. 

Her tummy coils with unanticipated desire. This feels almost scary. This feels like traipsing over a rope, like teetering over dangerous territory, and the sudden spike of adrenaline only has her thighs clenching together harder. Because this is sweet Harry, the friendly hitchhiker, in his cream sweater with his nice smile, and his charming dimples, and his loose, clean curls, with his warm palm cupped over her throat and the pad of his thumb digging into her pulse. He looks fucking hungry. 

“I’m—“ her statement’s muzzled by the press of his hand, an increase in only a slight increment. It’s enough to wrest a garbled sound from the back of her throat. He tips his head. 

“What’s that?” 

“I’m your…” she pauses when he presses harder, again, and this time’s enough to have her feeling lightheaded, her bleary eyes wandering over his face and every muscle of her face battling the light flutter of her lashes. She thinks a dimple peeks from his cheek. Harry lets up.

Y/N siphons breaths like her lungs have been deprived for ages, and not just partly for the timespan of a short fifteen seconds. Still, his palm is glued over the front of her neck — just there. His thumb strokes over her pulse gently. 

“I’m your …filthy plaything,” the young woman confesses in this pathetic little voice that’d have her ashamed in every other setting. But in this one, it doesn’t. 

Arousal creeps through every fiber of being, instead, crawling through her arteries and settling into her veins like a twisted, dark goo. It thrums through her and sinks through to the trench of her tummy, frothing as chills teem down her back. He’s got this glint in his eye, like a dance around a bonfire in the deep of the night — but it’s just a stray street light that casts its shone as a spotlight when he ducks forward a tad, just enough for it to. When he tips forward, his gaze growing half-lidded, lower and lower the closer he gets, it feels like he starts to siphon every breath from her own mouth as his cushiony lips ghost over her cupid’s bow. Even for the smidge of the second it takes for their mouths to mesh again, it feels like the movement is in ultra slow motion. 

The mold of their mouths together, this time, feels a lot less like she’s got her hands on the wheel — the first time had been almost testing, sweet — something soft that’d shifted into something headier, something firmer. This feels like something he guides, something he takes the clear lead in, from the pace of his hungry lips to the exploratory nudge of his tongue against the seam of her own mouth. Her fingers flex over the center console aimlessly, palm straying, and fingertips catching on a part of his cotton sweatshirt. They twist into the fabric softly when Harry’s tongue strokes over her own. A hand settles onto her thigh. It’s not her own.

“Get in the backseat,” he hums into her open mouth, squeezing over her flesh when she doesn’t immediately comply. He’s got this way of dulling her reflexes, crumbling the semblance of her mind to mush, and Y/N is convinced it has more to do with his touch than it has with the time of night, despite the way exhaustion wears at her tired muscles. “Get in the fuckin’ backseat.” 

When her arms strays and she reaches for the door handle, though, he squeezes at her thigh again, and hums out a displeased note of disagreement. “Not like that.” 

Bemused, Y/N shifts in her seat. A glint of something playful glows in the jade when Harry tells her, “You can find another way, can’t you, pet? Go on.” 

Y/N sits in confused silence for all of three seconds before the man sits back a tad and cocks his head, irises flashing towards the backseat with a playful, little grin quirking at his lips. Like he’s suggesting. 

It takes her longer than three seconds to clamber into the back from the driver’s seat, through the slot over the center console, but it satisfies Harry, evidently, judging by the way he palms over the globes of her backside through her stretchy mini-skirt. It’s not very graceful, and if she was less aroused she’d probably find it in her somewhere to be a bit embarrassed, but. She doesn’t. She wriggles over the cushion, instead, settling back. 

Harry has smarter ideas. He toggles the gear on the side of the passenger seat and sets the whole top of it back, like a makeshift day-bed, and scoots into the back of the sedan through the opening. And there’s not much leg room — not for the two of them, not with the whole back of the seat splayed — and there’s not much room for their heads, either, but they manage to squeeze back, and he’s gripping onto her shoulders and twisting her on his own whim before the young woman has a chance to shift around, herself. 

“Get—“ the way Harry manhandles her with a grip on her hips, (once he’s got her slumped, at least somewhat) — with ease, like he’s flipping a page in a book rather than rearranging her whole position in the cramped space of a sedan backseat — that lights something fiery in the pit of her belly. “Hands and knees, baby,” Harry tells her, grunting softly while her limbs scrabble over the pleather. He pulls her back into him, by the hips as she’s physically molded into it, parroting, quieter, “hands and knees.” 

“Itsy bitsy skirt… so easy to just—” Harry hums, this sort of mischief to his cadence — and it becomes blatantly obvious, the reason for it, when his digits creep under, from behind, and his colossal palms hitch it up, “Oops.” 

She’s wearing tights under it. They’re not the fleece-lined kind, despite the bite of chill in the air outside, but they are there, and Harry spans the pads of his fingers over the barrier like he doesn’t have plans to discard them the practical way. 

He doesn’t. The man stripes a fingertip down her core, from behind, over the fabric and the faint hue of cheeky purple that peeks through, and makes this devious sound of mirth when her whole body twitches. And then he draws the same fingertip back up, in the same line, and nudges a bit. 

“What am I gonna do with you?” Harry coos. The third, slow drag has her arching her hips back. “Hm? What am I gonna do?” He takes almost a thoughtful second, tongue peeking out to swipe out over the cushion of his pink bottom lip, before Harry splays his palms over her bum, “Pretty girl… pretty arse…”

And it’s so calm — he’s so calm, so casual, so nonchalant — Y/N doesn’t even sense it coming until he sighs, and then he’s digging the tips of his digits into the nylon, stretching it from her core, and just tearing. Casually. Nonchalantly. The sound of fabric ripping apart coaxes her jaw to slip open, and her pupils stick to the inside of the door, unblinking, as he just tears, and tears, and tears. 

And she’s not even upset, is the thing. She’s not irritated that this stranger’s just torn the crotch of her tights apart — she can’t be, not when he hums devilishly and strokes over her core, a layer closer. Maybe that’s pitiful. Maybe that’s sad, that she’s so fucking horny that she doesn’t care that her tights have been split open with no prior discourse on the topic, but this direction of impulse — the way she’s not even able to try and guess his next move, it kindles something hot and hungry. 

And if she ever has Cody to thank for anything, Y/N thinks maybe it’d be that he’d inspired her to shave and slip on a pair of decently attractive underthings. 

“These are pretty, too,” Harry tells her, thumbing at the crotch of the thong, just over one side. The young woman gives this dreamy little sigh and arches back up into him further. “What d’you want, sweetheart? Want me to give some attention …here—“

Her spine jolts when he nudges the pad of his index right up against her clit, lightly, over the purple fabric, “Maybe? Is that it? Eager girl.”

He draws a featherlight circle over it, and then another, and another until her thighs are trembling. The tip of his digit taps. She nudges back, and he takes it away altogether. An amused sound slips from his mouth.  

“Say please,” Harry demands. 

Y/N jumps as his fingertips trail to her inner thigh, crooking and tickling in the line they draw. 

“Please.” 

Again, he makes a disapproving tut, and Y/N rolls her cheek onto on a forearm, tucked over the seat. 

His eyebrows climb up his forehead, and his fingertips drift up and down the back of her thigh, drawing closer and closer where she needs him most with every lap. Each word is covered with notes of firm dominance. “Not like that. Like you mean it — like you’re pleading.”

Y/N mulls over the words, her heart thundering. 

“How d’you beg?” 

It takes a second for his words to sink in, but then when they do, she croons out, softer, more desperate, “Please.” 

There’s a soft sound of a breath being expelled, the seat crinkling quietly as, she assumes, Harry sits back on his haunches, head ducked. Like it’s not good enough. Her tongue traces out over her lips and she beckons, “Please, please,” each plea prompting a spiral of unfamiliar humiliation — glazed with arousal — to unfurl. 

“Please, please, please—“ each word emphasized with a rock back of her hips. And finally, he touches her. 

His palm cradles a cheek, and he doesn’t sound even slightly impressed. Instead, his voice comes out exasperated when he tells her, “That’s not convincing. You’re desperate. You want something — you need it, you’re pleading.”

“Please— please—“

“Louder,” he scoffs, “Beg. Beg.” 

“Please,” she tries, desperation creasing her voice strained on the syllable, and Harry drags fingertips, airy, across her inner thigh, from bottom to top. “Please, please, please—“

And finally, something clicks. Something slots together, at some point, when she ditches the inhibitions and her cadence starts to border on a delirious sort of desperation. Finally, something works. 

“That’s better,” Harry says softly, swiping his thumb over her clit, “Much better.” 

She doesn’t pick up on that, though, and she’s still begging, pleading, quietly. Quieter, quieter, quieter — the words growing more sparse the longer he spends time honing on her clit, the firmer his touch becomes. 

“Good girl,” Harry coos, his fingertips latching up under the hem at the crotch of her panties, before he tugs, “Good girl. You ask nicely, and I’ll give it to you. S’that easy.”  

He slips a thumb against her gushing entrance and drags it down, tracing careful shapes over the bud of nerves, before he tugs down on the hood and emphasizes on the new exposure by reigniting the touch with the thumb on his opposite hand. Two hand task — very dedicated. 

“S’this all for me?” the man teases, pinching her clit, lightly, between the pad of his thumb and the side of his index. He sounds a little self-satisfied when he declares, quietly, “I’m flattered.” 

Her lips part as a silent, breathy moan wrests from the back of her throat. It happens when the pad of his long middle digit prods at her entrance and nudges in. The thumb on his other hand sweeps, side to side, over where she’d most sensitive, and he stuffs into her further. And they are lengthy — his fingers. She’d seen them drumming over the center console, and smush over the raspberry tint of his lips, felt them coat her tongue, and felt them press against her throat. They can reach further than her own, crooking against her spongy walls, curling when he adds a second before straightening out and scissoring for the stretch. 

“Christ, you’re gushing,” Harry says, and as if on cue, the pornographic squelch of his fingers working crowds the cramped space, “Jesus— d’you hear that?” 

Y/N buries her face in her arms to muzzle the little sounds of bliss that he pries from her mouth. It’s not until he’s proper fucking into her with his digits, the pad of his thumb dragging tight, little circles over her clit, that those sounds escape her. And when they start, they pour in a flood. Because he works so expertly, so deftly — from the pace, to the angle, to the way he hones on her clit with his other hand, and the filthy dialogue he spews in his honey-smooth baritone. It’s everything, everything, and it prompts the coil in her belly to circle and squeeze, tighter, tighter — a telltale prior to its inevitable snap. She clenches over his fingers helplessly.

But then he just— stops. 

The nudge of his digits skirts to a stand-still within her, and his thumb stops drawing circles, and Y/N just squeezes over him like a silent plea. He makes this sound — this mirthy, deviously pleased hum, like her displeasure at his pause amuses him. It’s pure sadism. 

It’s not until she rocks her hips a bit, a shallow, desperate kind of back and forth, that the amusement seems to slip from his tone. 

“Don’t—“ Harry tuts sharply, taking his thumb off her clit altogether to grip at her hip harshly, “Stay still. Naughty, little minx.”

And she does. She stays still when his voice gets hard like that. There’s a bit of quiet between his snap and the subtle freeze-up of her rocking. Soft breaths sew through the lull, but then he talks again, his tone a little nicer. 

“We’re gonna play a little game, yeah?” 

That’s …intriguing. Y/N shifts over the cushion. His grasp over her hip has softened considerably, but there’s still this humiliating heat that swarms her face at the fact that the crotch of her panties is still tucked against her skin, that everything’s out in the open, that Harry’s practically ogling in lieu of touching her. 

“It’s a bit like Simon Says. Except, when you play Simon Says, you hesitate a little, right?”

The man’s thumb presses back to her clit, and she buries her face in her folded arms. 

“And I don’t want you to hesitate. I’ll tell you something to do, and—“ 

His fingers sink into her, and her shoulders grow tense from the bliss. Y/N muzzles her groan. 

“You’ll do it. Sounds easy enough?” 

It does. It’s easy enough instructions, and when Harry pats at the same hip he’d been clutching over and beckons, “Hands back here,” Y/N obliges easily enough. 

Her cheek presses to the cushion, cool against the warmth teeming beneath her skin, and she lets him manhandle and move her splayed fingers to his liking, arms stretched behind. 

“That’s good,” Harry croons in his low timbre, the warm, lewd praise of it drawing chills up the nape of her neck, “Now spread a bit for me.” 

Y/N does that, too. Her finger pads nudge and press into her flesh, coated with the tights, and her digits crook as the tips dig in to splay — to follow his direction, to please him. And it’s shameful, a pinch in her shoulders as her arms reach back, fingers twitchy, imprinting into her own backside with little divots as she opens herself up for him to do nothing. But his satisfied little hum sends an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment spiraling through her veins. The way his warm palm rests on and pets over the back of her thigh along with it feeds something new and starving. 

“Good girl. There you go. See? S’easy.” 

Y/N makes a little sound into the seat, and her fingers flex as Harry pumps his own digits, a steady rhythm of in and out, paired with a hum from him that sounds absolutely pornographic. 

“Such a good girl,” the man tells her, fingers crooking, but the praise isn’t enough to muffle the bemusement that wracks her when he says in this devious hush, “Let’s try another. Bark.” 

Bark. 

It takes a second for the command to register past the immediate threshold of the pleasure curling in her belly as he strokes at her spongy walls. And when it does click together, his word settling past the membrane of bliss, her initial thought is that she’s definitely misheard him. Because that’s …sort of a ludicrous request. The young woman sounds strewn between groggy and muzzled when she cranes her neck a bit over the cushion and beckons with a confused hum. 

“Bark,” Harry repeats, “like a dog.” Simple and nonchalant. 

Bark like a dog. She’s midway through creased brows, a strained raise of her head, and a baffled what, before the man stills his fingers and takes a grip over her wrist, sliding her hand away. 

And then he smacks her, hard, with his palm on one side, in the same place where her digits had dug in to spread herself open. 

It’s loud, and it stings, and it sends a shockwave through her nervous system, strong enough to have everything buzzing on alert as her forehead pastes to the seat and the parted gap of her mouth struggles to mute a gasp. Maybe the most surprising part is that the hurt feels good, that the sting morphs into something else as it fizzles and ebs, that the hammer of her heart spikes this famished, unfamiliar arousal coursing through her when he doesn’t even bother stroking over the bruised skin. It’s definitely hard enough to leave a ruddy mark under the tights, and Y/N blinks down at the faux leather, wordless and a little gobsmacked. 

And then Harry sighs in this way that’s so …disappointed. And the calmness of his inflection, grouped with the irony of the harsh hit… that has a chill climbing up her spine. 

“That’s not how you play the game, pet.”

He says it in this eerily nonchalant note of disdain, like he’s not just casually tattooed the shape of his hand onto her backside with a blow. Like he expected better. Like it’s a little mishap they’ll gloss over. She doesn’t even realize she’s still got a vice clamped over his fingers until he shifts the digits in her, coaxing her core to flutter around him. Harry sighs again. 

“Did you forget the rules, baby?” he asks, cadence soft and basked in condescension. The man strokes over the heated skin, the same spot where Y/N is sure a subtle welt has peaked to the surface below the thin veil of the sheer tights, “I tell you to do something and you do it, right?” 

Her knees are starting to ache a little, a soreness settling into the joints, but she doesn’t even mind it when his fingers pump again, slowly. 

“That’s how the game goes. Right? I need an answer.” 

She makes a soft sound. A little sound that’s not protest. A little sound that’s not outright agreement. It’s a whimper into a void, but everything about him and his touch lights something alive in her. And she wants more. She’s dizzy off of it when she manages out a breathless, “Yes.” It’s a short word that comes out in a breath, like she’d been holding the air in her lungs. 

Maybe that’s why she’s dizzy. 

“Are we on the same page? Let’s try again, then. Bark.” 

Y/N shifts over the seat. The hand he’d moved has splayed helplessly to her side, and the fingers curl and uncurl as the weight of the suggestion hits her. Because that’s— it’s humiliating. It’s demeaning, and it’s strange, and the fact that he demands it has the tips of a fire licking up at her insides. The young woman makes an uncharacteristically pathetic noise. 

Harry sighs. 

The split second of hesitation is enough, apparently, for another slap, just as hard, in the same spot. It has her rocking forward and clenching over his digits again. Harry’s quick to correct her posture with a hand on her hip, guiding her back in a way that lacks gentleness. 

“I said, bark.” 

This time his voice is harder. Meaner. Y/N gives. 

She gives because the tips of his fingers prod at this heavenly spot inside her, because her skin smarts in a way that has her practically drooling, because she’s dizzy, and hungry, and desperate. Her thighs are quivering when she gets out a half-hearted woof, her lips shaping over the word like the task is a chore to get out. 

“Better—“ another slap, aimed lower onto the back of her thigh, has her hips jutting and the straight line of her spine twisting up, “—but not what I’m looking for. Try again.” 

She doesn’t even aim to please, is the thing, when her yelp overlaps with another smack. But it morphs into something surprised and deliciously pained, and evidently, it’s enough, judging by the way his touch smooths over the stinging skin.

“Oh, baby,” Harry tells her, his fingers stroking like he’s smudging the pink-tinge of bruising, “That’s pathetic.” 

And it dawns on her then, that there’s no winning with this game. When he tuts and tells her, absolutely patronizingly, “So desperate for it, she’s barking like a stray.” 

It dawns on her that she doesn’t want to win. She doesn’t care, because his filthy dialogue, as demeaning as it is, just draws her wetter and closer. As if to highlight on it, Harry crooks his fingers and tacks on, “You’re leaking all over the seats, pet.” 

And she is, she’s sure. It’s a dirty game he plays, and she loves every part of it and more. It has her writhing when he draws circles over her clit, it has her aching for more when he guides her hand back to her backside with a squeeze and a wordless coax to keep spreading. 

“Gonna let me fuck you?” Harry pulls the digits out, dirtying what’s left of her tights and smearing sticky wetness over the back of her thigh, “Hm? Gonna let me—“ his belt clinks as he unbuckles it, and then comes the soft sound of a zipper, its teeth unlatching, “—fill you up?” 

“Glovebox,” Y/N mumbles, hips shifting back when he pets at her thigh. 

His pupils flit, sticking to the back of her head, before they jump back down to his handiwork. Harry’s tone sounds absent-minded and mirthy when he asks, “What’s that?” 

“There’s condoms in the glovebox,” she expands, a little louder than her prior murmur, bracing on her forearms to cast her gaze back at him over her shoulder. 

And he looks rugged in this boyish, youthful way, then, is the thing. The corner of his mouth jolts, lopsided, and a stray tendril has flopped over his forehead. His hands are on the undone buckle of his belt, and his fly’s down, and he sounds absolutely amused when he says, “Are there?” 

There are. 

“You’ve prepared for this, then, have you?” Harry sets a palm onto her hip, squeezing as a dimple pinches into his cheek, “Condoms in your glovebox …like a proper dirty whore?” 

Coyly, she blinks, cheek nuzzled to the seat, and she watches him stretch his arm out for the glovebox as he knees away. 

“I’m always prepared,” Y/N settles on, softly.

The glovebox slips open. There’s rummaging — his torso turns to face it entirely, and then he gleans a shining, golden little packet, tucked between the pads of his digits. The young woman wriggles her hips. There’s this glint of fiery …something. Something playful, something lewd, something hungry in the jade, when he clambers back over, steadying himself with a palm on her tailbone. It coaxes her spine into a pretty, sharper arch.

“You do this a lot, do you?” Harry teases, “Pick up strange men, let them fuck you?” 

She hums in agreement as the man takes the little gold square, snug between his teeth, fingers working quickly, pushing buttons through slots and tugging his cock out. 

“Maybe I do.” 

He tears at the wrapper with his teeth. She knows, because his next words come out a little muffled. 

“Is that right?” 

It’s not. It’s so out of the norm, so far from the usual, but Y/N would be a masochist to string out the arousal that’d built between her thighs in lieu of letting Harry span his palms over the globes of her ass in the backseat. Harry, with his cheeky smile and his sunshine, short-trimmed nails. Harry, with his denim-tethered bulge dragging over the back of her thigh and his filthy tongue shaping crude dialogue.  

She doesn’t see him as he tuts from behind, but she can picture it; his palm cupped over the base of his shaft as he rolls the condom over and then presses the tip against her teasingly. 

“Wanted to be fucked like a dirty whore, is that it?”

Her “yes” stretches and ebs and splinters into a whispery hiss when Harry nudges forward and stretches her out. And then he’s beckoning for her hands, one hand splayed over her hip and the opposite coaxing at her shoulder, tugging and jolting in gentle nudges, mouth shaping over firm, “Hands, hands, give me your hands — behind your back— that’s— just like that.” 

Barred from scratching at the seats with his firm, warm grip binding the joints hostage, Y/N presses her cheek to the cushion. She slumps into his willpower, gives into him, the smush of her face sweaty on the cushion, jolting with every rock forward. The young woman clenches over him helplessly. Soft sounds slip past her lips, pried out by the nudges of his hips, over and over, again and again. Her fingers stiffen and flex, and the arch in her spine shifts when the head of his cock bumps that delicious ridge so deep in her — and it’s like Harry senses it, the way her entire body grows taut like a string. He goes at that too, prodding, again and again, until a whine plucks at her vocal chords. Every shallow jolt of his hips sends waves of paralyzing bliss licking over her insides. Every nudge forward has her slumping more. And when he talks, Y/N barely registers it over the rush of blood in her own head. 

There’s been little things that fall from his mouth — soft curses and hisses as he slides in, hums and groans when he bottoms out, readjusting his grasp over her wrists. Words, though — now he’s saying words. They’re still in that gentle baritone, this sort of luring croon. 

“Come on, baby. Come on — got a stranger’s cock in your pretty, little pussy—“ Harry’s voice catches on a strained note as he pulls out—

…A sigh as he rocks back in, “—and …you’re not gonna struggle?” 

A warmth stems from his grasp, behind her back, and as if on reflex, her digits crook and flex. The danger of the words don’t even register. Because, yeah, he’s right. She’s got a stranger holding her restrained, rocking up against her, and all that peaks in her at the filthy dialogue is a bud of deranged arousal. She doesn’t shoulder forward though, doesn’t try to pull her hands apart, doesn’t sag forward, not even a little, too concerned that even a minute shift will alter the delicious intensity of the angle. 

“Not even a little bit?” Harry tuts, grinding forward, one more time, slow, and then he squeezes over her wrists hard and picks up in pace. Just until he settles into a hard tempo of short, deep thrusts, and her shoulders are aching from the way he pulls her arms back. 

His words blanket her with this patronizing sort of humiliation — the kind that has her spongy walls pulsing over his length and chills erupting from the nape of her neck to the creases between her shoulder blades. “You make it so easy.”

So easy for a stranger to fuck her — so easy, pulling over in some desolate parking lot. So easy, letting him wrap a palm over her throat and stick his fingers past her lips. So easy, following his every command for the reward of his hips pummeling against her own. 

And it’s easy to get close with the way he works into her, tip bumping into a spot that sends waves of pleasure coursing through every millimeter of her nervous system. The kind that has every muscle stiffening to stone until the wave ebs. It’s so easy to lurch higher and higher, closer and closer, when his touch digs into her joints, rendering her helpless to his crude affections. When strained grunts and sordid words fall from his mouth, when his other hand slips from her hip and knots into the hair, at the roots, on the back of her scalp, only smushing her cheek into the seat with more pressure. 

“Fuck,” Harry groans, the pace of his thrusts stuttering as he picks up the tempo into something merciless, his digits flexing into her hair and his body weight sagging onto her frame. 

Every time his balls slap against her clit, teasing where she wants that attention the most, she feels the spring draw tighter, lips smushed to and gaping against the seat. And then he readjusts his grip, lets one of her hands free while he keeps the other pinned, and he coaxes, “Touch your pretty clit, baby. Make yourself cum all over my cock.” 

Y/N makes it to the crest before he does. It’s her fingertips sloppily winding loose shapes over the bud of nerves, it’s his cock hammering down into her, it’s the pinch in her shoulder, and the way Harry’s grip grows harsher over the hand he still has pinned, the closer he gets himself. The way his digits are still flexed at the roots of her scalp, the way his moans and curses are garbled with pleasure with each pump. The way her helpless fluttering, when she tips over the peak, draws this long, sordid groan from him as he cranes his neck back. And then he slows, ducking his chin to watch below through slow thrusts. 

“Dirty girl, cumming all over a stranger’s cock,” Harry swipes with a thumb where the mesh, toying at the seam of her hole when he goes deeper, again, slow. 

And then his grip on her wrist gets hard again as his fingers flex, and he holds onto her hip and guides her in a steady-paced, back and forth bounce over cock. He chases his own releases, every motion rough, and full of control, and so brimmed with this unfamiliar hunger. She’s mush by the time his head tips back, and he gushes ribbon after ribbon into the condom. She’s mush when his grasp over her wrist grows lax, when he knees back clumsily on his knees, when he discards the condom, wrapping it into the confines of its wrapper, when he fixes her purple panties back over her crotch and strokes over the back of her thigh with an amused huff. 

“Alright?” Y/N vaguely hears Harry say from behind when she doesn’t instantly sit up, his voice bordering on amused. 

That’s. Yeah, Y/N thinks. She’s great. There’s still this rush of blood in her ears, and an ache in her joints that interweaves with the soreness of her muscles, but it’s all in such a good way. She makes a barely coherent hum of agreement and rolls her shoulder forward, planting her palms onto the seat to sit up and glance at the time over the display in the front of the car. It’s nearly three in the morning now, and it hits her then, that she’s so tired. She’s so tired, she feels like every piece of her energy had been strewn up and pulled tight on a rope, and now it’s all wasted away. 

Harry gets it. Or he seems to, at least. Sleep beckons her with a whispery croon and a soft touch. The corners of his mouth crook up, and he pats at her hip. 

“Hop up, pet. D’you want me to drive the rest of the way? S’just a little bit, now.” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. She doesn’t let strangers into her car in the middle of the night from some empty road, she doesn’t fuck them in the backseat, and she certainly doesn’t let strange men drive her car to some unfamiliar location, only lacking being undisclosed from its visible street name on the GPS. Y/N doesn’t do any of that. But she nods weakly and lets their roles flip. She’s mid-raising the back of the passenger seat by the time Harry jogs around to the driver’s seat and slips in. 

In the rear-view, her reflection greets with her unshed tears and bloodshot eyes, mascara smudged below. He turns to face her and strokes a hand down her thigh. He picks the same hand up and sets it onto the gear-shift. Switches to reverse. 

The first thing he says from the front of the car, strawberry mouth quirking as his eyes direct to the back-up camera, is, “I’m sorry about your tights. I hope that was alright.” 

When they pull up to the motel, Y/N doesn’t ask questions. There’s only been a span of, maybe, ten minutes passed between the parking lot and their final stop of the night before Harry pulls into a parking spot and shuts the car off. 

He tells her, “This is my stop.” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers, and exhaustion wracks at every sinew of muscle in her body. She half-expects him to wordlessly hop out of the car. He doesn’t. The man fixes her with a smile, and says, “Could I get your number, maybe?” 

It’s not an odd request by any means, but if she weren’t so tired, maybe she’d ask more questions. Her pupils would wend over the shoddy motel sign, and the shit cars parked beside them, and she’d wonder what the hell they were doing parked in front of some abandoned-looking motel. She’d ask why this was his stop, and not a home. Instead, she pulls a napkin from her glovebox and digs for a pen. She scribbles her digits and hands them off. In the brush of the cool air, from the night, when she clambers out to swap spots with him, she wraps her arms about herself. When she takes a seat into the driver’s side, she expects him to walk away. He doesn’t do that either. Instead, she rolls her window down when he beckons, and Harry leans onto the car and tells her, “Get home alright, yeah?” 

It’s a miracle when she hobbles up the steps of her apartment complex, when she pries open the front door and crashes into her sheets. The blankets envelop her like a warm hug, and she doesn’t even bother pulling off her tights. 

It’s a week before she gets a phone call. There’s no texts, and the morning after, when she’s greeted with radio-silence, she thinks that maybe she’d dreamt the whole thing. 

Her tights, ripped at the crotch, prove otherwise. 

She’s in bed, days later, when her screen lights up with a call. It’s an unfamiliar number, and curiosity peaks before she swipes over the answer toggle. 

“Hello?” 

A gap of silence, a breath, and a familiar, smooth baritone on the other end of the line. 

“Y/N.” 

There’s a little sound of the bedsheets stirring as she freezes up. He’s caught her off guard. A little laugh plucks at his vocal chords, tinny on the other end of the line, like he’s amused by the stretch of lull. Her lips part, the corners of her mouth inching up as she hears a sigh from him that seeps in all the way to her eardrum. But she doesn’t have time to contemplate what to say or how to say it, because he doesn’t let her get a word in before he’s talking again. 

And his next words are not a playful jest at her lack of response, or anything friendly, really. In fact, the confession, said so nonchalantly, causes chills to erupt down her arms. 

“I was going to kill you that night.” 

The chills aren’t the initial reaction. The initial reflex is the crook of her mouth to morph bemused, the pinch between her eyebrows, and this sullen feeling of dread that twists up in her stomach. A laugh bubbles in her chest, because, what the fuck? 

But then he keeps talking. 

“Thought about draining the life from those pretty eyes the second you rolled your window down,” the voice on the other end sighs, and it’s got this sort of …reminiscent quality to it. Like he’s tracing the steps of the night back to its starting point. Reliving it when he tells her, “It’s such a thrill, you know. Taking that from someone. So intimate.” 

The young woman doesn’t make any sounds, kind of appalled by the sick joke. Because it is sick, it’s disturbing, and it’s a twisted way, at the least, to strike up a conversation if he’s …looking to do what they did again. This isn’t the Harry she’d met on that night. This isn’t the same one who’d worn the cream sweatshirt, and talked all friendly with this smooth, wholesome charm — this wasn’t the man she’d let into her car, this wasn’t the man she’d let do all those filthy things to her, in the backseat of her sedan. This doesn’t feel like the same man at all, and she wishes she’d been aware of the sick sense of humor to his character before she’d let him …violate her. Y/N’s just about to budge in with a disgusted comment, tell him off for calling her so late at night to mess with her, but he beats her to the edge of the gap, yet again. 

Except this time, he sounds sort of frustrated, and the phrase comes out like a scolding, the tone of his cadence firm and irate. “Didn’t your mum ever tell you not to talk to strangers? …Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to trust strange men on the side of the road? S’just …bloody stupid.” 

He laughs. It’s this soft sort of chortle she’d been so charmed by that night — it’s identical, except then, it was this sweet sound full of wholesome mirth. Now, it feels cold. Odd and detached. Surreal.

“But you… you made it so easy,” Y/N listens to every word that comes through the line, hanging onto every syllable of the empty threat as dread churns her stomach. His words from that night crowd behind her skull. You make it so easy. “So friendly, so sweet. Just wanted to chat on and on. I was going to kill you, and you wanted to have a shag—” 

Harry tuts. Her heart hammers behind her ribcage, and she only realizes that her breathing has slowed and that her grip on the smartphone’s grown white-knuckled when it shakes against her cheek. She’d let him drive her car. She’d let him get into her car, she’d let him lure her into pit-stopping in a deserted parking lot, she’d locked the doors, and dimmed the lights, and let him open her up with his fingers and his cock. And then she’d let him drive her car, and take down her number. There’s a moment of mortifying silence.

Harry sounds deadly serious when he tells her, “Don’t you ever pick up another hitchhiker.”

The line goes dead. 

Y/N calls back. The number she reaches belongs to a payphone, unanswered.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles halloween #dom harry styles x sub reader #harry styles one shot #dark harry styles #harry styles one shots #harry styles writing

[notjustjavierpena]

OKAY HEAR ME OUT Husband Javier and the reader are fighting the whole day but trying to repress it because of their kids- After they're asleep the two are arguing again and then boom makeup sex 😋 thank you angel !!!!

Fight

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost

A/N: This request literally had me up all night, and now it has come to life and possibly turned into one of the most sensual pieces I’ve ever written. I’m obsessed with them. 

Summary: You feel overlooked and unappreciated. Javier says the wrong thing and hell breaks loose, but he also knows how to say sorry. 

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader/You (No y/n)

Tags: +18 Smut (mdni!), domestic life and dynamic, grownups being assholes to each other, hurt/comfort, saying sorry to each other and to your kids because I’m healing my inner child, crying, pregnancy, pregnancy sex, passionate and rough sex, MAKEUP SEX!!!, clit stim, creampie, dirty talk, praise kink, love love love, they are just crazy about each other 

Word count: 4.2k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49596877

Fight

Chucho Peña is coming over tomorrow and that’s fine. 

You’ve made plans to make plans at this point though. The list of things you need to do before he arrives still gets longer every time you have a moment to think about it to yourself, teeny tiny details adding up to a day that’ll keep you busy from the moment you wake up. It would have been fine if you didn’t have to get the kids out of bed and prepared for school, and then go to work too, right on top of cleaning, shopping, cooking, and hosting — at 34 weeks pregnant.

Javier is Javier about it, reassuring you that it will be fine and that you just need to take a breath whilst he stands in the door to the garden, back towards you and smoking his morning cigarette whilst you try to tell Inés that she should have cornflakes instead of lucky charms for breakfast. 

“Oh,” Javier says after stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray that Lucas has made for him in arts and crafts class. He turns around and rests against the doorframe, “Can we have that chocolate cake you made last time? The one with the white chocolate frosting?”

You never personally thought that you’d ever get into an argument about chocolate cake. If you’d said this to the child version of yourself, she would have laughed out loud and told you that nobody could ever be angry about anything to do with dessert. Especially not chocolate desserts. Yet here you are, letting your fatigue get the better of you.

“Sure,” you let out a loud sigh, dragging it out to really let your husband know that you are not happy about his input, “Sure, Javi, I’ll just add it to my ever-growing list of things I need to do for your father.”

You hear it as soon as it leaves your mouth but you’re too stubborn to backtrack, watching Javier go rigid in the door. He furrows his brow in confusion, and then his expression turns into a frown and eventually a scowl. He doesn’t look downright angry but not happy either. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks defensively, body language telling you that he is getting ready for another attack. He enters the kitchen like he is walking on eggshells, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I only asked you if we could. You have every right to say no, and not be pi—“

Inés looks up at him with big brown eyes that are similar to his own. He swallows down the word, replaces it with something more child-friendly, “And not be rude about it.”

“Say no and watch you be a giant toddler about it? Great, I’ll definitely choose that,” you scoff, running on autopilot and clearing the kitchen counter whilst you argue. Out of the corner, you see Inés starting to squirm in her seat but you’re too far gone by now, “It’s not even my father, and I have to do everything for the preparation because you’re oh-so-important.”

“So we’re just never having my dad over ever again?” Javier seethes, mouth twitching in anger and threatening to put on a violent smile. He has some kind of ability to piss you even more off when he is just about to smile during arguments. 

“That’s not what I said, and that’s not the point,” you stubbornly bend down, hand on your round belly, to put your own plate into the dishwasher. Sebastian is due soon, kicking you as your pulse rises due to anger. Javier looks like he is contemplating whether to help you straighten again or not. 

“Then what is the point?”

With a hand on the edge of the kitchen counter, you manage to stand upright once more. You face Javier, finally scowling right back at him and he seems to shrink a little underneath your fury, “I’m exhausted, Javier. When do you think I have had a night to myself? I know you have a busy schedule, I do, but God—“

You drag the last word out, running a hand through your hair in frustration, “But you went out with Steve just days ago. I need to cook, clean, do the grocery shopping, take care of two kids, and - by the way - do it all with someone kicking my bladder every goddamn minute of the day. Which - by the way - is your doing.”

There is no reason to sound as venomous as you do, but you suspect that half of it is exhaustion and the other half is hormones getting the better of you and ridding you of better judgment. 

“Fine, you win,” Javier makes a display of holding his hands up in surrender but he mixes it with a roll of his eyes, and you almost go for his throat, “I’m a terrible husband.”

“Oh, you did not ju—“ You raise your voice.

Suddenly, you hear sniffling beside you. It pulls you right out of your head and makes you observe your surroundings, and with the way that Javier flinches, it seems to be doing the same to him. 

Inés' little voice breaks your heart, the sight of her even more so when you see she has covered her ears with her hands, “Mamá. Why are you yelling at Papá? Don’t you like each other anymore?”

Javier sends you a look that makes your stomach drop, something that tells you that you are not done here. He looks absolutely furious with you, especially after seeing his daughter cry.

But then he sucks in a deep breath and crosses the room to crouch down beside Inés. He rubs her back soothingly, “Nos gustamos mucho, mija.”

Your legs have made you join them before your brain can even get the idea. Ever so gently, you run your hand over Inés' hair, “I’m so sorry, baby. We won’t shout anymore. Sometimes we get bad feelings. Remember when we talked about those?”

Javier looks at you with his mouth still a thin line and you glare back at him without Inés seeing. He straightens to get a piece of paper towel, first dabbing his daughter’s eyes and then blowing her nose afterward. 

Lucas Peña peeks into the kitchen from the hallway. He looks like someone who has just woken up, hair sticking out in the same way that his father’s sometimes does, but it’s accompanied by a concerned expression on his face as he watches the scene in the kitchen, “Why were you fighting?”

“We weren’t fighting,” you reassure and hold out your arm. Lucas goes to press into your side, and you respond to his affection by resting a hand on his head, “Okay?”

“Okay,” Lucas replies but he doesn’t sound convinced. 

From the outside, it probably looks like the perfect family portrait but you can feel Javier is fuming underneath the surface. He leaves Inés’ side to throw the snotty paper towel out, his shoulders still tense.

“Lucas, can you take your sister into the bathroom and brush your teeth?” You say as neutrally as you can muster, faking a smile down at him as he looks up at you, “I’ll be right there.”

“What about breakfast?” He asks.

“I’ll make you a sandwich for the bus ride. Whatever you want, but we’re already late,” you tell him, and it seems to work as he takes Inés’ hand in his own and leads her out of the room.

When Javier and you are alone again, an uncomfortable silence settles between the two of you. Javier stands against the counter, palms flat on its surface and you can hear the sound of the clock in the background, ticking by as the silence stretches. 

You are just about to apologize when Javier turns around. His eyes are wild with fury, not at all as submissive as just moments earlier when you had been the angry one. He points at you, mustache twitching with disgust that you are sure must be directed at himself too, because he says, “Never in front of the kids. I don’t care how angry you are. We don’t do that.”

You can feel your bottom lip tremble. 

Javier leaves the kitchen instead of comforting you. 

You force a smile, trying your hardest to sound cheerful while tears spill down your cheeks, “Lucas, what do you want on your sandwich?” 

*

The rest of the day goes by without any resolve, and it feels like there’s a brick lying heavy on your chest and making you on the verge of tears all day. Despite this, you manage to get everything on today’s list done before dinner and yes, you buy the ingredients for the stupid chocolate cake, making an effort to ‘casually’ leave the recipe on the counter for Javier to see. It results in him emptying and refilling the dishwasher without a word. 

During your bedtime routine, Lucas looks worried. He tugs at your hand when you are just about to leave and you can see the cogs turn in his head as he strings together a sentence, “Mom… It’s okay if you and Dad were angry at each other. I just don’t like it when you cry and… and I want you to say sorry. That’s what you make me do when I get angry at you or Dad. Or Inés.”

Your heart hurts from the love that’s barely able to be contained inside of it. With every single muscle in your body being strained, you manage to bend down to hug his head close to your chest, “Mijo.”

“No, don’t be sad,” he says quickly, hugging you back. 

“I’m not, baby. These are good tears because I love you so much,” you kiss his head, “I’m so proud of being your mom, baby. You know this, right?”

Lucas pulls back and you quickly wipe your tears away. He studies your face for a second, “Y-yes, I love you too, Mom, but you need to say sorry to Dad.”

You nod, struggle a little as you try to get up and say your final goodnight. On the way out, you desperately brush more tears out of your face because looking at the photos in the hallway makes them well up in your eyes once more. 

Javier is tying the strings of his pajama pants as you enter your shared bedroom. He doesn’t acknowledge you when you strip yourself naked except for your underwear, and not even when you pull a tank top over your head that’s barely covering your pregnant belly anymore. You’re unsure of what to say to get a reaction from him. The silence screams. 

“I’m sorry,” you eventually settle for. 

Javier turns to you then. His eyes rest on you for a moment before he speaks, “I’m sorry too. I get it… wanting time to yourself. I just didn’t know that was what you needed.”

He is hugging you soon after, strong arms around your exhausted frame. Your round stomach bumps against his flat one, and he lets go with one arm in favor of resting a hand where Sebastian usually kicks during the evening hours. It’s thankfully quiet right now, as if he senses that you need it.

“I wish you could just see how much invisible work I put into this house,” you say softly into his shoulder, “I feel so underappreciated and overwhelmed sometimes.”

“And I wish you would tell me how you’re feeling instead of treating me like a damn mind reader,” he sighs deeply, and you respond by getting defensive again. You’re just about to pull away with an annoyed groan. 

“No, no, c’mere,” he tugs you back into his arms and you let him because you’re feeling generous. His hands cradle your face, “I don’t wanna fight. Please. I hate fighting with you. I’m sorry.” 

“You make me so furious,” you whine as he bumps your nose with his own, feeling tears prickle at the corner of your eyes and one sliding down to drip from your chin. Javier tuts, catches it with his thumb.

“I’m sorry, baby,” his mouth curls downward as he says it, puppy dog eyes on their highest setting, “I know how much you do. I do. I’m just— you know how I am. Don’t cry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Javier embraces you once more as you blink tears away, dragging in a deep breath. The air in the bedroom smells like him, comforting and safe, and it makes it hard to keep concentrating on your fight and easier to fall into him. 

“I love you,” you mumble into his shoulder, and holy fuck, you do - every single day, hour, minute and second. He is your best friend, your husband, the face of your children, and most importantly, you know that he does his best for you.

It seems that those three words are exactly what he wants to hear because you feel his hands curl around the hem of your tank top. You don’t protest, relishing in the gentle touch of his fingertips against your back as he pulls the piece of clothing up and over your head. 

Your shoulders come down to relax from having been tensed up. You haven’t even noticed how much energy you have been using on straining your muscles, but now that you are calming again, you can feel how upset you’ve actually been throughout the day. 

“I love you too,” he promises. Your heart drums in your chest. The way he says it makes arousal burn below your belly button, a gentle tingling, and swirling sensation pleasantly taking over your whole pelvic floor. 

You look down between the two of you to see that Javier is already half-hard in his pajama pants, words seemingly having had the very same effect on him too. You start untying the strings of his pants slowly until you can tug them down over his hips, and he mirrors you to remove your underwear. 

Both of your bottoms pool around your feet, and when you have both stepped out of them, Javier pulls you close by your elbows. He catches your mouth in a desperate kiss, and you melt into him in a way that an apology could never make him feel. 

He pushes you back towards the bed whilst never breaking the searing kiss. Your hair is a mess in his hands, heartbeat speeding up as everything moves so fast from then on out; he helps you down onto the bed like the gentleman he is, manhandles you onto your side like the man you were swept off your feet by years ago and finally presses his front up against your back.  

“I want you,” you say in unison, and it makes you giggle at how in sync you are with each other despite having spent the day fighting over something already long forgotten. Especially when his arm scoops underneath you to cage you against his chest, hand tightening around your shoulder to hold you in place. 

Javier leans over you slightly to kiss the giggles away, bends your knees a little with his free hand so he can let it wander over you. He touches you up along your thigh as you place a pillow under your pregnant belly, takes his time holding you tightly, “Get hotter and hotter every day, mi amor.”

You press your ass back into his crotch, cunt throbbing with impatience as you hear the tiny groan that he lets out. He is so hard against the roundness of your behind, cocktip leaking steadily against your warm skin when he grinds right back into you. 

“Put it in,” you plead softly. Your hands come up to grip his forearm that is secured just above your tits, “Javi, please. I need it so bad.”

He is silent behind you as he works. The anticipation is unbearable when it is mixed with the unnerving need to have an outlet for all the intense emotions that you have just been through, your pussy quivering in desperation to be deliciously stretched out to transform your feelings into something physical. 

Suddenly, you feel the thick head of his cock between your thighs and you ready yourself for intrusion. Luckily, he doesn’t make you wait, guides himself into you in a slow motion until he is fully sheathed inside you. 

“Fuck,” you whine as quietly as you can, nails digging his arm from how hard you are gripping it.

“I know, ahh fuck, shhh,” he soothes but the way his voice sounds makes you believe that he is just as close to losing his mind, “Be quiet, baby. Just let me make you feel fucking amazing. Need a pillow between your knees too?”

You nod, and he is right there with his own pillow to help you get even more comfortable in bed with him. God, why were you even fighting? Something about cake? Either way, it seems beyond ridiculous. 

His nose is in your neck, his hand travels up to cup your breast and then he moves his body for a very first thrust inside of you. It makes your eyes nearly roll back into your skull when he keeps the pace lazy and deep, barely pulling out with each roll of his hips. 

“You feel so good,” he praises whilst mouthing along the most sensitive spot on your neck, “Makes me never wanna leave. Wanna live here.”

“Inside me?” You chuckle breathlessly. 

“Forever,” he gives you a slightly harder thrust, the first where the noise of his skin slapping against yours resonates through the bedroom. You moan in surprise, and he hushes you once more, “Don’t let them wake up and think momma is in pain.”

“Definitely not in pain.”

Javier lets out the quietest laugh. It’s almost unfair how good he is at keeping it down compared to you, but you don’t think you’ll mind having his big palm cover your mouth if you end up causing trouble. It almost happens when he pinches an overly sensitive nipple, making it harden immediately under his touch. 

“Help me spread my legs a little more,” you beg at a low decibel. 

The hand on your tit gropes obscenely and shakes for a moment before it slips down and caresses your belly on the way. Still lying on your side, he smacks the fleshiest part of where your ass and thigh meet before he cups the back of your knee so he can lift.

The move gives you the access you need to rub your cunt, two fingers going in taut little circles around the swollen nub. You rock with him too, and it goes on until you come with your back arched, releasing a short and hot breath that you didn’t notice you had been holding until it turns into a loud and accidental moan. 

“That’s my girl,” he moans too as you clench rhythmically and choke his dick when you release the built-up tension. When your orgasm reaches its peak, Javier’s hand on your shoulder moves to cover your mouth at the fear of you making enough noise to have the door burst open with unwelcome visitors, “I know it’s hard, mi vida, but - shit - but be quiet.”

You take the opportunity to let out a drawn-out and helpless cry into his hand as the sweet pleasure goes on for a few moments more. Then you slump, and he gently moves your leg down again to put less strain on your body. 

“My God,” he talks into your ear, thrusts never slowing down and you swear that you can feel his cock jump with every weak noise you make, “I love you so much. Love your little cunt too, she takes me so well.”

Javier’s hand comes down to grip the extra pounds on your hips. He tugs at the flesh almost painfully, but your exhaustion and dopamine overload are making you too delirious to notice that it’s to the point of bruising. He holds tight and uses the grasp that he has on you to pull you down onto his cock over and over. 

It takes no time to make a second orgasm stir in the pits of your stomach. Your moans change once more as your body starts responding to him fucking you so hard. 

“You think you can come again?” He rasps into your ear, and when the head of his cock slides teasingly over your favorite little spot inside of yourself, you nod frantically and it feels like you are about to cry actual tears. Fuck yes, you can come as many times as he wants. 

“Mhm, won’t take long,” you whimper and use all your willpower to lift your leg over your husband’s thigh until you are spread widely. Your belly is still comfortably supported in the new position, but now that your front is stretched taut and fully exposed like a well-trained and submissive animal, it enhances the feeling of Javier gliding over your g-spot repeatedly.

Javier removes the arm that he has caged you in with, but whereas it gives you a moment to heave a breath of air into the very bottom of your lungs, he quickly takes it away from you as he reaches up with his other hand to grab your throat. He doesn’t squeeze like he normally would when you are not pregnant, but the anticipation of him doing it makes your head swim. 

And then he is absolutely brutal in his thrusts, and before you know it, you are coming with your clit untouched and a strangled sob. The convulsions are so intense that your thighs shake, your toes curl and your eyes screw shut. 

You reach up to put your hand on the back of Javier’s head, holding on tightly as he pounds into you from behind throughout your orgasm. The way he pants tells you that he is close, and when you yank the tiny curls at the nape of his neck, he starts to chase his release. 

“Javi,” you whisper loudly as he slams into your sensitive cunt, “Give it to me. Pleasepleaseplease. Need you to fill me up.”

“Fu— oh shit,” Javier swears in a low, rough growl as he snaps his hips a few last times before stilling inside of you. He feels impossibly big inside your cunt as he pumps you full of his come, cockhead resting at your cervix and coating you in warmth. 

“Jesus, we’re terrible at being quiet,” you whisper as he pants. You let your leg come down onto the other once again, a giggle suddenly building up in your chest. He starts laughing whilst still inside of you, hugging you tightly into his chest and nuzzling his nose into your cheek.

“They sleep through it, don’t gotta worry about it much anymore, I think,” he notes without care, kissing your cheek repeatedly despite still not having calmed his breath. You smile widely as you stare at the ceiling, overtaken by the love you feel for him every time he gets you to post-orgasmic bliss. 

“We need a date night soon though, Jesus. Perhaps Pop could take the kids home with him tomorrow after dinner and I could… do this again,” he smacks your ass playfully, then strokes your hip in soothing circles, and you almost purr like a cat at the gentle move, “Without a mute button on my pretty wife’s mouth, of course.”

“I’d like that,” you say with a soft and sweet sigh, acknowledging his attempt to make things from earlier up to you, “Been a while since you’ve made me scream. Wanna take our time.” 

Javier reaches down between you to pull out before he is completely soft. You hiss at being left empty when you are so spent, but Javier quickly distracts you with another string of kisses to your cheek and the corner of your mouth. He adds to the fantasy, “And then I’ll draw you a bath and you can spend as much time alone as you want. Don’t gotta be no one to anyone.” 

He moves on the bed as far as his arm that’s trapped beneath you allows him, going for the packet of wet wipes you keep on the nightstand. He had suggested them when it had become too hard during your third trimester for you to get out of bed after sex. He hands you a few and you hold them over your mound, enjoying the coolness of them.

“You know the way to my heart,” you say, wiggling a little and feeling his come seep out. It makes your nose crinkle.

“Well, I did convince you to marry me,” he replies. 

“Worst decision I’ve ever made,” you tease. Javier wraps his other arm around you, hand splayed on your belly. 

The position you are in is uncomfortable; Javier’s arm underneath you has got to be asleep by now and you feel damp with sweat due to him being like a furnace against your back.

Still, you both drift off slowly into the soundest sleep. You don’t wake up until two unexpected visitors barge in at the most ungodly hours of the morning, causing you to scramble for the blanket to cover your bodies up and hide the come-stained wet wipes in the nightstand drawer.

.

.

.

TAGLIST WILL NOT CONTINUE FROM NEXT MONTH (September 1st, 2023). FOLLOW @notjustjavierpena-fics AND TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS 💖❤️💖❤️

@aestheticangel612 @moonand2saturn @i-say-choco-you-say-ice-cream @casa-boiardi @gracieispunk @hiddenbabynyc @hopelessromantic727 @k-k0129 @livingdeadmaria @its-nebuleuse @milly-louise @cool-iguana @pawnshopbluess222 @walkintotheriveranddisappear @sunnywithachanceofjavi @strang3lov3 @hellishjoel @littlevenicebitch69 @pedropascal-whore @alltheseperfectimperfections

#pedro pascal characters #javier pena x you #javier peña #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena smut #javi pena #javier pena one shot #javier pena fic #javier pena narcos #javi peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena fluff #javier pena imagine #narcos #narcos fanfiction #husband!javi #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal #my writing

[yelena-bellova]

Twenty Years Later: Joel Miller x Reader - One Shot #3

Talking to the Sky

Plot: While doing some gardening, Y/n deals with unpleasant memories.

Word Count: 753

Warnings: loss of a child, ptsd, (16+)

A/N: Miss me? I know it’s been a while but to be honest, fic writing has just not been a priority. But I wanted to finish this one and get it out since I promised to continue this every once and a while. Since we’re all preoccupied again because of award seasons, I thought it was a good time to revisit Rosebud and Joel.

This one’s a bit more sad than the last few, but I really wanted to do one just of Rose dealing with some of her s-it. Hope it’s somewhat enjoyable!!

————

Winter was somewhere in that middle bit. Jackson had weathered the worst of the storms, but the fierce cold hadn’t let up yet.

Y/n cursed her gloves, two times too big for her hands, as she dug up the soil of her backyard. She was attempting to plant a garden, emphasis on attempting. She’d done a fair amount of gardening pre-Cordyceps, but that was purely for pleasure. This had more weight to it.

Those who worked the greenhouses had helped her during their shifts. They’d taught Y/n which plants grew during which seasons, some blooming best in winter and others in the summer. There was a science to it more important than ever to know.

Y/n was planting a medley of vegetables, fruit and herbs. She couldn’t feel her knees anymore, the cold having sept into her joints within minutes. She built a few mounds, burying the seeds below and allowing enough space between piles.

She sat back on her feet, struck by a memory she’d been trying to ignore.

Flower bushes.

The looming warmth of a Texas spring.

Sarah’s laughter.

Dirt under their fingernails.

Y/n sighed, her chest aching from something far sharper than the cold.

Finding Joel in Boston hadn’t been the catalyst to bringing back life to her memories. Sarah had lived in her mind every minute of every day since the girl had left the Earth. Etched in her heart till the end of time. But between settling in Jackson and marrying Joel, living some strange version of the life they’d wanted, it breathed new air into Sarah’s ghost. Sometimes it rendered Y/n speechless, frozen somewhere between the past and the present.

She looked up the sky, the cloud coverage shielding her eyes from the sun.

“You hated when I made you do this,” Y/n spoke to the air, “You never liked getting your hands dirty but you were smiling. The whole time. So there was never much weight to what you said.”

“I remember that time we were planting those flowers in the backyard,” she continued, “Daisies or roses…I don’t really remember, just that they were beautiful when they bloomed that summer. That your dad wouldn’t admit to them prettying up the place because ‘What’s there to pretty up?’”

Y/n chuckled, Joel had never made a big deal about the little changes Sarah and her made to the house. They both knew he secretly liked them and loved the two of them too much to ever say no.

“He’s gotten worse, if you can imagine it,” Y/n looked down at her shovel, wiping some of the dirt off, “If you thought he was bad in the morning then,” she whistled, “But he’s also…better. He’s him.”

Y/n sunk into the snow a little deeper. The cold didn’t matter anymore. “The other day, I caught him humming to himself. He was doing the dishes and I came in from patrol and…it just reminded me of all the times we’d catch him singing and he’d deny it,” she smiled, “We’d literally be standing right there and he’d say it was the fridge or something.”

Her little laugh quieted, turning somber. The sweet memory inevitably turned sad.

“God, I miss you,” Y/n whispered as her throat tightened, “I miss you so much. Everything I do in this house, I keep looking over and expecting you to be right next to me.“

She paused, beginning to feel just a drop of the sun’s distant warmth. “And then your dad comes in or Uncle Tommy and it’s like you’re there. Making us laugh, calling us old…and for two seconds, it feels okay. Not perfect, but alright, and I can get through the rest of the day,” Y/n rubbed her running nose and looked back up at the sky, “Just keep doing that. Don’t ever leave us down here on our own.”

Y/n had long lost track of time since starting her work, and she didn’t hear the front door open. Joel was home from patrol duty. He walked through the empty house, looking more and more like their home each day, looking for someone to greet.

“Rose,” Y/n heard Joel call from inside. She wiped a melancholy tear away and got to her feet.

Taking one more look at the grey sky, she smiled, as if Sarah was radiating her presence down from the clouds. Telling her to get inside and hug her husband. Help make dinner. Make their remote corner of the world a little brighter. Just as Sarah would have.

——————

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#the last of us fic #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fanfic #the last of us imagine #joel miller x reader #joel miller imagine #twenty years later

[gz-missfit]

So with Phil ending stream and that event dying down I wanna talk about him.

And especially with how good of a decision it was from Cellbit to make him a fellow head of ther order.

Let me explain

So I'm gonna try and string this along but the basis I'm building on is that Phil is a center. Not just figuratively but also literally! Remember before the Favela and Spawn become the meeting places? Yeah his home was the point people would meet at, his doors were always open and his waystone was the one ingrained in people's muscle memory when a meeting or communal location was mentioned.

But Phil's also been a communicative center, he's a loner usually, mostly getting dragged along by tubbo or fit for some events.

But he's reliable! And people know this about him. They hear how a single father of 2 has carried the life of these 2 kids in his own, they've heard how Tallulah and Chayanne are the best behaved eggs due to him, they see him casual help people out etc. Phil's known for kindness and help when needed but people who don't know him don't realize there's so much more to him! Fit and Tubbo for example are the first 2 who are aware of this. Fit trusting Phil with literally everything because he knows how capable he is and Tubbo knowing Phil's capabilities in a way where he respects him heavily. And I don't even need to mention how Etoiles is aware of Phil's combat abilities.

Now why did I say that he was the perfect addition as a head of the order? Because he proved today that he is behind everything the order is about. He is a much needed cog in its machine, he's not a head investigator or strategist but he's someone they need to allow this.

Baghera wanted to investigate? Phil stopped trying to look around, focused on helping her clear mobs, gave her all his paper and kept an eye on her while calling to her to make sure she could collect evident when her inventory got filled. He's ready to put his own curiosity and knowledge aside to let others thrive.

Pierre needed a fighter when mobs swarmed him? Phil stood between him and the mobs, being a calm voice amongst panic, standing in Etoiles footsteps as protector and filling them well.

Roier wanted to stay and risk his life because he wanted more information? Phil will stay too, he's not leaving anyone behind even if it could cost his own life and he'd do it again.

Forever is acting weird and trying to brush worries off? Then Phil will worry even more and make sure he knows that Phil's someone who will be there whenever he's needed.

There's so many moments like this, Phil putting himself aside to let others thrive, becoming a support fighter for Etoiles, a teacher for tallulah, an investigator for Cellbit.

He's someone that island needs without them realizing it because he's a quiet constant hum but important! Like a humming of well working machines in a busy factory. Or the humming of bees in a thriving garden full of animals. He's quiet and not always noticeable but he's proof that things are working and okay, the backbone of it.

This is why this trust of Cellbit in him to call him a head of the order is so important for me, and especially Phil promising loyalty and trust to Cellbit cause it may sound basic but those who don't know Phil don't know how much Phil's loyalty truly means. How much his promise of it is an honor to someone because Phil's whole moral compass and trust is based on proof. If you can proof to Phil you're capable and put your money where your mouth is then he'll go through fire for you, and he's promised that to Cellbit, knowing fully well it's a promise he'll keep.

Phil's factual and logical, he's a grounding force when needed and someone who will fit himself into a role that needs to be filled. He's a support, a warrior, a investigator, a distraction etc. He's not focused on his own goals even if it hurts him to put those aside, if he sees potential in supporting or letting someone lead he'll do just that. He's so fucking observant and it's such an important trait not many islanders have to the same level he does. He watches with protective eyes and sees things most people don't. Ironically enough you can see this in his photographs a lot! He's a watcher an observer and acts based on what he sees.

Basically today, that little bit where they went into the new office where forever was taken, was proof of what Phil is needed for. He's not required, he knows that much, but he's important for the community of that island. He's important for letting others thrive. He's what the head of the order is, what they represent. Trust in eachother and letting people thrive in what they're good at while helping them in any way he can.

#qsmp #qsmp philza #character analysis #i just love him so much #hes so important and #really someone you should not make enemy's with #cause he has like that whole island #who trust him with at least something #and who'd be on his side without a doubt #void mumbling

[fuxuannie]

oooooh if u need any ideas id love to read a fic where serval plays matchmaker for reader and gepard and its all mushy and cute

also random idea but maybe gepard draws one of his (lovely!) portraits for reader looll

* pairing : gepard x gender neutral reader

* prompt : servals main job is a performer, but who knew that she also works as cupid? (request ♡)

* authors note : I LOVE GEPARD AND SERVAL LANDAU SOOO MUCH those two are literally my faves.. gepard pls come home, clara appeared on my screen and i love her but baby pls <\3

SERVAL looks at her brother GEPARD as he paints in his room, humming to himself as she leans on the doorframe as she silently watched him decorate the canvas with his creativity and paint. At first, what he was painting was unrecognizable, but once those little details came to life through his art - it wasn't hard to see exactly who he was painting.

"Oh? I didn't know you were such a passionate painter, Geppie." Serval giggled, watching him jolt at the fact someone was watching him the entire time. "Serval? What are you.." He clears his throat, trying to cover the canvas. "..Doing here.."

"It's my workshop, why else would I be here? The real question is, why are you trying to hide an obvious crush from your sister?" She says with a smile, walking past him and having him move away from the canvas. It was just as she suspected, those little details.. the choice of eye color, the smile and how they matched your features.

"Please don't do anything.." Gepard sighs, and Serval lets out a fake offended gasp. "I have never done anything of the sort!"

..But she never agreed.

In the next few days, while Gepard was with his sister outside, he'd find her talking to you. And Serval making some fake excuse about practice and leaves you with her brother. The first few times seemed purely coincidental, but Serval doesn't seem like the type to simply forget one of her greatest passions.

Next was how she was now more often than not talking to you and Gepard about things about each other. "Oh! (name), are you aware Gepard just loves to grow flowers? You should see what he's blooming in our garden!" or "Gepard! Do you know that (name) really likes to eat at this place called.."

But Serval wouldn't do this for just a crush. She appreciated how much joy and smile you brought to her dear brothers face, and it wasn't often that he broke his serious, Silvermane Guards leader routine. But when he talked about you, it was like he was describing the beauty of an Aeon. He truly loved you, respected you and would surrender his loyalty for you.

So she was absolutely overjoyed when you began to open up about your interest in a certain blonde, and now that she knew you both were interested, it was the final step.

"Geppie, meet me at the fountain today! Got something suuuper important to tell you."

"(name), I'd like to give you free tickets to my next concert today! Just meet me at the fountain."

And there at the agreed meeting place, Gepard grumbled to himself, his back turned to the city as he stared at the small letter glued to the fountain. "Hehe, I lied to you lil bro. ♡ Go tell them how you feel, maybe they have something to tell you too."

He was initially confused on what the other half of the letter meant, until the sounds of footsteps and a disappointed sigh came from behind him. "Servaaall.. you lied to mee.." Gepard paused, and immediately crumpled the letter in his hands. "Damn it."

You then notice Gepard standing by the fountain as well, a little confused with how busy he usually is and especially at this hour. "What brings you here?" You asked, seeing him turn around while pinching the bridge of his nose. "Nothing.. My sister.. I assume she set this up."

Ohhhh.

You blinked a few times and giggle. "Sounds like Serval.. You're usually not this available, wanna talk?" You asked, sitting on the basin of the fountain as he instead leaned on it slightly. "Sure.."

There were a few moments of odd but comforting silence, watching those of Belabog pass by. Underworld and Overworld now together as children who thought that clouds were but fairytale dreams now get to see the bright blue sky after pure darkness all their lives.

"Thank you." You said out of nowhere, kicking your feet as Gepard turns to face you while you were still focused on the people passing by. He smiles a little at how gentle and relaxed you looked. "For what?"

"For all you do. The people you protect.. the kindness you give.. everything." You say with a smile, the very same smile of every portrait he ever painted of you, how it radiated a sense of comfort and warmth that made his heart skip a beat.

He knows he's turning red, and you giggle a little at it. Your head shifts to lean on his shoulder, a small gulp coming from his end as his arm slings around your shoulder.

"You're.. you're welcome."

#✹ ִֶָ ꐑꐑ entos paw prints #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #gepard landau x reader #gepard x reader #honkai star rail

[ginnyw-potter]

I can fix him (No really I can)

This is written for The Tortured Potters Department, also part of the Several Sunlit Daylights Challenge! @corneliaavenue-ao3 Read below or on AO3

I can fix him.

Ginny could see other people think it, sometimes they said it out loud. Not literally, but they said it all the same.

I can make you happy.

I can make you forget all your troubles.

I can make the scars fade.

They very well could. They all looked at Harry and saw a man in need of change. They wanted to fix the scars, inside and out. They wanted to take him on adventures and make him forget all the things he had gone through. They wanted to placate him. They wanted to chase the nightmares away and replace them with wonderful dreams. Some others wanted him to embrace his fame for once, or rise to power, be the man they thought he could be.

Ginny looked at him and saw someone she already loved.

She didn’t try to make him happy.

She didn’t try to make him forget all his troubles.

She didn’t mind the scars, the way he didn’t mind hers.

She loved on the scars the way she loved on the rest of his body. They were marks of his past, of the things he had been through, not things to hide or be ashamed of. Their existence didn’t scare her.

She knew he didn’t need an adventure, didn’t need to escape his life. He didn’t want to forget his loved ones, dead and alive. He spoke of enjoying time in the garden, and long walks enjoying the setting sun. Some things that some people may find terribly mundane, but it meant everything to him. They didn’t understand why it was important to him.

His temper was difficult for people to deal with, but Ginny always met him with equal power. She did not back off, and she wasn’t afraid to tell him the truth. She didn’t need to placate him, she needed to push back and meet him in the middle.

When he had a nightmare, she didn’t tell him it wasn’t real. She held him and sat with him until he felt better. They would talk about it and mull it over and let out bitter laughs over their misery. The nightmares followed a long time after the war was done, and she’d be there to work through them. Slowly but surely, tirelessly.

She didn’t want him to embrace his fame and attend event after event, knowing how it would torture him. She didn’t want him to grab power he never wanted. He did not crave it, he did not go looking for it, and she did not expect it of him.

Harry never asked to be changed. He didn’t need to become a new person, didn’t need to escape his life. He held onto the memories of lost loved ones and honoured their memory every day. He did not want the fame, or the power. And on most days, he just wanted to be normal.

But that’s not what people expect of him. They can fix him, or at least that’s what they think.

She did not need to fix him. Some scars never faded but they did not hurt him. Having his own home and settling him brought him peace. It gave him a place to come into his own and grieve the people he had lost. Sometimes it was the simple things, like hanging a framed picture up in the living room or making their favourite food. A place where he could be himself, where he wasn’t worried and where his emotions could flow freely. A place where the nightmares got soothed by comforting arms and softly spoken words, a cup of hot cocoa or a refreshing glass of water. And they could exist, and be talked about, and it would help him. A place where no one expected him to take the lead and have an answer to every question.

He spoke to her, softly whispered confessions in the middle of the night. She held him, and he kissed her softly.

“You make me so happy.”

She carded her fingers through his hair.

“You make me forget all my troubles without even trying,” he sighed. “You make me feel at peace.”

She pressed a kiss against his temple.

“You helped me love all of my scars.”

He never needed to change. She always loved him, flaws and all. Time healed many things, and she was there for it all, but he was never something to be fixed.

I can fix him , she thought. No, really; I can. It was never my intention; I would have loved him all the same.

“You fixed me.”

She shook her head and smiled at him. “I love you.”

He looked at her fondly and pulled her a little closer. “I am pretty sure that’s the same thing.”

#several sunlit daylights #the tortured potters department #hinny #fic

[lesbianabril]

My S6 BTVS rewrite

I know this season has a lot of haters but I actually love season 6, I don't mind the depressing parts (meaning: most of the season) because I think it all makes sense for where the characters are at, and I think that after fighting a literal God having a season where the villain is Life really works storytelling-wise.

Having said that, though, I think that a lot of things could have been handled better and since all I have are correct opinions I'm gonna tell you what those are.

1. Willow's magic addiction

Basically I think they went too far when the magic became drugs in the most basic sense, when they start acting like she's "taking a hit" every time she uses it.

I think all of the important plot points could have been kept while making willow's addiction to magic about her need to be in control of everything (and everyone). Up to Tabula Rasa I wouldn't change anything, her use of magic is wrong because she starts using it to bend the world at her will, empowered by having successfully brought Buffy back to life.

After Tara leaves her she starts using even more magic while being reckless with it, she injures Dawn and she commits to stop using it because she realizes it wasn't healthy for her or for the people she loves.

I would eliminate Rack and his stupid crack house hide out, and everything that has to do with the physical withdrawal of going "cold turkey".

I think this also makes Willow responsible for her actions, while making magic = literal heroin absolves her of the blame, in the end. The fallout of having to deal with her dependence of it would also be way more compelling.

2. Spike's attempted r4pe

I would keep their toxic relationship and everything that led up to that god-awful bathroom scene, my only change is that I would make it so Spike is trying to turn her instead.

Hear me out. It would make a lot of narrative sense because all through the season he's trying to convince her she's a dark being just like him, he wants them to be equals because he doesn't think himself worthy of her so he's trying to lower her to his level. So, after Buffy rejects him again he's not thinking clearly and, in his desperation, tries the only thing he swore himself he wouldn't do since he loves Buffy because of her goodness.

After it happens, Buffy feels betrayed, Spike leaves and decides to try to get to her level, to truly change himself instead of trying to change her.

This is a minor thing too but in this rewrite after Spike leaves we don't know where he went and we don't see him again until the start of s7 when he already has his soul. I know this couldn't be done because of James Marsters' contract but in my dream s6 we don't know what happened to him so when we see him again everything about his sudden disappearence and current mental state is a mystery and we find out along with Buffy.

3. Xander dies instead of Tara

Ok maybe this one is based on my dislike of Xander and my love of Tara but I think this would work really well:

Willow and Tara haven't gotten together yet, Willow is working on her more controlling tendencies and they're just friends right now. When Warren shows up Buffy is in the garden with Dawn and Xander went up to Willow's room to talk to her, so both Buffy and Xander get shot, Dawn takes Buffy to the hospital and dark Willow is born after she's not able to revive Xander.

After that things are mostly the same, only this time we get a grieving Buffy trying to deal with the sudden loss of both of her best friends. She's devastated and a part of her says that yes, Warren deserves to die.

After everything happens and Willow is close to destroying the world, Tara is the one who shows up, she appeals to Willow's humanity and, through her love and compassion, saves the world.

#i think about this a lot #so here you go #tell me what you would have changed if u want i love buffy talk #buffy the vampire slayer #btvs #btvs meta #spuffy #tillow #buffy #buffy s6 #btvs s6 #spike #mine

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

fictional girls who should have been gay

Minnie Mouse and Daisy Duck, from the 2004 "Micky, Donald, Goofy: The Three Musketeers" animated movie.

The situation: GAY

Princess and lady-in-waiting. Is there anything more intimate and potentially gay than a girl and the girl who she specifically keeps around just to officially hang out with? I don't care I love it.

they are the most romantic thing in this movie

Their introduction scene is Minnie sighing over her future love (hypothetical and male and not necessarily royal) while blowing flower petals in Daisy's face

Daisy has reservations

but when Minnie is explaining True Love to her (while they hold hands and twirl around the room)

Minnie says she'll know her true love because she'll hear music (sentimental music is now playing) and they'll make her laugh- AND THEN DAISY LAUGHS

she starts saying that sounds silly...

but Minnie looks at her, and flutters her eyes at her...

and Daisy just MELTS. She clasps her hands over her heart and switches to sighing that that sounds lovely...

who drew and directed that and didn't notice how much it looks like Daisy just fell in love with Minnie. hey. I want to know

did they realize they could've had Daisy staring at something else?

a painting of young lovers. a couple passing by the window. even the sad bedraggled flower Minnie had been using for a game of he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not

(i cannot get over how the flower wilts the last time we see it, right after Minnie says "trust me Daisy, I'll know him, when I see him)

(I understand it's meant to be like, oh look the flower looks like Micky now she'll know him when she sees him- but it could also look like HER, Minnie is talking to Daisy about true love and knowing it when it's there but oh the IRONY if Daisy was in love with HER while she says that!!! With Minnie having no idea!!!!)

anyway

how about just not have Minnie flutter her eyelashes at Daisy like that

have HER not be looking at Daisy when she's talking about true love

anything. anything else would have worked better

Well apparently none of those options occurred to the film makers because these girls are supposed to be STRAIGHT somehow

(Minnie, princess of prolonged held eye contact)

(and Daisy, lady of keeps having to look away when Minnie is staring at her Like That)

Moments later, after a montage of Minnie strolling around the gardens dreaming of love (to the tune of a song about young love), an attempt on her life is thwarted by DAISY asking her to come over for a moment, moving Minnie out of the path of a falling safe meant to crush her

(by the way, holy heck it feels honestly scary. it just. DROPS)

The song lyric leading up to Daisy calling out for Minnie is "Your first your only love~! Love so-" (can't hear properly)

Minnie being willing to leave her daydreams of love for Daisy no questions asked is what saves her actual literal life I'm sorry but again why did they think having Daisy being the reason she lives was so important. This is a Micky Mouse cartoon legit just have Minnie stand up on her own and wander out of harm's way or get distracted by a flower or something but NOOOOO it's DAISY who unknowingly gets her out of danger, it's Minnie listening to her that saves her. ARGH IT COULD HAVE MEANT SO MUCH BUT

Minnie has actual whole conversations with Daisy. Actual. Talking. Sharing of thoughts and opinions. Chances to see their personalities and how they play off each other.

Princess Minnie, the slightly head in the clouds princess, and Daisy, grounded and a bit dry

Minnie: He loves me. He loves me… a lot. He loves me. He loves me even moooore. He loves me...

Daisy: Pardon me, Your Highness… (blows some free-floating petals off her face) you‘re, kinda mangling that flower.

like there's this set up for Minnie being rebellious enough to reject tradition and rules, being annoyed at them for cramping her style

Daisy: This, fantasy man- (the exasperation on those two words XD), d'you happen to know if he's royalty?

Minnie: Does it matter?

Daisy, breathlessly: Well, as you know, someone of your, royal stature, needs to be courted by a gentleman of royal blood.

Minnie: What a royal pain.

It's supposed to be about getting with a commoner instead, but... HMM I WONDER WHAT OTHER SOCIAL EXPECTATIONS MINNIE COULD BREAK.

A gentleman of royal blood? Well what if it's not! A gentleman!!

Minnie: Daisy, I can't marry someone I'm not in love with.

Daisy: You want love? Buy a dog.

the delicious set up as Daisy as jaded and practical BUT moments later she can't help herself with Minnie, she can't ruin Minnie's little happy bubble, she can't keep pushing Minnie away from her dream

When Minnie gazes at her all warm and mushy, Daisy has to giggle and admit that the idea of a true love who makes you laugh is just Lovely, actually

she says, while staring back at Minnie

WRITERS I WANT TO TALK WITH YOU I JUST WANT TO CHAT

but anyway, they have a flow, a rapport, they play off each other and clearly care about each other and, meanwhile, M e a n w h i l e

meanwhile, nearly all the time Minnie spends "being in love" with Micky is done in silent daydream episodes where they float on clouds and stuff. They get a montage of vague cute stuff. It's a whole lot of Nothing. Very pretty! But nothing

They see each other and it's supposed to be love at first sight. Whee. I'd find it cute if Minnie didn't already have someone and Micky wasn't mostly focused on being a good Musketeer. What do they give each other? They hardly even TALK! At the end of the movie I still have no idea how they'd get through a simple conversation! As a crush sure it reads fine- but true love? Where? When????

MOMENTS after meeting and "falling for" Micky, Minnie is yelling at him and his friends, furious because they accidently attacked Daisy thinking she was a threat

wow good job showing us Minnie's priorities here. Good job showing us she cares about Daisy

good job not using that to let her and Micky like, talk, or anything

Daisy, meanwhile, spends the whole movie with 0% interest in Donald at all, nothing but burns and scorn, only getting with him in the last moments literally just because why not

As in that's honestly the reason the movie gives. Not that she likes him. Just. Why not.

my eye is twitching

MINNIE LOVES THE IDEA OF A FORBIDDON LOVE!

SHE SAYS, SHE SAYS-

Minnie: Our love is, forbidden?

Daisy: Bin-go~

Minnie: A forbidden love? How romantic...!

girl you've had 1 (ONE) interaction with "the little one" like props to you for liking a short king but hey, heeey, this is so not selling the love vibes ok

GUESS WHAT OTHER LOVE WOULD BE FORBIDDEN

HMM I WONDER

Minnie: Look, Daisy. Mickey and I have the same last name!

Daisy: Well, it must be destiny. Good thing destiny doesn’t control my love life.

(daisy being practical jaded or daisy using code for 'yeeeah, im prim and proper in everything else, but im going against the flow when it comes to romance)

Minnie: What do you mean?

Daisy: Well, look at me! If it did, I’d get stuck with Mister… (squawking and babbling)

Minnie & Daisy: (laughing together)

hey remember how Minnie laughed when Micky rolled a nat 0 trying to untie her and the narrator was like "Oh he made her laugh! It must be love!"

remember when Daisy makes Minnie laugh with a Donald Duck impersonation? While they were in bed together??

NARRATOR IF A LAUGH IS ALL IT TAKES THEN CHIME IN PLEASE

Do You Remember when Micky and co failed and Minnie was kidnapped by badguys and Micky had a moment of slump before getting his second wind? Was he motivated by thoughts of his True Love? Was he thinking of Minnie when he decided not to give up on saving her??

NO.

he was looking at his friends being sad.

He encourages himself thinking about how the captain of the guard chose him and his friends to be musketeers

No Mention Of Minnie At All, Aside From A Quest To Be Cleared

wow much love such devotion

The point of Micky's story is him wanting to be a Musketeer. The emotional climax is always between him and his two friends. THE ROMANCE IS SO WEIRD IT DOES NOTHING AND COMES FROM NOTHING AND GOES NOWHERE.

Minnie has no character growth no obstacles nothing to do. she was ready to throw tradition aside for the man of her dreams the moment we saw her-

IMAGINE the crunchiness if she had either a moment of "wait actually, i think he's cute but this isn't love" OR "hey wait all this time I've been dreaming of a guy maybe it's not a guy though? Tee hee let's destroy some more social norms!"

(don't for the love of all things bring up lines of succession this is alternate universe france in the 1600-1700's there is a Lot To Gloss Over Okay)

And Daisy is RIGHT THERE.

Not interested in guys! Sighing over Minnie! Staying with her throughout the whole movie because apparently you can't kidnap the princess without her lady in waiting!

RAAAGH. I know, I know Disney and gay don't mix, especially in 2004- but why why why why did they think Minnie had to be with Micky in this one? Why did they make the emptiest crush ever instead of just letting Minnie and Daisy chill up on the throne dais together? IM IN PAIN EVERY TIME I REWATCH THIS.

tldr: Daisy was in love with princess Minnie, and if Minnie had known she's the exact sort of rebel princess to just marry her lady-in-waiting like a boss

#Princess Minnie Mouse #Daisy Duck #Minsy #rant #disney femslash #is that still a thing ? #GAY #huh so there's a name for this ship #cool

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

Isle landmarks

Port - divided in between three crews, heavily regarded as a very unpleasant area by, well. Almost everyone else. (Important to note: this goes for every single area of the Isle.) Lives at night a lot.

Jolly Roger of Captain James Hook

Scattered Hope of Captain Harriet Hook. Comparatively safer to be around, you might find some goods "accidentally left out" if the Captain's feeling it.

Lost Revenge of Captain Uma Triskelion. Safest of the pirate ships unless you are allied to Mal or insult Uma. (...You know what, I take that back.) Also, it's a cult.

Chipp Shoppe. Firmly under the rule of Lost Revenge.

Hook's inlet. That's a fancy name for a building that port adults go to pass out in by the morning at that brings substantial money to Captain Hook. (His kids are not allowed to work there. They kept stealing from the counter more than they sold.)

Serpents prep, aka the school Captain Hook was forced to fund after dr F refused to deal with two if his children at once. They've got sea ponies and surprisingly good curriculum.

The centre. Counts as, well, semi-neutral territory?

Tremaine salon. The only actual neutral territory on the Isle. You see, if you fight by the Tremaines, you won't get your hair done. (this works because the Villains and their kids are vain as fuck and value their style over their lives. Literally.) Also, Tremaines treat most of their customers as particularly annoying cats.

Mad Maddy's Apothecary. This could count as neutral territory but Mim's are playing favourites. One rule: Do NOT make out in the Apothecary.

Rose Garden of the Queen of Hearts. Yeah no. Do not go near if you like your life.

Dragon Hall, AKA the school Dr Facilier funded for very innocent and inconspicuous reasons that have nothing to do with the other Villains owing him for babysitting their brats and molding the young minds to his picture, how dare you even suggest that.

The Arcade. Funded by Dr F too and operated mostly by his daughters. Also no ulterior motives on this one. (If little kids don't come to school, they're at Arcade. It's always good to know where the kids you're paid to keep alive are.)

Storm Hall. A mostly abandoned building slightly off-the-centre that Isle kids use for official gang meetings.

Frollo's church. Later, it's ruins. The building has suffered from entirely natural structural instability ever since the first Isle kids learned what matches are. While Frollo's alive, it's unsafe to be around if you're a girl, person of colour, or of magical heritage.

Yes, there is a problem of Frollo's being entirely too close to Dragon Hall. Dr F had it under control! Really!

The Market. Yeah. Market. With very reasonable prices that are not theft at all.

Maleficent's Bargain Castle overlooks the market and her goblins provide security for shopkeepers who are willing to pay a steep price. No one's sure why Maleficent tolerates the market so close, she hates people.

Jafar's Junk Shop. If you lost something, there's like seventy percent chance it'll end up there. I've got nothing else to add.

Gaston's Duels Without Rules, slightly off the main market. And yes. It is without rules. Do not ask about the blood under the dumpsters please.

Hell Hall. Few streets down but still close enough, you'll know by the screaming. Close enough for Cruella and her minions to get the finest fabrics whenever she wishes.

Witches Academy. Yes, it is entirely too close to the market for how flammable the stands are. However, the Mims are doing what they do best and being bitches on main.

Landmarks

The End Of The World. Steep cliff on the off-side of Auradon, favourite hang-out spot for Isle kids. Who says they hadn't spent hours there looking into the waves and contemplating life, they're lying.

The Skull Rock. On the Isle for Reasons. Y'know, a generation of kids robbed off their childhood? Magic banned off? (The Isle of the Lost is Neverland and it's your problem now.)

The Jungle. No. Do NOT. You do realise that's where all the tigers and snakes and lions and wolves dwell. Also called the Zoo by kids who like dark humour and/or have a deathwish.

The Caves. There's an entrance to Hades' cave somewhere. Do not try to find it (unless you are Celia Facilier), he's on vacation and doesn't wish to be disturbed.

Other

Castle Across the Way. Is not close to the centre or the market to be counted as such. That's because the Evil Queen refused to interact with the commoners and looked substantially scarrier than Lady Tremaine while communicating that.

The Hun camp. Do NOT attempt to find it.

#disney descendants

[moraxsthrone]

・ﾟ✧ title → patient

・ﾟ✧ pairing → k. alberich x f!reader

・ﾟ✧ wc → 2.1k

・ﾟ✧ warnings/notes → nsfw. mdni. angst to fluff to smut. blood. life-threatening injury. reader gives kaeya stitches. alcohol (mention). needy kaeya. handjob. oral (m. rcv'ing). reader and kaeya are married. reader has a healing vision (unspecified element). appearances by jean, diluc. i can't begin to describe how much i love writing banter, esp w mr. alberich. kaeya and i would get on like a house on fire, i tell you *shakes fist*.

you were awakened in the middle of the night by jean and diluc bursting through your door with kaeya’s limp body between them, his arms draped over each of their shoulders.

“i thought i said to leave him at the tavern if he gets too drunk to walk home?” you fussed, your voice still heavy with sleep as you lit the nearest oil lamp. when the flame illuminated the room in a warm glow, all the color drained from your face. jean managed to steady kaeya’s lithe form as diluc cleared your dining table with one sweep of his arm. you watched in horror, eyes brimming with hot tears as the two carefully laid your husband down on the wooden surface, unconscious, his blood pooling around him. "oh gods! what happened?"

"we were ambushed by no less than a dozen fatui agents on our way to cecilia garden tonight," diluc started. "the three of us hardly stood a chance, but just as jean made the call to retreat, kaeya..." the male's voice faltered, but he pressed on. "he was nearly run through by a pyro agent's blade."

"diluc went back in swinging, giving me just enough of an opening to drag kaeya out, and..." jean went on, but her voice became more and more distant, muffled by the thick fog of panic shrouding your mind when faced with your husband’s immediate mortality.

you were frozen in fear - cold anchors steeling your feet to the floor at the prospect of losing the most important person in your life. he was dying in front of your very eyes. this must be a nightmare, you thought, but diluc’s shouting pierced your awareness, bringing the reality of the situation sharply into focus.

“Y/N!” diluc’s typical calm, collected demeanor was falling apart at the seams, making the dire urgency in his voice all the more unnerving. all the bad blood between him and his sworn brother was water under the bridge at the moment. 

jean’s heart pounded in her throat. the metallic scent of her comrade’s blood made her queasy, but she fought to keep it together. you were in shock, and diluc was starting to lose his composure. if she didn’t keep her wits about her, her cavalry captain didn’t stand a chance. she cared too deeply about all three of you to let kaeya die.

“come on, y/n, you can heal him! you can do this, but you must focus.” her voice was shaky, but determined.

you drew a turbulent breath, wiping your tears away as jean continued to encourage you. 

“that’s it, y/n. deep breaths.” she spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that helped calm and center you. 

her voice was having the same effect on diluc, who used his pocket knife to cut kaeya’s shirt open, exposing his wound so you could get to work. 

“my hands…they’re trembling. how can i- ?” you worried.

“mind over matter.” jean took your hands in hers. “look at me, y/n. kaeya needs you right now; his life is literally in your hands. i know it’s not easy, but you have to be rational right now. you can fall apart after you’ve saved your husband’s life.” she squeezed your shoulder. “you’ve got this, okay?”

you nodded, pulling your hands away and shaking them out. you closed your eyes and took a few more deep breaths, galvanizing your nerves and resolve with fierce love. he needs you. and you need him. with your game face on, you opened your eyes again. you tied your hair back and washed your hands as you put diluc in charge of bringing more lamps into the room and lighting them. he gave a stern nod and set about his task as you told jean where you kept your first aid kit. 

diluc returned with a couple more lamps, strategically placing them so as to provide you with as much light as possible without running the risk of getting knocked over. he watched as you leaned in to get a better look at kaeya’s wound. you checked his vitals and his color. he’d lost so much blood that his lips and nailbeds were turning a dangerous shade of blue. your husband was unrecognizably pale and his pulse was weak. 

“what else can i do, y/n?” the redhead asked, eager and restless to help in any way he could. 

“help me get his shirt off,” you ordered. 

he lifted kaeya’s top half, and as you worked his sleeve off of one shoulder, jean returned with your kit and jumped in to help with the other side. with kaeya's upper body free from his garments, diluc carefully lowered him back down as jean busied herself with fetching water and clean rags and towels. 

you were in rare form as you went through the motions. you were amazed, if not a little disconcerted, at the fact that you’d been able to set your feelings aside, at least temporarily, with less effort than you’d ever imagined you thought possible when it came to your lover. it was through sheer force of your own will that he’d gone from kaeya, my husband to kaeya, my patient.

jean had been right - mind over matter.

fortunately, the blade that had cut him narrowly missed his vital organs so you didn’t have to suture anything internally. you were also grateful for the fact that kaeya was unconscious; otherwise he’d be in a lot of pain while you worked the needle in and out of his skin, which would make the act of stitching him up even more difficult for both of you. you’d sewn him up countless times before, but you’d never tended a wound this deep or life-threatening, let alone on your husband’s body.

also, had he been conscious, you would’ve had to listen to him complain about his denied request for alcohol. normally, you’d oblige him after a brief debate...

‘please, darling?’ 

‘no, kaeya, it’ll make you bleed more.’ 

‘but it’ll make it hurt less. are you quite prepared to live with the guilt of inflicting such pain onto your injured husband?’

‘i thought you were into that sort of thing…’ you’d tease with raised eyebrows and a smirk.

‘i am, but alcohol usually helps with that, too,’ he’d muse with a wink. 

...although the tears threatened to fill your vision again, the memories made you smile to yourself as you finished the final stitch. 

diluc helped jean take the wet rags and pot of blood-tinged water away to be washed as you gingerly placed your ear against kaeya’s chest to check his breathing and heart rate. his pulse was stronger than before, for which you thanked the archons. you moved to brush his cerulean hair away from his face, smiling at his peaceful, handsome features as you noted that his color was returning. just then, his eyelid fluttered. he was too weak to open his eyes yet, but you heard the raspy groan in his throat. 

you leaned down to kiss his damp forehead and whispered, “i’m here, baby. you’re going to be okay, so please rest.” you took his sinewy, blood-stained hand in yours, holding it close to his heart. “i love you so much, kaeya.” he responded with a squeeze of his fingers, his grip weak but you knew he was telling you he loves you as well.

a week has passed since diluc and jean dragged your husband's near-lifeless body home. you’re beyond thankful for the healing properties that your vision provides; without it, you’re fairly certain you would’ve become a widow that night. 

kaeya has been waking up more often and staying awake longer each time. he hates being bedridden, but you insist that he wait just a couple more days while you monitor him and his wound for any signs of infection.

more time passes and kaeya has gotten a lot of his strength back, but you still limit his activity to moving from room-to-room and taking short walks around your shared cottage when the weather permits. he enjoyed being waited on hand and foot at first, but now he’s getting restless. he complains and bemoans his boredom, scoffing when you playfully tease him about being a terrible patient.

you’re giving him a sponge bath one afternoon, happily engaged in witty banter and giggling at his shameless flirting.

“you’re a particularly stunning nurse, miss…”

“thank you,” you laugh, playing along as you finish washing his back. gathering his long, blue hair for him so he won’t lie on it as he eases himself back down, you say, “and it’s mrs. alberich.”

“oh, so you’re married. tell me, does your husband treat you well and take good care of you?”

“indeed he does. very much so. i’m the happiest i’ve ever been in my life because of him.” you glance at him with a smile. "he's my knight in dazzling armor."

the pride in your eyes makes his heart swell. “shame. I was going to ask you out on a date…perhaps take you to good hunter for a romantic, candlelit dinner when i get better.”

“what’s stopping you?”

“why, your dear husband, of course.”

“something tells me he wouldn’t mind,” you smile at him with a wink.

"mrs. alberich..." kaeya murmurs. when your eyes meet his, he brings his hand to your face, his palm nuzzling your cheek as his long, cool fingers thread themselves in your hair. “kiss me, my love.”

and you do, relishing the moment, comforted by the taste of his tongue as it pushes against yours, knowing how close this moment came to never existing and not taking a single one of his quickened heartbeats for granted.

he’s needy. sex is a love language for kaeya and it’s been weeks since he’s been between your legs. you protest and push off the bed, afraid of putting weight on his torso when he tries to pull you on top of him. 

“kaeya, your stitches!” you chastise. 

he bites his bottom lip and grinds his hips against you. “mmm but baby, it’s been so long,” he complains. 

“it hasn’t been that long. Maybe a little over a week-” 

“two weeks and three days…” he informs you. “...might as well be an eternity for us.” 

you think for a moment. it’s true you and kaeya hadn’t gone more than two weeks without making love since you started dating a few years ago. the fact that you still had a very…sexful…marriage after all this time was something you both prided yourselves on. you look down to find kaeya’s heterochromatic eyes pleading with you as he needily ruts his hardening bulge against you. 

“please, baby…” 

you can count on one hand the number of times your husband has pleaded for your touch, or anything for that matter. begging is something that is typically beneath him. grasping the level of desperation he must be feeling, you cave and let your hand travel the length of his lean thigh. 

“i suppose a handjob wouldn’t hurt…” you purr. 

“oh fuck~” kaeya’s head falls back to the pillow as a sigh of relief falls from his lips. “my dear wife, you’re the best nurse a guy could ever hope for…” he breathes. 

you chuckle softly as your hand slides under the sheet to touch his naked skin. “you’re lucky i married you,” you tease. 

with a big, dumb smile on his face he nods. “indeed i am.”

a low groan rumbles in his chest when you squeeze his sensitive flesh, slowly massaging your way up until you can feel his rock hard shaft bounce against your hand.

minutes later, you’re stroking him with one hand while gently tugging on his tightening balls with the other. he’s practically whimpering, trying to lift his hips off the bed to fuck your hand, but you tut at him. 

“nah-ah-ahh…you’re exerting yourself too much. be a good boy and maybe i’ll suck you off.”

“you’re an insufferable tease,” he pants. “just wait until i’m healed enough to properly fuck you again. you’re gonna be sorry, love.”

“mmhm…i’m quite looking forward to it, darling,” you say, wiping the smarmy grin off his face when you bend down and swirl your tongue around the moist head of his cock. 

wrapping your lips around his girth, you sink down until his blunt tip presses against the back of your throat. you can hear the rustle of the sheets twisting in kaeya's fists as you hold him there until you gag and pull off, the wet sound of your saliva sliding over the head of his cock filling the room as you jerk him off.

“fuck, babe, i’m so close. please…” he whines.

knowing exactly what he wants, you take him into your hot mouth again, this time bobbing and sucking with hollowed cheeks, prepared to drink his impending orgasm from his needy cock. the mere thought of kaeya's seed splashing against the back of your throat makes you clench your thighs and moan around his length. and with that, a string of curses leaves his filthy mouth as his cock twitches, releasing ribbon after ribbon of hot cum against your tongue. there’s so much more than usual, you can’t swallow it all in time and it begins to leak from the corners of your lips, kaeya's milky white fluid contrasting beautifully as it oozes down his dark-skinned shaft.

you lift your face to his, his pouty lips trembling against yours as he tastes himself there. smiling into the kiss, you murmur, "i am very much looking forward to that dinner date, mr. alberich."

"as you should..." he hums.

kaeya's m.list | main m.list

・ﾟ✧ please consider reblogging if you enjoyed ♡

#kaeya #kaeya alberich #kaeya x f!reader #kaeya x reader #kaeya x you #kaeya x y/n #kaeya alberich x f!reader #kaeya alberich x reader #kaeya alberich x y/n #kaeya alberich x you #kaeya angst #kaeya alberich angst #kaeya fluff #kaeya alberich fluff #kaeya smut #kaeya alberich smut #genshin #genshin impact #genshin x f!reader #genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin x you #genshin impact x f!reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x y/n #genshin impact x you #genshin angst #genshin fluff #genshin smut

[sattlersquarry]

carnations (steve harrington x fem!reader)

part three of the bloom series. series masterlist

Summary: You and Steve become closer. (garden center!steve x wedding planner!reader)

Word Count: ~1.3k

Warnings: language, mentions of sex, mentions of infidelity, miscommunication, the reader's mother is Jacqueline.

red carnations: admiration, "my heart aches for you"

❤️❤️❤️

“You’re going where?!”

Your mother can’t seem to wrap her head around the fact that you have a date. You’re trying not to take it personally, but you wish she would sound a bit less incredulous.

“On a date,” you repeat, adding one last swipe of lip gloss before shoving the tube into your purse. “With Steve, from the Garden Center.”

“You barely know him,” your mother says, hovering behind you as you pull on your jacket. “He could be a serial killer. Or a serial dater.”

“That’s worse than a literal murderer?” you deadpan, raising an eyebrow.

Your heart explodes into butterflies when you hear a knock at the door. That’s Steve, right on time.

You shush your mother and her incessant worrying before swinging open the door.

Steve is there, dressed to the nines. He’s upgraded from his usual garden-themed graphic t-shirt, this time opting for a striped polo. He looks about as nervous as you as he hands over a beautiful bouquet of carnations.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” you say. “You do, too. And these are beautiful, thank—”

“Oh, stunning!” your mother interrupts, swooping over to take the flowers from you. “Did you arrange these yourself?”

“Mom,” you say, nodding in the direction of your apartment’s kitchenette. “Don’t you have to eat dinner and then meet with the ice sculpturist?”

“Oh, I have a few minutes,” she says. She beams at Steve. “Hi, I’m Jacqueline. Y/N’s mother. Charmed.”

“Steve,” Steve says, shaking her hand. “Steve Harrington. Nice to meet you. And, uh, yes! Well, I picked the flowers, and my friend Robin helped me put it all together.”

“You two should work for me,” your mother says. “You have an eye for design.”

“Okay!” you say, before your mother could launch into a spiel about bouquets that would most definitely make you and Steve late for your dinner reservation. “We have to go, but I’ll be back later.”

“Have fun,” your mother calls as you and Steve walk toward his BMW. “Be safe.”

You bid her goodbye and try not to swoon when Steve opens the passenger side door for you.

“What a gentleman,” you tease.

“Always,” Steve says—one part cheeky, two parts genuine.

As he drives you both away from the Byers-Hopper property, you ask, “So, is this place really all it’s cracked up to be? When I mentioned to Hopper that we were going to Enzo’s, I swear he started salivating.”

“The food is really good,” Steve says. “And so is the wine. It’s exported from Italy.”

He means to say “imported,” but you don’t correct his malapropism. It's cute. He's cute.

You spend the rest of the drive chatting. You learn more about Steve—he used to be a jock. Long before the Garden Center, he was a lifeguard, but switched to retail after graduating high school. Steve used to babysit Will Byers and his friends, and he and Robin are roommates, living in a small townhome near downtown Hawkins.

You talk a bit about yourself, too—about how you’re from Eagleton and will be back there when the wedding is done. How you also used to be a lifeguard. How you feel a bit lost, unsure of what you want out of life.

Steve understands. He feels the same way. It’s nice to be heard. To be understood.

**

By the third course, after a thoroughly enjoyable conversation, you’re resisting the urge to leap across the table and kiss Steve in front of the entire Enzo’s customer base.

He’s sweet. He’s funny. He’s a good listener. He has a nice face, and nice hands. He’s kind of the complete package.

You try to temper your excitement about him, seeing as you are only a temporary resident of Hawkins. But Eagleton is only an hour away, and you could definitely try to make it work if he wanted to. You really, really hope he wants to.

“What about gelato for dessert?” you ask, perusing your menu to avoid gawking at Steve’s handsome face.

Steve’s face screws up like he’s eaten something sour.

“Not big on ice cream,” he says. “I used to work at an ice cream shop and I think I ate too many free samples.”

He doesn’t tell you that working at the ice cream shop led to him getting tortured. That’s a story for another time, or never.

“Biscotti instead?” you ask, closing your menu. The two of you agree and order the cookies.

As you wait for them to arrive, Steve clears his throat and asks, “So, how’s the wedding planning coming along?”

You groan and put your head in your hands.

“That bad, huh?”

“My mom is so finicky about everything,” you say, lifting your gaze to meet his once more. “She wants it to be perfect for Joyce and Jim, which I get, but she needs to lighten up. Don’t tell her I said that.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Steve teases with a chuckle.

“It’s not all bad though,” you say. You fidget with your rings and add, “I’m really glad working for my mom helped me meet you.”

Steve’s eyebrows lift. You cringe, worrying that you’ve come on too strong. Worried that you sound like an imbecile, fawning for him like this.

But Steve says, “I’m really glad I met you, too,” his voice and eyes soft.

Another menagerie of butterflies swoops around your heartstrings, tugging them in all the right directions.

At the end of the night, he kisses you outside your door and asks if you want to go out again. You vehemently agree.

It continues like that for the next two weeks. You spend your days working on the wedding and your evenings with Steve. And, well, after quite a few dates, you spend the later part of your night with him, too. It’s lovely, he’s lovely, and you’re really, really happy.

After your night together, you decide you want to get him something, like a box of chocolates or a bouquet. Steve is surrounded by flowers all the time, so you figure a “bouquet” of biscotti, courtesy of Enzo’s catering services, would be a nice change of pace. It’s a thank-you-for-being-so-lovely-(and-also-good-at-sex) gesture.

You walk into the Garden Center and beam when you see Steve. He’s speaking with a customer, smiling and nodding at something they’re saying.

As you get closer, you realize the customer he’s talking to is a girl. A pretty one, about your age. She’s got blue eyes and brown curls that are tamed by sparkly pink hair clips. Your heart aches when you notice the way Steve’s looking at her; this isn’t run-of-the-mill customer-service politeness. This is real, true fondness. The way he’s been looking at you lately.

You feel trampled on when the two of them hug, lingering in it longer than necessary. When Steve pulls away, the mystery girl leans up and presses a soft kiss to his cheek.

You stumble backward, accidentally knocking over a rake. It clatters to the cement floor of the Garden Center, the sound echoing down the aisles.

You turn and book it, charging toward the exit without looking back to see if Steve heard you. Tears burn behind your eyes and a sob threatens to claw its way up your throat.

You thought Steve liked you. You thought he wanted to be with you. You gave him absolutely everything, and he just, what? Moves on the next day like nothing even happened?!

“Hey, Y/N!” Robin calls from her perch at the customer service kiosk, much too loud for your liking. You continue your trek out of the store, ignoring her when she asks, “Hey, where are you going?”

You toss the biscotti bouquet in a trash can and fumble with your keys, thankful that you parked right outside the store. In the distance, you hear Steve calling for you. You don’t even look up. You don’t do anything except unlock your car door and start the engine, peeling away from the Hawkins Garden Center before your heart completely shatters.

💔💔💔

a/n love a miscommunication trope. TAGGING THE LOVELY PEOPLE WHO HELPED BRING GARDEN CENTER STEVE TO LIFE, along with others who enjoyed the previous parts! :) there will be 1 or 2 more parts to wrap this up.

@quinnkeerys @spicysix @keerysquinn @sunshinesteviee @inkluvs @stevebabey @0vix0 @lame0o @ghostlyfleur @starry-eyed-steve @hollandweather @lurkingprincess

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #st fic: bloom #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things fanfic #steve harrington

[faresong]

eve of the sun.

(spoiler) musings on my design choices below <3

✦ CLAIRE ELFORD —

Oh, my girl... I love her so much. I changed up her design slightly to draw in a gold tone due to my adjustment of her neck accessory: instead, it is part of a earring she was gifted by her grandmother that then broke. Though she doesn't remember why she had it, nor why it was only one of a set, she still holds a lot of sentimental value to it and couldn't bear to throw it out or sell its pieces, instead transforming it into a necklace.

I also gave her boots which, despite their look, are customized to better track up the mountain. These are her personal hiking boots! Additionally, since she lives up there, she has gotten into a few scuffles. While she's learned to hold herself well, there have been times she gets a bit overzealous—and the scar on her face is one of those cases. A nasty rock she was trying to remove had split her lip open and completely dragged down her shoulder before she could hit the floor and regain her standing. Nothing too dramatic, she'd say, but it reminds her to be careful... sometimes :P

Of course, because she's canonically the strongest of the group, I gave her more obvious muscles and fat to pad it out. As I've stated before with her living situation, eating is important to help her keep her strength up—and is also just something she enjoys! There are so many lovely recipes to try out, and before they died, she had loved bringing down ingredients of something new for her adoptive parents to try. They were all fresh, too, from her garden.

Here, despite the timeline regarding typical real-life immigration, I've portrayed her as mixed Indian/Portuguese. Her mother and grandmother were simply Indian immigrants, with Claire as the fourth-generation (Lady Dorothy had taught her Hindi, but with years without practice... she's lost much of it). Unfortunately for them, this was an additional motivator in the main town to persecute them sooner rather than later despite their people settling on the outskirts of Levine's ruling.

✦ SIRIUS GIBSON —

Onto Mr. "Bah!" now... As I've already mentioned, his moon earring is part of a set with Claire as a gift from Lady Dorothy. It was a gift in her hopes of bringing the two closer together.

Now, whether or not that worked out fully, Sirius feels he owes nearly everything to Lady Dorothy. Not only to provide him housing after his parents' demise, but tend to his leg injury wrought from when he'd been nearly crushed in the crowd. Everyone had pushed forward to see the alleged witches' deaths and hadn't cared when he'd fallen—Dorothy was there just in time to act as a barrier of sorts before they'd broken his ankle... but she still ended up crafting a small cane for his use.

As he grew up, however... the cane became more difficult to use. He was taller, and thus he began using Lady Dorothy'd old cane for himself. Whereas she had only needed it for balance, Sirius uses it to offset the pain/pressure on his left leg. Neither cane is pictured here, but it is still a crucial part of how his past pains continue to affect his present life—in a very literal way, albeit.

Due to how cold he tends to run within the mansion, he wears many layers. I've simplified his outfit to simply be: dress shirt, vest, pelerine. The last one is cut from the same cloth as Lady Dorothy's cloak (hence the slight star motif shared in both of their cloaks) and was initially a proper 'cloak' tailored for his younger self, though he still cannot let go of it.

I've added more prominent red to his design to tie in the ruby crest, as well as represent his resentment toward most others. In a literal sense, 'seeing red'—the reasons behind him becoming a demon clear. Unlike Claire who stands for nobility, Sirius cannot allow himself or Lady Dorothy that disgrace of leniency.

One last note: Sirius is portrayed as mixed Bengali/Portuguese. His great-grandparents had been one of the first Portuguese immigrants, with his grandfather brought over as a contracted engineer to figure out the water supply line for this area. He had never been given the chance to learn Bangla, as his mother didn't speak it... but Lady Dorothy had taken time to teach both Sirius and Claire Hindi, and he still reads some of the few books the Elfords had brought over. It's made him feel closer to the family, and he takes great care in trying to refine his language... even if it's difficult without another to practice with. (...I like to imagine, post-Sirius Conclusion, he teaches Claire again. It's only right.)

#I will get to the other three of the main cast... sometime soon <3 I had to get my favorites out of the way first #I hope you enjoy... #|| #witch's heart #whnoc #sirius gibson #claire elford #my art #wall

[anastasiaskarsgard]

Could you do a one shot between bills character in John wick and a quiet noblewoman. Like he begins talking about art and the reader, someone who lost someone important to her and had been quiet ever since, starts to babble with him about art. Everyone is shocked cause she hadn’t talked this much since the death.

“Why do all the French artists paint like this?”you overheard a small American boy ask his Father. The man shrugged his shoulders, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

You really wanted to answer the boy, and to tell him there’s so many more styles if he prefers. The French have so many forms of art ranging from sculptures, to architecture, to elaborate gardens and fashion houses. You wanted to tell him about the gardens of Versailles or the hall of mirrors. Regale him with stories of the amount of effort it takes just to run the hundreds of fountains, spread throughout the vast palace grounds. Tell him about the way French artists fought against oppressors in the most amusing ways, like the story of Christian Dior and the Nazis. You wanted to say so many things, but the words were stuck in your throat, and you felt like the walls were closing in on you.

Just as you were turning around to flee another failure, you came face to face with a breathtaking man. He was not looking at you though, his attention was on the young American boy. He had an annoyed look on his gorgeous features, and just as you realized you were staring at this man he spoke; “Renoir was one of the founding fathers of Impressionism, but unlike Monet and Degas, he was a perfectionist. This is not all France has to offer however, maybe your father should take you to see some of the enormous scenes of battle, that make you feel various emotions. Delacroix is just up ahead.”

The boys eyes lit up and he snatched his fathers hand, enthusiastically pulling him forward to see the famed scenes of war and suffering.

“Degas wasn’t any less of a perfectionist.” You blurted out before you knew what was happening.

The man turned to you and cocked an eyebrow. Grinning slightly, he asked you what your favorite exhibit was in the museum, switching from english to French.

Thrilled to talk about art, with someone who looked like a work of art himself, you began to list your favorite artists currently on display, and only became more enchanted when he shared his impressions of them. You had always been the queen of random facts about various topics, especially art, but as your conversation flowed, you learned several new things from this man.

As you followed him into the newest exhibit to see what he called groundbreaking, you’d nearly forgotten that you hadn’t spoken a word in over a year.

That is until you saw HER.

Emily Devoss, the literal reason your heart had been broken. You’d grown up together and she’d always made a point to make you feel small. She was always the first to point out your flaws, and she’d always seemed out of reach. Seeing her perfect clothing, on her perfect frame, with her perfect smile and perfect hair, reminded you of the worst day of your life.

Completely humiliated and grasping at sanity in front of all your friends and family, you’d received a FaceTime from your husband to be. Heart soaring and hope restored, you’d answered it thinking he’d have an explanation for his tardiness, but were met with him sitting topless by a pool telling you he wasn’t ready for marriage. Completely bewildered that he’d wait till you were standing in a church in your wedding gown,in front of hundreds of people, to decide he wasn’t ready was more than you could comprehend. Then Emily Devoss had come into the frame, and had sat in his lap and bitten his ear and the call had ended.

(A few weeks later, she had dumped him, and he’d had the audacity to expect you to take him back. You’d ignored him; refusing to reply to any communication, or answer your door. You blocked him on everything, but he’d been persistent, calling and texting from strange numbers. Since you weren’t speaking, you never answered calls anyways, but you were able to communicate through text and email. Just not with him.

The thought of any type of communication or contact with that man, turned your stomach.)

Your parents and bridesmaids had seen the FaceTime, since they were all curious where he was too. Overwhelmed and likely in shock, you’d completely shut down and checked out. As the whole situation became more real, and sunk in, You avoided everyone like the plague for the next several months. when it finally came time that you needed to speak, you could not bring yourself to do so. You texted and emailed, the bare minimum, but that was it.

After your mother tried to have you committed, you’d compromised and gone to several therapists. None of them were able to get you to speak. You simply didn’t feel you needed to speak to anyone if you so choose. Being mute wasn’t illegal, and you couldn’t imagine any reason to speak ever again, until today.

“I have been so rude. My name is Vincent, but most call me Marquis. May I have your name?” The beautiful man asked you, unaware of the inner struggle you were fighting.

Unable to take your eyes off Emily more than a few seconds, you bit your lip, as your world began to crumble.

Vincent observed your odd behavior and quickly came to the conclusion that you were distressed by someone in the room. Stepping in your line of sight, your eyes met his and you could physically feel yourself calm a bit.

“I do not know what is happening, but I don’t often repeat myself.” Cocking an eyebrow at you expectantly, he crossed his arms and your mind raced.

“Don’t bother handsome. She’s broken beyond repair. She’s too stupid to speak.” Emily’s voice cut through your heart, and you began to panic.

Vincent spun around to face Emily, and you were certain you’d lost another man to the horrible woman, and could feel the sting of tears in the back of your eyes. You could see they were speaking, but in your current state, only heard white noise and your quickening breath.

Just when you were sure you’d burst into tears and pass out, Emily’s face visibly fell, and she looked utterly terrified. Quickly approaching you, she awkwardly bowed before you, and then apologized, before quickly making an exit.

Blown away by the obvious terror in her eyes, you looked to Vincent once more, and found him holding out his hand for you, gently smiling.

“What did you say?” You found yourself asking.

“Oh I just told your friend Emily, that I don’t take kindly to people distressing the few beautiful things left in this ugly world, and she recognized the error in her ways,” he stated as you took his hand, and walked beside him up to the newest exhibit.

Except you couldn’t take your eyes off of this man. The Marquis radiated confidence and danger, but for whatever reason, you knew you’d never be safer in anyone’s hands.

Smiling when he turned to you again, you told him your name.

#Marquis de Gramont #the Marquis #vincent de Gramont #bill skarsgard #my writing #John wick 4

[xerith-42]

My Street Stoner Headcanons

This is part 1 in a series of posts I wanna make about different characters in the Aphverse who partake in the devil's lettuce.

Important disclaimer, I don't really like My Street! It peaked with season 2, it's got a lot of problems from day one that remain problems in it's sixth season, they manage to have TWO beach SEASONS and neither one has someone who was easily one of the main characters of the series it was based on, and it really lost the plot. Like way faster than MCD did. But there is stuff to love about it.

I love the idea of My Street as it was initially promised. A slice of lice modern AU of MCD that is a SLICE OF LIFE. No grand stakes of the universe, nobody's getting blown up (unless it's for comedic effect), and nobody's dying. It's about a bunch of young adults, some of whom have known each other since high school or longer, all living on the same street together and the day to day shenanigans they get up to. So basically Season 3 but the entire series is like that. This is my very long winded way of saying that none of the "lore" of My Street matters to me and when you read my headcanons, know that I ignore the canon of My Street more than I ignore the canon of Minecraft Diaries. I don't care about the angels, I just want to get high with my friends.

Anyways wanna smoke some weed?

Blaze is the main weed dealer of My Street. Man has both an indoor and outdoor garden with multiple plants. He and the werewolf trio all live together and they actually help him out with his business sometimes. It's the main way Blaze pays rent on their place and also just a great side hustle. Like Blaze never has to worry about money, and he's constantly giving free stuff to his friends if they want it.

His first ever costumer in the friend group was actually Aaron. The two got high in High School like once when Aaron was inexplicably at Blaze's house. He's still not entirely sure how he got there to this day, the whole experience feels very surreal and liminal. But he remembers how freeing it was, how much stress he was able to let go of. So when college is kicking his ass, he hits up Blaze expecting to just like share half a blunt like they did before, and then they hotbox Blaze's dorm with a gravity bong.

If it wasn't already clear, Blaze is the top stoner of the entire My Street Universe. Some characters are definitely more frequent users than others (we'll get to Travis), but for Blaze, I mean... C'mon. His birthday is literally April 20th. He's the stoner friends to end all stoner friends but he also gets weirdly emotional with people when they're high and basically makes his friends process their shit every now and then by offering to get them high as a stress reliever. It all started with Aaron showing up in his door, getting baked enough to see God, and then randomly confessing that he was actually a werewolf the entire time. Even though. Blaze already knew that.

And then Aaron confesses it to Irena (C!Aphmau) while they're late night gaming. Like she mentions that Katelyn's room smelled funny when she went into it the other day and Aaron instantly jumps to "I've gotten high with Blaze before." So she tries it out of morbid curiosity, and while she enjoys it, she ultimately decides it's not something she wants to do on the regular. Maybe for celebrations of like finishing a semester of college or finally getting that fucking promotion.

Katelyn definitely smokes it the most when she's living with Irena and Nana. Not having a solid job for a few months really fucked with her stress levels, even if she managed to make it work cause her roommates are awesome. But, she'll only do it outside or in her room and then instantly light a candle to clear out the smell, but they both eventually figure it out. Nana literally walks in on Katelyn lighting a blunt in her room when she's just trying to ask Katelyn what she wants on her pizza. There's a pause, Katelyn answers, and then Nana gives her a thumbs up and leaves.

The next morning Katelyn opens up the fridge and finds a small tray of brownies with her name written on the post-it note slapped onto them. Another note reads "For when you want to be subtle about it ;)"

Nana learned that she could put weed into butter and therefore she could make edibles from one of her sisters randomly showing up in town, dropping a bunch of life lessons and also useless bull shit on her, and then leaving and never elaborating. And the thing Nana mainly got from it is to make her own edibles because it's way cheaper than buying them. Nana doesn't smoke because she has asthma so this is like game changing for her.

She doesn't realize that she even has a chance to know who her dealer is because she's super paranoid about buying it. So she like goes through all these extra steps to hide it and hide her privacy and Blaze literally knows what she smells like and knows who she is, but he gets that people can be hesitant for others to know. Just strange that she's getting all weird about it when he and Katelyn were just hot boxing his car when she texted him.

Most characters have an experience like this. Trying it out for the first time, usually with Blaze or on their own, trying to hide it, only to stumble upon one of their roommates high as balls watching Lord of The Rings at 3 am and realize they're all a bunch of pothead losers and that's fine.

Blaze knows all. Like, he has heard everything. People feel randomly prompted to just start telling him stories from their childhood, confessing in the way of like "haha you wanna know something funny I never told anybody?" and then Laurance confesses he's been in love with Garroth since they were freshman. Or Zane confesses to really liking My Little Pony. Or Dante reveals that he's questioning his gender identity. Blaze just knows all these people on deeper levels than most of them realize if they don't frequently hang out with him.

And if they do, then they know that Blaze is no low level just grows for his friends and accepts tips. No, he's a full blown dealer. he's really strict about rules of wherever he lives, especially when he started dealing to raise money so he could pay tuition at PDH, he didn't want it effecting his family at all. and Blaze can literally chuck you through a window so it's hard for anyone to really pressure him into doing stuff he doesn't want to do. And all he wants to do is grow quality product for everyone to enjoy.

It's why his friends don't mind helping him out sometimes. Like Laurance comes over to his house to ask if he can use Blaze's three foot bong so he gets high enough his body stops cramping, but when he gets there Blaze has some classic rock on and he's just packaging orders and Laurance sits down at the table and joins him.

And while hanging out with Blaze, he always has just the most random wack ass stories. He meets so many strange people in the world, he travels a lot because he's technically unemployed, and he has the wildest adventures that people love hearing about.

Travis and Dante's house always smells different. If they're expecting company they'll use some kind of air fresher, or light candles or incense, or do something to get rid of the smell. But if they have nothing going on? If Travis is on break from classes to get his masters and Dante has the weekend off of work? That house is going to fucking reek for three days. They always take care of it eventually, but when they go on what they jokingly call their benders, they don't bother.

Due to this most people would assume one of the two of them is the biggest stoner on My Street (that isn't Blaze). Or maybe Katelyn and Nana. It's actually Vylad. He's just really good at hiding it.

Vylad got insane stoner rng and is able to be tripping balls and have no visual effect on his eyes. Like maybe they look tired, but they aren't bloodshot, even while he's sitting in a freshly hotboxed room. So Vylad likes hiding it because it confuses his friends and that's just always fun to do.

Despite being so judgemental, Zane oddly never makes any comment about this. If someone's room smells funny or Nana slips a special kind of butter into a batch of cupcakes and insists those are her batch, he doesn't say anything. It's not clear whether he's chill with it or not? Both his brothers smoke, even if Garroth is more infrequent about it, so maybe it's becuase of them? But even then he'll get upset at someone for something but not upset at his brothers when they do the same thing so??

Garroth asks Blaze if Zane smokes one day, and Blaze is just in shock because "You didn't know? Why do you think he wears the mask?" "Because he has facial dysphoria?" "Well, that, and because he can take a sneaky hit from his vape when no one's looking."

Zane has never forgiven Blaze for revealing his secret because now Vylad and Garroth keep asking him for hits.

If you have any specific MS characters that I didn't mention in here, or more in depth headcanons, feel free to send me an ask! I have. A lot. Of these.

#text post #aphmau #i dont support aphmau #laurance zvahl #garroth ro'meave #writing #my headcanons #travis valkrum #stoner headcanons #weed #aaron lycan #nana ashida #aphblur #garrance #zane ro'meave #vylad ro'meave #mystreet vylad #mystreet #mystreet blaze #mystreet garroth #aphverse

[we-were-so-beautiful]

4. shower

wow look it's another chapter!!! like... not that long after the last one, even! honestly I had the first 3 sections of this basically entirely written not long after finishing the last one, but eventually I decided I should probably do literally anything else for a while (hyperfocus is a real dick lol), and so I'm just now getting back to it. I thought this was gonna be on the shorter side, but it's about the same as the last one, around 1.3k! there's a pretty important reveal in this one...

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, conditioning, infected wounds, (severe) illness. As always, please let me know if there's anything else I need to tag.

[masterlist] [chapter three]

Vanessa’s never been particularly sensitive to scents—it’s a saving grace, in a mind where too much light or sound or texture can make her feel like she’s dying. But by the time the guy lying shaking on the seats behind her practically falls out of the taxi in front of her stoop, even she’s having a hard time with the smell coming off of him. Given how the driver peels away with all his windows down the second she pulls the last scrap of soiled newspaper from his backseat, it probably isn’t just her.

She turns back to the guy, for the first time finally alone with him. She’s too short to be used to talking down to people, but he’s hunched himself into that weird curled-up position again, so when she speaks it's aimed vaguely toward the top of his head. “Okay. First things first, we’re getting your ass in the shower,” she tells him. “And then we can deal with the effects of my questionable life decisions.” She pauses for a moment, considers. “Well. This one, anyway.”

There’s no way she’s getting him in through the front like this. Too many stairs, and too much dirt. The garden door will have to cut it. She motions for him to follow her down the alley, and he unfurls himself just enough to shuffle after her.

As soon as the shadows close in around them, she looks back over her shoulder. When she’s satisfied that no one can see them, she unclasps the collar from around his neck and tosses it, leash and all, into the garbage.

—

Vanessa can’t say she’s ever been grateful for the fact that her parents are insane enough to have a swimming pool in the basement of their New York fucking brownstone. Quite frankly, she still isn’t; they got the fucker installed when she was a kid and she screamed for so many days they finally packed her off to a hotel with her nanny of the week just to shut her up. Which they probably should have done in the first place, given that she was nine and there was a jackhammer in her fucking basement.

What she is grateful for now, though, is that the part of this floor that isn’t taken up by the pool—or the hot tub, or the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub—is a shower stall the size of her literal bedroom. Complete with benches, and removable showerheads, and, she’s hoping, everything else she could possibly need right now.

“In here,” she motions, and he drags himself onto the tiles. “I’d offer you the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub, but you’ve barely been able to keep your head up all day and the last thing I need is to fucking drown a guy in my basement. Also no offense but you’re literally so dirty right now I’d have to drain the fucker the second you got in. After this you can have a bath whenever you want, if you’re into that sorta thing, but for right now you’re getting a damn rinse.”

—

Once he’s more or less situated on the built-in shower bench, propped up in the corner in hopes it’ll keep him from falling ass over, Vanessa gets to work, still fully clothed down to her chucks on the marble tile. She unhooks a showerhead and aims it at the drain while it warms up. “Is this okay?” she asks, pointing it at his feet, and he flinches sluggishly but doesn’t respond either way.

“I don’t know what that means, guy.” She tests the water again with her hand. “It can’t be that bad, can it?” she muses out loud. “It’s the same temperature I’d use for me, and fuck knows I’m… y’know, picky. So if you want it different you gotta tell me, okay.”

He doesn’t tell her shit. But he doesn’t flinch too much harder when she moves the stream of water up toward his knees, either, and she figures that’s the best she’s gonna get.

She leans over him and focuses the showerhead on his hair. It’s matted stiff as tree bark, the water barely able to permeate through the layers of filth. “Shit, I dunno man, your hair’s got so much crap in it. Not to mention it wouldn’t surprise me if that shelter gave you goddamn lice.” She shudders. “Might be better off just cutting it short.”

There’s a noise she barely registers as a gasp before his ice-pale eyes fly open and he clutches her arm, quicker than she’s seen him move by fucking light years. She jerks automatically out of his grip, dropping the showerhead in her alarm, but he fixes her with a lidless, panicky stare and the eye contact is so startling she’s frozen to the spot. “Please…” he wheezes, “don’t.”

“You fuckin’ what, dude?”

“Don’t… cut… my hair.”

She blinks, astonished. “That’s the first thing you’ve said all fucking day, isn’t it?” He doesn’t offer another. “Christ. Typical fuckin’ me not to notice.” She huffs quietly. “Well shit, dude, I guess if you give enough of a fuck to speak up about it it can stay. But so help me if I find a single fucking nit in there.”

He whimpers quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, but he doesn’t say another word.

—

Vanessa gingerly retrieves the showerhead from where it’s spattering up at the ceiling, along with an oversized lace bath pouf and a mostly-full bottle of body wash she’s pretty sure is fucking designer. If you could see me now, Mom, she thinks, squirting the gel at his left shoulder, the one closest to her. You… well, you probably still wouldn’t give a shit. 

She touches the pouf to his sullied skin as gently as she can, and she knows she’s not well-coordinated at the best of times but she really doesn’t feel like she deserves the choked-off sound he makes or the way he shrinks away from her when she makes contact. “Oh cmon, guy, look I know but you gotta let me get this shit off you, there’s no way it’s not fucking your shit up worse than it already is,” she cajoles, and whatever she’s said it makes something in his posture go slack and he rolls back toward her, opening himself to her touch. “Thanks, uh, I think,” she hedges, and begins to lather him up with slow, concentrative strokes. She flicks the shower back on, sluicing suds and dirt from his skin in equal measure.

"Ohhh, fucking yiiiiikes," Vanessa says softly.

With the first layer of filth washed away, Vanessa can see the far grimmer reality that’s been hidden underneath. Rows of jagged, infected gashes streak their way across his shoulder to his chest. The skin around them burns an angry red, the wounds themselves all but smothered in sickly whitish-yellow. What narrow swathes of skin remain intact are mottled purple, and now that she’s touching him, she can tell he’s just… way too much hotter than any person should ever be.

She lowers the temperature of the water and keeps washing him, afraid to look but needing to see. Each stroke only reveals more of the same. His chest and left shoulder seem to have gotten most of the worst of it, but there are stripes across his arm, his back, his stomach, deep gouges in his legs. She hasn’t tried to touch his face yet, but now that she knows what to look for she thinks she can even see a scratch or several across his cheek, trailing up into his hairline. Jesus fuck.

It all makes a sinister sort of sense now, she thinks: the shallow breathing, the shivers, the near-total lack of response. And here she thought he just had regular rescuee trauma.

“Fuck,” she breathes out quietly, as the realization creeps over her like ice.

There’s something really, really wrong with this guy.

-

taglist: @maracujatangerine @pigeonwhumps @tragedyinblue @marchtothefuckingsea @octopus-reactivated @briars7

#whump #pet whump #rescue whump #recovery whump #bbu #box boy universe #vanessa + juniper #disaster caretaker #imperfectly consistent #tw dehumanization #tw conditioning #tw illness #tw injury #tw infection #do I like... need to tag for language? #I know using swears is pretty standard for bbu/pet whump stories #but I also use them kind of a uh. non standard amount. #I kinda feel like vanessa's house needs a tw of its own lmao #I honestly have fun making up all the increasingly ridiculous rich person shit #anyway I've got a decent bit of the next chapter written already (wrote it at some point back when I was working on 2 or 3 tbh) #and that's more or less it for stuff I have fully written out in advance #(from the main storyline at least) #but a lot of the stuff that follows that is stuff I've had in my head for ages #so hopefully it won't be too hard to write out! knock on wood #sometimes the things you think about that much come easily when you finally write them #and sometimes they're nigh on impossible bc you get obsessive with doing them justice #or at least just like. remembering all the ideas you've ever had for them when you finally sit down to write #hello it's me writing a novel in the tags again #anyway I've been falling asleep since somewhere in the middle of proofreading so I should probably wrap this up lol #if you read all this for some reason hi!