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cherry-titz · 5 months

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HI GUYS @cherryjuiceblues here ! oof, this took me longer than i anticipated to finish, and for that i am sorry, friends! this is my installment to mine and @1800titz first collab :D if you haven't already read part one, written by titz herself, then you can do so here !!

some warnings before you read! following on from part one, this is dark harry. some very dark themes going on. and once again, as miss titz previously stated, harry is simply a faceclaim here. there is absolutely no intention to associate the real harry with this fictitious one !!

content warnings include: dom/sub themes, exhibitionism, light spanking/impact play, choking, name-calling, degradation, praise, threats of intending to cause harm (hitchhikerry is not a good man at all). generally, he's a bit meaner in this one!

word count is just under 11k (both of us had aimed to write a short and snappy 6-7k each but here we are LMAO) !! ENJOY :D

This bathroom is filthy. The slanted mirror swirls a little, in a thick, hypnotic puddle, as Y/N stares at the smeared reflection before her.

A new low, perhaps—this night, for Y/N (only competing with one other evening that springs to mind). In an unloved bar, in a dingy bathroom, fingers digging into grimy porcelain that no amount of suds from the muddy bar of soap could clean. (And, really—whose idea was it to have bars of soap in a public place?) Clenching digits in an attempt to wake up some from the wave of paranoia that skittered across her skin in the public eye of the bar.

Y/N swears her pupils fluctuate as she grounds herself in them. Recollects herself in this pigsty of an establishment. Forces some of the alcohol to evaporate off of her in waves as she sobers up to the thought of piss-stained tiles and sticky toilet seats.

Y/N doesn’t drink alone.

But she didn’t do hitchhikers either and look where that got her.

In a shithole—that’s where. In a shithole, on her lonesome, on a Monday night of all nights. Argued to be the worst day of the week to wake up, go to school, work—and most relevantly—get drunk. But she’d considered it important to force herself out—to maintain control over her actions whether they be sensible or not. It was rather unimportant to Y/N what day of the week it was. They’d sort of all merged into one since receiving the phone call—every day reduced to the same thoughts tick, tick, ticking inside of her head. Hours spent ping-ponging back and forth over every moment in which her life could have ended inside of that car.

She’d tried since; to phone him back. Each time met with the denying wall of a payphone. Y/N almost grew comforted by that failure—that safety of knowing no one would ever answer—until rationality kicked in and she blocked the number. A small, tiny ounce of power to hold.

And there’s a part of her, still, that doesn’t quite believe it. That surely friendly Harry—adorned in his soft sweatshirt, with his dimpled cheeks and yellow nails—could have only been laughing with his friends, all huddled around his phone that blasted on speaker, at the successful spooking of an unassuming girl. Despite the fact of all the evidence stacking up against him—that she’d heard only his breaths, only his voice, and the undeniable dead of night surrounding him. She needn’t even ponder over the possibility to accept it—lone stranger on the side of the road, in the dead of night, sleeping at a motel, so eager to manhandle and encourage Y/N’s struggle—

The door clatters, and then a body pushes it open, the heavy wood resisting some and disguising Y/N’s flinch at the sudden intrusion. She clears her throat, turning the tap on and pretending to wash her hands as she meets the eyes of a woman in the mirror, a small weak smile upturning Y/N’s lips, before she disappears inside a cubicle.

She’s retraced every single moment of that night. Looking back with shame and humiliation. Because (and it’s pointless to waste even a second on it now but) how silly—how stupid—does someone have to be; how lacking in common sense or respect for one’s self, to pick up a stranger on the side of the road. Harry was right to scold her over the phone, no matter the irony of it all. She might as well have served herself up on a platter for him to take. So easy, he’d said.

So easy it hadn’t been fun, is all Y/N can assume.

The broken seal of the door reminds her of the outside world, shaking her head—an attempt to rattle her thoughts into submission, to collect herself and focus on the surface level image of her reflection. To remember the facts. That she looks pretty. Pretty and put-together—and ready to drown more of her sorrows in another cocktail mixed with her chosen spirit.

It’s as quiet as it was before Y/N slipped into the bathroom, a handful of lonely men scattered on opposite ends of the bar—the occasional group huddled around a table—or a couple sprawled against a sofa. The wall-mounted television has been switched on, subtitles an obnoxious fluorescent yellow as the news captures the attention of few desolate drinkers. Y/N doesn’t notice the extra body occupying a high-top table nearest to the bar, her back turned towards them, as she makes herself (comfortable would be an exaggeration) settled once again on a rickety, wooden stool.

She doesn’t notice. Not until she orders a Cosmopolitan and twists her clutch onto her lap, opening the zipper’s teeth, fingers pinching the familiar edge of her card just enough for it to peek past the confines, and is hastily denied by the bartender. He shakes his head, hands busy as he mixes her drink, nodding in some direction behind her as he says, “Gentleman over there paid for it.”

And that… that can’t be right. Gentle and man are two respected words in their own right but together? Y/N’s spine straightens and her muscles tighten. There’s no way she could know, but somehow she does—shutting her eyes, expelling a breath in preparation—as she twists around on her stool to see the man who she invited into her sedan all those days ago. There was nothing gentle about that night.

Or so she found out.

And he looks… the same. Of course he does.

Same chocolate-swirled curls brushing against the unperturbed smoothness of his forehead. Same strong line of his nose, same hard clench of his jaw dusted in scruff that she’d let him brush against her face as they’d kissed. Same plush lips that purse around the rim of a tumbler, cheekbones sharp as he tips his head back enough to allow the cool liquid to slick down his throat. Same rough, sinewy fingers—the subdued yellow of his nails (so far along the spectrum from the blinding fluorescence of the television subtitles) now chipped in a way that suggests it’s fashionable as opposed to scruffy.

All the same features and yet Y/N can’t help but picture them in a new, scathing light—those soft tendrils matted with thick, dark blood, splatters dripping down his temple and beading at his chin. Blush-tinted lips curled up in a sinister, satisfied smile—chilling enough to slow the blood in Y/N’s veins—and those hands; his fingers that had previously delivered so much pleasure, wrapping around the handle of a sharpened blade with the intent to inflict more than she could have bargained for—no sunshine yellow in sight.

And the morbid image is hardly helped by the baggy garments that swallow his limbs, grey sweats and black hoodie selling one of two different visuals. Either that of a cosy boyfriend or a looming presence on a dimly lit street, late at night. Y/N’s brain opts for the latter.

Harry meets Y/N’s gaze with confidence—if he is surprised, or displeased, or worried by her presence then it shows none on his face. She watches the tick of his throat as he swallows the remainder of what looks like whiskey, before carelessly sliding the glass across the table in which he is slouching away from with arrogance, to meet its other empty friend as they clink together. His posture suggests complete ease—the sort of position you would take on a deep-set sofa—an ankle slung across a knee, an elbow propped behind you. Perhaps the type of arrogance only the person who had admitted their desire to murder you could have.

She blinks at him, unable to startle back around in fear. Not in order to preserve any sort of upper hand—but from a complete lack of said immediate panic; that fight or flight response. She blinks as she sees the screen of her phone behind her eyelids; as she sees every unanswered call she dialled to that payphone. The ringing in her ear as she waited, and waited, and waited.

The reminiscence, the amusement in his tone—that switched as though controlled by one—to disappointment and disdain, to deliver a warning with such severity that only left Y/N with more questions. Why wait an entire week to call? Why tell her about his intention? How many times had he killed before? Why didn’t he kill her?

“—Police have found what they believe to be the body of twenty-five-year-old Ruby Wilcox…” Y/N doesn’t know why this specific statement is deemed salient enough to shove it’s way past all the other droning noise and embed itself deep within her head—but it is. As though Ruby Wilcox is her own name, Y/N feels a pit of dread churning around inside of her stomach, twisting and turning in a true derivation of discomfort, as she peers around to acknowledge that she’s heard correctly, skimming the subtitles with grave trepidation. The journalist goes on, “...reported missing six days ago…” but Y/N already feels as though she’s heard the story.

She turns back towards Harry, unsure as to why it feels necessary to do so—the moment their eyes met the first time, she should have bolted. Harry’s already looking at her, as though his eyes have never trailed away, and it’s telling—the quirk of his lips. The way his tongue darts out to wet them and he can’t contain the small bracket that they form into.

His left eye flutters closed in a wink as new droning voices of monotonous news presenters burrow deeper and deeper into Y/N’s skin. The fear is undeniable. It aches deep inside the marrow of her bones; a lingering, languishing throbbing that can only be attributed to embedded dread. But if Y/N can’t deny that she hasn’t run for the hills then she also can’t deny the way the fear dances atop her skin like little bolts of lightning. Displacing the panic with a desperate flush of rage—a desire for violence to be met with violence—in a less than chaste way.

The danger—it… excites her, it challenges her. To know why, and how, to learn the extent of what spared her life. To take more. It feels reckless; almost demanding of death. It feels belittling, and demeaning, and like everything every girl is ever taught not to do. Could Y/N really justify endangering her life for the perversity of something as insignificant as body-slumping sex? Could she ever look herself in the eye again?

…Did it matter?

It doesn’t seem to when Harry suddenly stretches his arms out above his head, cracking the bones from his strenuous period of sitting down, and pushes himself up from the creaking, groaning chair. It seems as though the decision is made for Y/N when she bolts to follow him without a second thought. Or she bolts in her mind—her body delivers a much more convincing performance of nonchalance—seemingly casual as she sifts through her clutch in a faux check of inventory.

And then, when Harry’s broad back faces her for long enough, weaving his way towards the steel door of the back entrance—that’s when Y/N jumps down from her stool, downs the entirety of her drink and relishes in the warmth that blossoms in her chest, and leaves the bar.

The heavy door screams on its hinges, slamming shut with a reverberating bang. Y/N peers left down the alleyway, dim light from a distant streetlamp casting shadows across gravel—

“Sneaky little thing.”

Y/N startles, whipping around to see her stranger (surprised but not understandably by logic) as he mutters, “No self-preservation.” Effortlessly cool, leaning against the exterior of the bar—rough brick undoubtedly frigid and scratchy. His jaw works incessantly, clearly nursing a flavour of gum that he can only just have popped into his mouth—and disgust gurgles in Y/N’s stomach at the sight of his demeanour—unsettling yet titillating, all the same.

“Y’following me?” he pushes forward off of the wall, height suddenly looming as his lip curls into a simper much less pleasant than that of the man she’d met last week. Though it fails to feel threatening, her mouth still runs dry, now faced with the opportunity to say… anything—to ask, demand, accuse to her heart’s content—but she… she can’t, too inundated by the possibilities as her brain splutters and jolts like an empty engine.

When Y/N doesn’t answer, Harry’s mouth crooks up, pulling back to reveal a deceptively pretty smile—before he purses his lips to blow a cool stream of breath directly into Y/N’s face. Her nose crinkles as the conspicuous scent of peppermint forces its way, no doubt into her brain—to associate peppermint with him for the rest of her life—may it be long or considerably shorter after tonight. “Minty fresh,” Harry smiles around a chew, impishly delighted by Y/N’s scowl. “Wha’s the matter? Don’t like peppermint?”

Sure—yes, sure, she likes peppermint but what level of absurdity— A humourless bark of a laugh fizzles between them, Y/N unable and unwilling to ignore the fatuity of the situation. Y/N could say so much, but it seems she chooses, “I prefer bubblegum,” clearing her throat to ignore the waver in her voice.

Harry nods earnestly—as though her taste in confectionery holds the same gravity as that of an embarrassing truth or a confession of crisis—jaw flexing on its hinges, “Mm, makes sense. Little—” his arm reaches out, finger uncurling to brush a knuckle against a loose strand of her hair, “bubblegum princess,” and Y/N wonders if he might be a little insane, body tight as the distance between them lessens. Distance that could only be described as valuable in such a situation, with such a person.

It strikes Y/N now, the difference in his temperament—gone is the charm of a man brimming with polite conversation to show his gratitude towards her—in his place stands the one who spewed filth inside the confines of her sedan. Shameless, smug, awash with a handful of complexes, she’s now sure.

Despite the blast of fresh air and biting peppermint encouraging sobriety, dregs of intoxication still prevalently linger in Y/N’s bloodstream. That boost of liquid courage she needs to say what she does, to be reminded of that vehement anger, and to ignore the pounding of her heart—the way it begs and pleads with her to go back inside—as her foot takes her a step forward. Her voice drops to a whisper as she tilts her head up, now intimately close, “Do you still think my eyes are pretty?”

And Harry laughs—the sound forced from his lungs as he fails to conceal amusement. “Christ, no shame…” he pauses, eyes darting back and forth between Y/N’s falsely confident ones, “‘f course I do, I meant everything I said... Everything.”

It’s those words that drive home the reality of the situation; a clear confession, a clear joy to remember—“I was going to kill you that night. Thought about draining the life from those pretty eyes the second you rolled your window down.”

Y/N’s tether to sanity unravels, hanging on by a mere thread as she throws her hands in front of her wildly. “I let you inside my fucking car!” The fury finally weaponised, despite the whiny defiance of her tone, that is only further fuelled by Harry’s wry smile, growing and growing. It sets something alight in Y/N; the defeating realisation of a true psychopath before her. Nothing she could say would allow sympathy to seep into his bones.

Not that she demanded sympathy. What good would an apology do? An apology for what… scaring her? Disturbing her so deeply to her core that life felt bathed—drowned—in danger? The only real, tangible thing Harry had done to her was have sex with her and that— That was nothing to apologise for, no matter the embarrassment to admit as such.

So why… bother… Why bother to fight when he smells so inviting and the warmth of his body yearns to take the chill off of hers?

Harry dips down—peppermint again, mixed with the same pleasant cologne from the night he tainted her backseats, that had blotted itself in her memory unknowingly—eyes boring into her own. “You did more than that, pet,” an effort to get the words out without scoffing, “You let me fuck you inside your car. Begged me—”

She shoves demurely at his chest, coils of heat tightening at the memory, causing only the slightest of stumbles as Harry grips her hand to his chest and tugs her with him “—pleaded me—for it, in fact.” His breath fans across her face; close enough to still be warm and pebble her cheeks with goosebumps. Her lashes flutter innocuously—the perfect picture of doe-eyed and yet she has no intention behind it.

Y/N’s face is warm with the alcohol coursing underneath her skin and the tingling of Harry’s air dusted across it, that jacket of heat the only thing bracing her against the whipping breeze against her bare legs. Naturally, if it wasn’t for the existence of Harry, Y/N would feel perfectly content right now. Tipsy but not detrimentally so—surfing along the wave of intoxication with only an occasional plunge beneath the bracing waters. She feels good like this, most of the time. She feels confident, and sexy, and free of all of life’s burdens.

But now one of life’s more recent burdens is standing in front of her, simmering smile surely on the verge of snapping. Y/N wonders what she might do in order to make that happen—so be it, if that puts herself at risk. There's no such thing as risk when you’re a drink or two down. The anger feels subdued, the fear feels subdued—something in the back of her mind convincing Y/N of some faux sense of safety—however real or fake it may be.

“Didn’t you?” Harry nudges, sly fingertips catching her off guard as they tap sequentially against the curve of her waist, gently—subtly—manoeuvring Y/N’s body to rest against the harsh stone. She hardly realises she’s moving, too honed in on the whispering taunt of Harry’s voice.

Yes. She did.

But she doesn’t care to focus on that anymore—she doesn’t care to play the regretful part. Y/N has moved onto bigger and better things. She tilts her chin up, defiant in nature, as her tone takes on that of a snarky assertion, “How—how were you g’na do it? Tell me.”

It doesn’t seem as though Harry needs a reminder; he knows what she’s referring to. He knows and he shows zero interest in humouring it—her perverse request. Tapping fingers trail their way up, up, up until they’re cradling her collarbones, vast palm spread out across her chest.

He plays gentle, unknowing, as he shushes her, “It doesn’t matter…” he murmurs, hand slipping higher still until his long fingers can curl and wrap around her throat, the first indication of the whiskey having its desired effect clear when his eyelids flutter and syllables threaten to merge.

He doesn’t squeeze and it’s disturbingly unforeseen—the hold in which he keeps her in without pressure. But it’s not enough, and Y/N’s not satisfied with such an answer. No matter the desperation to surge forward and kiss him messily, or the eagerness to find out whether he’ll explore her mouth again or degrade her for his pleasure, Y/N doesn’t budge.

“Tell me,” she insists, voice teetering on the edge of too loud in the soulless alleyway. Her fist comes up in a weak thud against his chest, unable to display any other sort of physicality. “How were you gonna kill me, Harry—?” Her breath catches as he digs his fingers into the side of her throat—finally satisfied to see the edge of that smirk wiped off of his face. Piercing green holds her in place, sneer dominating her vision.

“Shut up—”

“When you were cumming inside me—?”

“—Shut the fuck up.”

Y/N wheezes when he squeezes even harder, mouth dropping open in a masochistic smile—eyes half-lidded as the blood fights its way to her brain. The warmth of Harry’s palm against the column of her neck presses just as hard, taunting and tormenting her airways—daring her to breathe.

“What—did you—” a second of respite in which he loosens his grip, as Y/N inhales as much as her little lungs can take, “do to that—woman?”

He scoffs at her—almost annoyed that she would care enough to ask—that he even has to waste his energy thinking about it. “I didn’t fuck her if that’s what you’re worried about,” serrated ice in his tone, freezing over when he spits out, “sweetheart.” No attempt at denial, no reassurance of his innocence—just. I didn’t fuck her.

It comes barrelling out; the provocation, “Had to get your fix somewhere else, then,” Y/N accuses, swallowing underneath the weight of his hand. “Didn’t kill me so you had to hurt poor Ruby Wilcox, didn’t you?”

“—Don’t play detective, pet,” he expertly deflects, squeezing harder—disguising any sort of discomfort with the quirk of his lips, “it doesn’t suit you. Much preferred it when you were dumb around my fingers, barking f’me like a good girl. D’you remember that?”

Very well. Too well. Even still after learning the truth, Y/N had remembered it in great detail. “Why didn’t you kill me?” she whispers, numb now to the pads of his digits and the way they demand bruising against the delicate skin of her neck. Pointed indentations to aggravate with her own pressing fingers (assuming she lives long enough for them to form).

“Maybe I just wanted another taste,” Harry admits, eyes clear—surprisingly sincere despite the vulnerability of such a claim. “Maybe I wanted to hear about more of your bad dates—”

“—It wasn’t a date—”

“Maybe…” and Y/N starts to doubt that earnest expression, “maybe I got off on the idea of ruining something—of leaving this kind, sweet, generous girl… with something real to cry about.”

Something real? Something real?

“Why me?” She’s not kidding herself; there’s nothing special or unique that might have altered years and years of Harry’s personal psychology—but maybe, just maybe—Y/N might be given something to help her sleep a little better at night. A reason; valid or not, just something to roll around in the palm of her hands until she could make sense of it.

She’s granted no such thing.

“You stopped the car, Y/N,” he drawls in such a casual tone, sounding the same as the man who had told her his name, debated the importance of the rules of Uno, and breathed a sincere wish that she got home safe. “You let me in. I had nothing to do with it,” Harry promises. But it’s not a friendly promise, nor a reassuring one. It’s an assertion that leaves no room for interpretation, a cold, hard fact that can never be dissected. And unfortunately for Y/N, the fact of the matter remains that this is all her fault.

Cold fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, material scrunching between her digits. Harry tuts, “Hands off,” but Y/N only grips him tighter—knuckles tensing as she urges him closer towards her body by the baggy fabric. (When she’s sober she might berate herself for pushing him the wrong way.)

It’s discernible; Harry’s distaste—eyes sharpening as they slice into her own. He takes matters into his own hands, forcibly removing hers from his front and squeezing the delicate bones of her wrists as he presses them, less than gently, into the harsh bricks.

“Not so obedient today, are we?” Their hips dare to meet, twitches and nudges teasing the inevitable. Y/N can’t disguise the way she bucks a little, thin dress waiting to be bunched and moulded by bigger hands. She knows what he feels like—and it’s impossible not to yearn for it.

Her words are airy—breathless from no exertion—heartbeat drumming in her chest with anticipation. “I assumed you…liked a struggle.”

“I do,” Harry hums, a smile edging back onto his face, as he dips down enough for his breath to kiss her ear, “...but where’s my easy little stray gone?” he pouts, leaning back to tilt his head in a way that suggests simple curiosity. “Girl I met two weeks ago was already open wide f’me by now… Wanna show me your tongue again, pet?”

And it’s juvenile—but Y/N isn’t sober and neither is Harry—when she sticks it out in a way similar to that of a snotty toddler as opposed to the languid reveal she gave him in her car. She pokes it out and scrunches her nose, almost amusing herself in the process. In what is a ridiculous display of immaturity that far from pleases Harry.

He grunts, “Yeah, that’s funny,” patting the side of her face. Hard. Not a slap but something that makes her cheek tingle and her jaw loosen. Even more so when Harry’s fingers squeeze either side and manhandle her face left and right—moving her as he pleases and reveling in the dipping of her eyebrows and the rounding of her eyes. It’s pathetic, really, how quickly she can be reduced to insignificance with just a little pawing.

But he underestimates her ever so slightly. She’s not quite finished it seems, when—through the mush of her mouth—she gurgles, “Are y’gonna kill me this time?”

The amusement that dances so often in Harry’s eyes fizzles out once more. “Shut up, Y/N,” he shoves closer, the blushing tip of his nose daring to brush against her bridge. “Don’t make me say it again.”

She practically preens, rocking up onto the tips of her toes, forcing their chill-bitten skin to brush. “Or what? You’ll make me?” The question floats between them like a perilous snowflake, not for long enough before she jeers, “How you g’na do it? You’ll finally get to watch th—”

Harry’s had enough of her voice, surging forward, desperately capturing the end of Y/N’s exhalation and coalescing it with his own. It’s rough, and it’s dirty—his fingers still controlling every purse of Y/N’s lips—hips finally clashing in a grinding of bones. He lets go of her face, encompassing hands tugging through her hair as he holds the back of her head. The only gesture of comfort he grants her away from the wall; not for long before those same fingers roam and dishevel—nails pinching just on the side of too hard.

Every subconscious twitch of her own fingers has Harry alert—any attempt of Y/N’s made to touch him in exchange meets her swift return of each wrist pinned to either side of her head—knuckles brushing sharp bumps of brick. A small noise seeps out of her mouth and into his own, vibrating against his lips and reducing Harry to a deep, acknowledging sigh.

They’re uncoordinated; desperation dominating precision and finesse. Laboured exhalations blanket their cheeks, noses squished and lips swollen. Harry’s hands float back up to her face, pressing coolly against the sides, spanning the entirety as his thumbs bracket their mouths. He holds her like he wants to consume her—crawl inside her skin, swallow her down—tongue boldly stroking against her own in contrastingly lazy flicks. A dizzying enmeshment of fast and slow, hard and soft.

Y/N’s neck aches from the angle in which she’s forced to meet Harry’s mouth, strong palms nearly pulling her off of her toes as he cups her cheeks with almost too much chivalry, too much romance. It would be all too easy to forget his confession, encompassed in his warmth, his scent—too easy to pretend it didn’t matter.

She sinks her teeth into his bottom lip, pulling back as they clamp and opening her eyes just enough to watch the flesh snap back into place. There’s no time to smile with sadistic glee before Y/N’s head is yanked back by the roots of her hair, slender fingers wrapped in tendrils and tugging. Hard. A gasp is ripped from the back of her throat, cold and sharp against her tonsils. And Harry gets to experience the twitch of his lips and the amusement of winning as Y/N’s back bends to accommodate the sudden stretch of her neck.

He peers down at her parted lips, the slight tension in her brows from the strain, and her heavy arms that slowly droop down against the wall. Small clouds of mist pass between them—the cold air kissing their recycled breaths—soaking in the chill the longer they stay outdoors. The stray street light bounces off of one side of Harry's back, casting a glowing outline around his body as he blocks Y/N in against the wall. The irony of such an image. She shuffles her feet atop the gravel, aching from lack of movement—twitching when a thick thigh nudges its way between her own—soft sweatpants stroking her naked skin.

“Bite me again, sweetheart…” Harry taunts, voice scarily steady, “see what happens.”

A choked laugh escapes from Y/N’s chest, forced through her open mouth. A delightful invitation. She pushes as far up on her toes as she can manage, pulling against the force of Harry’s hand—reaching as far as his chin before she eases the tension. He smirks down at her, wandering fingers teasing the hem of her dress as his thigh warms between hers.

“Pity I don’t get to rip another pair of little tights,” he tuts, trailing a digit up the inside of her knee. “Trying to make the old men happy tonight, were we?” tugging at the material, tight against the tops of her thighs. “Hoping one of them might take you to the bathroom and let you call him Daddy.” He tuts again, “How sad.”

“Would you have?” she pouts, eyes bright with mirth. “Let me call you Daddy?”

“Would I have let you? Would I have given you permission? I don’t think so, pet.” He squishes her cheeks together again—demeaning, degrading—leaning back down to ghost his mouth across her puckered lips. “I don’t think you deserve to call me anything at all.”

Her lungs are tight; desperate for more than just a shallow inhale through her nose, borrowed from another. He’d slowly, ever so slowly, meshed their mouths together once more—stopping her from replying with anything other than a scalding kiss, tongues overlapping in an erotic embrace.

But Y/N finds herself impatient—and Y/N falls short in the realm of manners, greedy hands sneaking down when she gets the chance—palming at the thick outline through Harry’s sweatpants.

“Ah—ah, hands off,” he echoes, fingers tugging at her scalp again, forcibly expelling the breath from her lungs. “Ask nicely. I know you know better than that.”

“I do,” she pants, lips tingling with the imprint of Harry’s own. “I don’t think psychos…deserve nicely.” A dangerous blow. One he doesn’t take lightly—one that makes Y/N think she’s hit a nerve when he grits out his next command, jaw tight and eyes stormy.

“Turn around. You’re pissing me off,” not granting her the option to do so herself before his spanning hands are forcing her waist in a squirming prod until her front meets the wall. She wants to push back but Harry is consuming all the space behind her, chest expanding against her shoulder blades. The heat against her ass is dizzying, tunnelling all of her thoughts to places dissolute.

Harry spits his next words, anger palpable, “Fuckin’ brat,” pulling her against his crotch by the small of her waist. Y/N gasps, ears momentarily filled with nothing but white noise. “I let you go and the universe brought us back together, isn’t that something?” A pause; clearly waiting for her snarky response but he gets nothing. She’s too overtaken by the buzzing between her thighs. “I thought so,” he sighs, “but you’re being such a little bitch tonight.”

A pathetic whine crawls its way out of her downturned lips, wisping between them like a sad trail of smoke. Her head feels thick, like she wants to let it fall back and rest upon Harry’s shoulder. What was she annoyed about again? It feels futile.

The harsh emphasis of ‘bitch’ echoes in her ears about five beats after he’s gritted it out. And it burns deep within her abdomen, a searing coalescence of shame and arousal. “...Not a bitch,” she mumbles, eyes fluttering closed as her hands brace against the wall—willing herself to stay upright; to focus on anything but the heavy bump against her backside. But it is futile, because the insult doesn’t land the way it’s supposed to—it doesn’t upset or offend—and that’s when it becomes clear to Harry that the wall is crumbling. That his charm remains absolute.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, voice lathering her skin like thick globules of honey, “still so easy,” lips kissing the shell of her ear as his breath seeps into her hair, coating and warming. “My little bitch, how about that? Do you like the sound of that?”

She wants to shake her head but it’s too heavy, clogged with the fog of Harry’s voice—every nerve tingling as he glides his palms over her hips and down… across her pelvis and curling around the edge of her dress, teasing it, bunching it up just enough to dance his digits over her mound. Y/N’s hips twitch in anticipation, giving away what her words don’t say.

“Y’want my fingers…” an electrifying brush over her clothed clit, “here?” She exhales a shaky breath, trying to push back into him—it’s the only thing she can do, with her fingernails threatening to dig into stone and her forehead sure to come away with its imprint. Her heartbeat throbs between her thighs and a swallowed whimper seeps out of her mouth. “Got to hear you say it, pet. Say you want me to play with your hot, little cunt.”

“Mhm,” is all Y/N can manage, hoping—praying—that for once it might be good enough.

It’s not.

“Mhm,” Harry echoes, the pressure on her clit disappearing and the bulge nudging against her ass harder. Y/N pushes back—Harry pushes forward. A cant of his hips and a teasing reveal of more and more of her skin, the skirt of her dress manipulated high enough to brush across the small of her back and reveal the breadth of her underwear; less salacious than the purple thong Harry had admired previously. A soft white cotton and frilly pink decorating the hem.

“These are sweet, pet,” he mumbles. But it doesn’t fill her chest with warmth; it fills her with trepidation—waiting for the other shoe to drop—for Harry to tear them or rip them, defile them or taint them. But he never does. He doesn’t do anything aside from stroke his thumb across the hem of her panties, up and along the seam. Y/N exhales, trying to sway her hips in order to sway him but it seems he needs no persuasion.

“I’m waiting,” he scorns—much to Y/N’s distaste. Because waiting is not a luxury that either of them can afford right now. Time… Privacy… Two valuable assets that are not provided by the dimly lit alleyways between dingy bars and the rest of the population. The steel door barely a metre beside Y/N could swing open at any point—revealing a disgruntled worker tired after a long shift—or an impatient pedestrian could decide to try their luck exploring a shortcut and happen upon their preoccupied bodies. And surely there must be a view from a window somewhere, anywhere.

So Y/N says what she knows he wants to hear. “Please,” a whisper—unpossessing of the desperation Harry often desires. But she’s not finished. “Please. Please play with my— my…” his fingers drag down across the gusset, prodding at her fluttering hole through the thin material that’s far from dry. A motivating caress that wobbles Y/N’s voice, “—M-my hot, little cunt.”

Shame bathes in her skin, cheeks blooming with an imprudent heat. But Harry laughs at her compliance, no matter how pathetic or meek. He thuds the width of his fingers over her clit suddenly, Y/N’s knees buckling with the unforeseen impact but Harry grips onto her waist, holding her against the warm wall of his body as his fingers push at her underwear.

The wetness is embarrassing, thick and glossy through the cotton. Harry seems to take pride in it, spending too long nudging his fingers over the slick at her hole instead of focusing where they both know Y/N wants. And then a slip to the side, fingertips prodding at the flimsy hem—manoeuvring it over and out of the way, just enough for the shame to coat his skin.

They’re cold against the radiating heat from between her thighs, pulsing and rolling in waves throughout her insides. A jolt; a twitch, the width of Harry’s chest against her back.

“Hold them—fuck, you’re sopping—hold them f’me,” he instructs, Y/N’s shaking fingers obliging before they even know what for, slinking down the front of her body and shucking the gusset of her panties aside enough for Harry’s liking, “Y’always get this wet or is it just f’me?”

And Harry must know the answer—well acquainted with her pussy once before—asking the questions he knows will satisfy him most. “Jus’ you.” A pathetic admission—even more so when Y/N realises it’s not even a lie.

She’s never been more sure of something. Not by her own hand, not by another cock; never has she been so ruined. “No wonder everyone you fuck bores you.”

Yeah… she had insinuated that—she’d yearned for it to hurt, for it to be interesting—inadvertently matching Harry’s sick sense of pleasure. Because here she was, wetting his fingers—the same fingers he’d taken so much away with—and yet they felt so good.

“You need a bit of danger, baby?” Harry cups over her tightly. “Yeah?”

“—Mhm—”

He smiles, leaning forward into the back of her hair. “Need to pick strange men off of the side of the road? Need to fuck them in alleyways?” His palm grinds along her clit in slow, torturous circles, the tips of his fingers daring to dip inside of her but never breaching. “You gonna let me fuck you, pet? Gonna squeeze that cunt over me again like a good—” he retracts slightly, heavy hand slapping over her pussy and rendering Y/N immobilised, “—fucking—girl?” Each smack jolts her body, knees buckling, crumpled mouth whimpering.

“Ye-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please,” her tone borders on watery, thick with overwhelming urgency—coaxing him to warm his fingers inside of her—pleading with her grabbing hand as it reaches behind her and palms at the front of his sweats. And he’s told her no once… twice before already… so it’s only fair that he slaps down on her again. Harder. Louder. The sound of Y/N’s cry echoing out, just teetering over the edge of too pitchy. He doesn’t bother to smother it.

He’s terse, words forced through the gaps of his teeth as he grits, “Stop fucking touching me. Just…” he sighs, warm breath tickling the shell of her ear, “Jus’ be a… good… little hole, yeah?”

Yeah. Yeah. She can do that, she can— “Okay,” the breath trails out of her lips, wispy and frail, body tightening up when she feels… feels his middle finger circling the outside of her cunt—silently pleading for his touch—“O-okay,” she mewls again, dumbstruck as he pushes in—up to the first knuckle, and then the second, and the third.

“There you go,” it’s gentle, almost nurturing; far too soft for the stolen secrecy of an alleyway. Y/N keens, knuckles tightening around the gusset she’s still holding onto for dear life—empty hand flying down to cover Harry’s own. Delicacy coalescing with rigidity. She begs for his finger to sink deeper, to curl and to soothe—to be cajoled by another—to carve its path inside of her.

Harry wiggles it tauntingly, chest puffing out with a frustrated exhalation. “Give me your hand—come on—” he’s rough as he twists it behind her back, away from his skin and exposed to the cold air, “keep it there, stop—bothering me.” She’s not even rewarded with his bruising grasp around her wrist, just the aching chore of correcting each slip down her back as her arm tires.

His ring finger squeezes beside his middle, tip teasing Y/N’s achy hole, soft pads pressing into the spongy front of her walls. He scissors his fingers inside of her slowly, rubbing with virility as the backs of his index and pinky slap into the plush flesh either side of her wet cunt. And then he gets faster, grunting senselessly through every twitch and clench of her pussy. He finds that spot—and then he abuses it—Y/N unable to support her own weight when her knees start buckling and her tired bicep suffers behind her back.

“Can’t handle it, pet?” the cadence of his tone matches each punch of his fingers inside of her—the pit in Y/N’s stomach edged and taunted with every curl against her gummy walls. “S’it too good? Got you shaking all over th’place with just m’fingers.”

She thinks she garbles something unintelligent but it’s impossible to be sure when all the blood is rushing between her legs.

Harry murmurs, lips catching the shell of her ear, “I think you’re a little slut, baby,” biting down on her lobe with contrasting care. “Letting me ruin you in a dirty alleyway… Outside where anyone could see you—see your drippy pussy soaking m’hand.”

“Yes,” a sigh slips—agreeing to nothing in particular—an expression of pleasure, a plea for more.

A dark laugh stretches taut between them, powerful as his fingers speed up, palm slapping against her clit with each thrust. It vibrates and buzzes, twitches and pulsates. “You’re g’na cum for me, pet. Right now.”

It’s a simple demand. One that manhandles Y/N to the very edge—it dangles her over as the drop below taunts her. It beckons her like a siren call. Harry nudges her spot again, and again, and again—coaxing it, consoling it. Every curl of his fingers, every thud of his palm. It fills her up, breath catching, head falling back on her neck. And then she falls, plummets, cascades down—jaw dropped in a silent cry as her cunt convulses seismically around Harry’s fingers—clamping near violently. He rubs her through it, stroking her walls in heavy thrusts as he slows and forces her to feel it all.

“There you go, good girl. Filthy girl.” His hand glistens with her slick, pulling strings away with it. Y/N mourns his fingers, his warmth when he pulls away. Her hole flutters and her body suddenly feels cold—isolated and alone.

He exhales, “Fuck—put your hands on the wall, bend over a bit—that’s it,” crouching down, perverse in the way he inspects the glistening between her thighs. At least, that’s what Y/N assumes he’s doing as he nestles in closer to her cunt, close enough for his breaths to wash over her shaking form.

One heavy forearm pins the skirt of her dress over the rounds of her arse, his free hand coming up to spread her open with the precision of a man who has much more time than either of them currently do. Y/N doesn’t see the way her slick creates ribbons between his fingers after he nudges at her opening and pulls away to scrutinise them. She doesn’t see the way his throat bobs as he tucks his digits past his blushing lips and laves his tongue around them salaciously. She only hears the muffled hum, and the harsh breath leave his nose as the man beneath her drools around himself.

“Sweet little thing,” he pants, voice gruff—gravelly—when he finally brings his fingers back to her centre. He pets at her, thudding the thick of them against her quivering cunt unnecessarily; from a want to render her even less stable on her aching legs. “Absolutely drenched f’me, aren’t you. Does that scare you, sweetheart?”

A whimper climbs out from Y/N’s throat, delayed in her response. Answering of the wrong question—the one she would lie about if she were sober. She needs more—she needs something more… something all-consuming.

“Fuck—fuck me—now,” she pleads, hips pushing back as her neck cranes to catch a glimpse of the man below her.

He rises to his full height. “That’s not how you ask.”

“Please. Or I’ll… I’ll—”

“You’ll what, pet?”

“—I’ll tell everyone…” she whines, trailing off when her words reach no conclusion.

“Yeah? You’ll tell everyone. You’ll go to the police?” She’s nodding mindlessly, head weighing her down. “And what will you say?” tone turning petulant and shrieky, “‘I let him defile me, officer. I let him stretch me out on his big cock, officer. I let him do whatever he wanted, officer—’”

“Please,” her voice is thick, full with a sob—and a wave of panic washes over her at the possibility of not having him at all.

“Don’t know if you deserve it now,” drumming his fingers across the small of her back. “Threatening me, huh? Silly girl.”

No reasoning comes to mind—nothing smart or clever to wield as a rebuttal. Just a slew of pathetic sounds; only possibly attractive to someone yearning for power—someone like Harry. Her body answers for her, still desperately twitching and searching for his own and being rewarded with nothing. He stays stoic, mild palm smoothing along the expanses of her chill-bitten backside.

“Tell you what…” he starts, a sly smile morphing the sound of his voice. “You be quiet f’me, yeah? You be quiet and I’ll give you what you want. Don’t w’na hear a single fucking thing else from this bratty, little mouth, you understand?”

A trick—an attempt for her to slip up before they’ve even begun. She nods frantically, teeth clamped together, lips equally as shut. She’s ready to offer more than is wise, for him to fuck her—ready to give herself up completely just so he’ll quell that ache. The nerves of their exposition are really starting to buzz along the surface of her skin.

“There you go, not so hard, is it?” She shakes her head no, enthralled by the soft sound of skin rubbing against thick cotton, fingers slipping underneath elasticated waistbands. “Good,” Harry murmurs, so quiet that Y/N wouldn’t have heard it if it weren’t for her heightened senses. And then again, even softer, swallowed around a gruff exhale that she can only assume is in response to curling his fingers around himself. “Good girl.”

She feels him tug at the gusset of her panties—haphazardly skewed across her centre, unable to conform without the curl of Y/N’s prying joints keeping them astray. Harry stretches the stitches easily, forcing the fabric to adhere to his perversion, as his thumb strokes the skin adjacent to where she would really feel it.

The corner of a condom wrapper flutters to the floor out of Y/N’s periphery, landing by her achy feet, as the image of Harry tearing it with his teeth flashes behind her eyelids. He rolls it on silently—and for a moment she wishes she could see—picture the length, the girth that had scripted her deepest desires so dominantly.

He smooths his hand up, underneath her dress, shuffling in closer behind her as he nudges the head of his cock against her slick cunt. Y/N’s jaw drops open in a silent whimper—catching the noise, suffocating it in her throat before it ripples out around them. Sweat gathers in the palms of her hands, irritated against the rough brick wall when they’d much rather be buried in his hair. Her forehead dips down, willing Harry to do something… anything.

He strokes up and down her clit, smiling at every overstimulated twitch, dipping down to smear arousal. He teases her, letting the thick of his tip stretch her entrance before he pulls back. Once, twice, three times… And then he sinks in, fingertips creating divots in her hips, holding harder with each inch that he carves out inside of her. When his pelvis cushions against her ass, he sighs—a long exhale of breath—followed by a rumbling from within his chest, “Perfect little pussy.”

Y/N can’t help the little whimper that falls from her lips, brows scrunched, dipping towards the centre of her face. Either Harry has a change of heart or he doesn’t hear her—too enraptured in the feeling of every vein and ridge perfectly filling the space surrounding him; as though created just for him, his cock.

He doesn’t move, perfectly still—embedded deep inside of her convulsing pussy—feeling her out. Mentally (though physically too). Waiting and waiting, regarding her presence with a slight jerk of his hips that already press demandingly into her backside. Waiting for those words to fall off of the tip of her tongue, with a protesting or begging cadence, and redirect his little game. A game Harry doesn’t even know the rules to—the only importance serving in his right to manhandle Y/N every which way; however he may please. A single plea, or a frustrated curse… that’s all he needs.

But she holds on. She stays silent and her hands stay slipping down the bricks. Enough so to have the opposite effect; to rile Harry up, to have his digits curl tighter into her skin and pull out all the way—feel her clench around him in an effort to keep him inside—and then rock back into her. Harder. The thud of their flesh meeting rippling out around them.

Y/N doesn’t think that’s very fair; physically forcing the sounds from her larynx—punching the air from her lungs in such a way that makes it impossible for her silence to remain. She cries out, quiet enough to suggest a desire for modesty but loud enough for Harry’s lips to curl up nefariously.

“What did I say?” His hand clamps around her mouth, fingers brushing her eyelashes if he stretches them out far enough. The grip forces Y/N’s neck to stretch, trembling body elongating as Harry straightens her out and melds her into the wall. Her forearms squish into her biceps and her chest flattens indelicately. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was trying to cast her into the bricks, grout and all.

His hips snap back into her.

“Fuck,” Harry moans wantonly—exaggerated as he amuses himself with the pleasure of her newfound silence—“that’s sexy,” teeth grazing her ear. “So much hotter with your mouth shut, you know that?” She opens it just to spite him, tongue laving over his palm. His hips slap harder against her in return, eager to manoeuvre and curl his digits along the flesh of her tongue—eliciting a harsh gag from her unprepared throat.

It perturbs him none when she presses her teeth into his skin, clamping gently at first but losing the capacity to be anything when Harry slinks his other hand around her neck. The blood fights for its strength, struggling and forcing its way through to her brain as the periphery of Y/N’s vision darkens. There’s nothing scary about it—and if they weren’t outside she might feel a semblance of peace.

“You prefer it like this, don’t you?” Harry gruffs against the side of her face, lashes threatening to kiss over her temple. “Jus’ w’na be treated like a silly—little—slut.” His thrusts punctuate each word, short cries forcing their way between his fingers. Drool gathers in the well of his palm, shameful rivulets smearing against Y/N’s chin.

“Don’t you?”

“Mhm—Mhmn—” she garbles something thick, tongue heavy in her mouth—battling against the extra weight of Harry’s intrusive digits. She swallows around them.

He’s everywhere—soft clothes baggy on him and swamping her frame as he swallows her up—sure that if someone were to simply glance down their alleyway she would not be seen. Heat plagues her, rolling out of her pores in thick, murky waves—the kind of heat she suddenly fears she will always be cold without. The presence against her back, the stoicity of his figure.

Her noises topple out.

Sad, desperate, pathetic little whines—snappy with the way Harry pummels into her. No one would have to ponder for long to dissect the cause of such sounds. Flesh smacking, fabric chafing, laboured breathing.

“Yeah. Yeah. I know,” fingers tighten around her throat. “Shrieky thing, you are. Can’t stay quiet to save your life.”

The insinuation is not lost on her, no matter the delirium that she’s submerged under. And Harry relishes in it; of course he does.

He slurs, “Would you die happy? Right now? Right now, baby?”

And Y/N knows she’s deeply flawed when his words scratch a spot. When she doesn’t recoil in disgust, attempt to pull away and run—but instead melts even further into his grasp. Nodding in jerky nudges of her head. She’s not giving him permission to stop the beating of her heart but she supposes it doesn’t matter either way.

Harry rips his hand from her mouth, trailing saliva down the front of her dress, squeezing his thick forearm between her abdomen and the wall as he searches cruelly to overstimulate her. She’s been so easy thus far, soft and pliable no matter Harry’s propensity for writhing. But when he skims over her clit, that…—that’s when she starts to struggle. To will her body away from the torturous pads of his fingers.

This only encourages her tormentor, deft digits pulling up the hood, allowing no room to hide as he applies direct pressure and tightens the barrier of his arm as her body spasms out of control. A sob rips from Y/N’s chest, loud enough to be deemed inappropriate—and no matter how much pleasure he might find in those sounds, she’s teetering on the brink of becoming dangerous. The grasp around her neck loosens, fingers slipping up to push past her lips again; the only effective method of muffling her at all.

Y/N keens with the weight in her mouth, relishes in the way her lips have to wrap around his big, masculine fingers. “Fucking tight, pet,” Harry grunts, ministrations messy and uncoordinated as he rubs over her clit, bumping into his shaft with every thrust. And she is—clamping down so hard her muscles yearn to loosen. They yearn to melt into a softness, into a safety, into a slumber. But her brain is running away, and Harry’s not slowing down, the tip of his cock abusing the spot he already petted at so perfectly with his fingers.

And he knows she’s nearly there, smiles into the crook of her neck and lets his teeth bite into her flesh for just a second.

But just as her orgasm starts to topple over the edge, he stops. He leans back, pulling her hips so her bum juts out and her back arches again.

“Come on, I’m tired, baby,” he teases, a slither of playfulness lost to the tightness in his voice, hips dragging to a still. “Long day of slaughtering.” Y/N is too far gone to find the joke inappropriate. To even register anymore that this whole affair is inappropriate. “Work for it a little,” Harry leans back, eyeing up the place in which they meet, shining in the glow of the streetlight. She’s still for too long, trying to process where his movements have gone—confused pants turning the ends of Harry’s lips.

“S’feel good?” Hands aid hips slightly—just enough to gain momentum, as Y/N fails to question why she’s suddenly the one fucking him—only chasing the return of the blissful prodding of her insides. Harry’s eyes are glued to her pussy, stretched deliciously around the thick of his cock, dragging back and forth with each nudge of her over him. The soft of her ass meets his pelvis and he delivers a squeeze in return, fingers destined to leave their presence known as he manhandles the flesh. Pulling and indenting, the other hand hanging heavily by his side as his gaze trails over Y/N’s bending body.

He deigns to let the saliva in his mouth pool in the hollow of his tongue, lips pursing as a line of drool drips down onto her puckered hole—the sudden sensation making Y/N convulse around him—twitch and gasp, stutter her hips and still for a moment. Harry thumbs over her carelessly, moving his thumb down to the stretch of her cunt around his prick; an unnecessary wetness. Somewhat possessed by the image below him, removed of all purpose except this one.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

Y/N shakes her head, a squeak ripped from her throat when Harry’s palm comes down on her ass, the sound reverberating through the silence of the alleyway. “N-no,” she cries. No, he didn’t. He never told her to stop.

“So keep fucking moving, sweetheart.” She nods mindlessly, head shaking up and down as her hips pick back up—thighs burning quicker with the exertion of it all. Her forehead scrapes against the wall, eyes squeezing shut with concentration as she focuses on the in and out, back and forth—every stretch against her walls dizzying—every nudge inside of her rendering more and more of her body to jelly.

She wants that feeling back; the one where she’s constantly on the verge of cumming. But there’s too much to focus on—her hands digging into the bricks, her thighs shaking, her clit untouched and overstimulated at the same time.

“I don’t have all fucking day—” Y/N would scoff if she could but the frustration spikes, “—come on. Fuck’s sake—”

Harry loses his patience, pulling out completely in a jarring sequence of motion, leaving Y/N panting—struggling to stay afloat if she were treading water. He physically turns her around and hoists her up as though she is made of nothing—slinging her thighs around the bumps of his hips.

And this is the first time she’s seen his face in… a while. The first time since he’d started dismantling her with his fingers, his cock. Y/N’s heart jumps, the stoicity in which he displays; unsettling and erotic simultaneously. She lifts her heavy hands, moving with the weight of a thousand tonnes, but Harry is quick to catch them. He yanks them overhead, grazing the stone, incarcerated within the circumference of his hand.

It hurts. The wall scratches up the delicate skin of her back, through the flimsy material of her dress. It hurts but it’s grounding—Y/N only thinks about the way her flesh will serve as a reminder of Harry, of this bar, and of this alleyway.

“Gonna make me do everything myself, hm?” gripping around his shaft, painting it across her slit with a harshness that makes Y/N shudder. He’s disrespectful, sliding in indelicately, rough palm yanking down the front of her chest to smooth over her neglected tits, squeezing and moulding between his fingers.

Y/N’s already there, she’s sure. The pit at the bottom of her stomach tightening, her eyes clenching shut, head falling back unceremoniously despite the view she has below her. Harry’s grunting, low, gravelly sounds that enmesh with her own whimpery exhalations.

“Fucking look at me—look at me,” pinching digits squish her cheeks together. A smirk tugs at the corners of Harry’s mouth, tongue darting out to wet his lips when Y/N stares at them. “Let me see that pretty, slutty face.” Her brows quirk when he rocks in particularly deep, eyes flitting around—unsure of what to look at first. Harry’s own face is flushed; perhaps the only indicator he can even feel her at all. That and the size of his pupils—the shortness of his breaths as they wash across her face.

She holds his gaze, mouth ajar with soundless cries.

“You’ll always be my filthy—plaything,” pressing in so close their noses touch. “Even after I’m… long gone—and… you’ve got some other man’s cock inside you,” his breathing shallows, “you’ll always have been mine.” Y/N doesn’t doubt him, she doesn’t even try. Not when he punctuates every word with a thrust so deep it lingers and blossoms inside of her, spreading through each limb and tingling in her fingertips.

Harry’s hand manhandles her face from side to side, grip immovable.

“When you go running back to—Cody… and he can’t fuck you properly… and all you’ll wish for is me—but you’ll hate yourself for it, won’t you, pet?” He pouts, eyes rounding out in a faux sense of sympathy. “For wanting a cold-blooded killer to make you feel good.”

He hammers the final nail into the coffin, lips brushing her own in a sadistic contradiction, voice only a whisper when he says, “You’ll never feel this good again.”

Y/N sobs audibly this time, cunt clenching from his words alone. She thinks he could talk her over the finish line entirely. The promise is dreadful, and it weighs heavy despite how perfectly it nuzzles against her sweet spot. But then he drops her cheeks and snakes those same fingers down, circling easily over her swollen clit. She convulses, weak wrists tugging against the constraints of his hand.

Harry’s close, desperate now to reach his peak. He sinks his teeth into her bottom lip. “Go on. Cum. Cum on your stranger’s cock.”

It’s a wonder Y/N doesn’t crumple to the floor as she cums—but somehow her thighs stay gripped around Harry’s hips. If anything they tighten, squeezing up to his waist, yearning to crush him between her as he pushes her over the edge again and joins her himself as he releases rope after rope into the condom, hips rocking all the way through. He’s moaning a slew of real pretty noises, and Y/N can’t help but pulse at every single one—orgasm begging to last forever—forcing her eyes open no matter the struggle, so that she can really see what he looks like.

It’s devastating—when he smiles. Pleasure written all over his face as his thrusts slow down, cock still dragging through her but no longer with a purpose. And Y/N finds it disorienting; the happiness in which she could be convinced he is feeling. As if it were all a joke—some twisted roleplay—that they were simply playing a fun, little sex game, of all things.

He pats her hip when he slides out, too gentle for Y/N’s post-orgasmic haze. She’s tired now. Too tired to be out at a bar, alone.

Harry encourages her legs from around his waist. “That’s it, down you get, good girl.” Her legs wobble as her feet meet the ground, the centre of her thighs vibrating and pulsating. She only somewhat sees him tying the condom and tucking it back into the wrapper.

“Do you need some help getting home?” Y/N feels like crying. Of course she does. But not from him, never from him—that would be even sillier than letting him fuck her. And then fuck her again.

“N-no,” her voice dry and scratchy.

He’s not convinced but he doesn’t ask again. He simply crouches down and searches for the hem of her underwear under her dress. Y/N thinks he might fix the gusset back over the mess of her pussy but he doesn’t. No, he wiggles them down her thighs and lifts up each shaky leg to retrieve the fabric and twirl it around a slender finger.

“Let me have these, yeah, pet? A little trophy, hm?” Something screams from within Y/N to be scared. But she’s tired now. “It’s only fair… don’t y’think?—if I can’t have what I truly want.” She wishes to wonder why he can’t, but the thought doesn’t form fully. Perhaps he’ll kill her now, after all. She’s fulfilled her brief, performed her duties.

But he’s already taking a few steps back; a distance that feels gargantuan in her current state. She blinks, and then blinks again, mindless fingers fixing clothes and brushing hair from her face. The cold suddenly hits her like a freight train, bare legs littered in goosebumps.

Harry sighs, like he’s considering something in his head before shucking his hoodie from his body and letting it hang between them. An offer. “Keep it warm f’me,” he murmurs, eyes insistent. She takes it with a shaky hand, and hurries to drown herself in his second-hand heat.

He’s already beginning to walk away by the time her head emerges from the fabric, eyes flitting in a panic as they focus back on his shrinking frame. Y/N is offered one final glimpse when he angles his head back to see her, a small smile upturning his mouth. His words fill no hole, quell no worries, heal no wounds. They add insult to injury, smirk morphing his tone.

“Why don’t you… go back inside, yeah? Have another drink for me.”

Y/N’s feet feel stuck—glued to the gravel, too scared to take her eyes off of him for even a moment. But he nods his head towards the door, silently repeating his assertion. “Go on.”

Slowly, she heads back into the bar, the heavy door squealing on its rusty hinges. She sits back down on her previously claimed stool.

She waits.

The stranger never follows her inside. Y/N never notes his silhouette in her peripherals on the other end of the bar, yellow-polished fingertips stroking over a rocks glass as the two pretend not to know one another.

He never comes in and… maybe it’s for the better.

Y/N never sees him again.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles one shots #harry styles fanfiction #dark harry styles #dom!harry #dom!harry styles x sub!reader #dark harry #harry styles writing #harry styles imagines

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claudemblems · 11 months

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Zzz | Dan Heng

Summary: Your nap with Dan Heng is cut short by the realization that it's dinner time, but you have no intentions of giving up your place in his arms.

Notes: I'm writing for Star Rail now 🤭 Can you tell who my favorite character is lol

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“[Name], it’s time to get up. The others are expecting us.”

Who cares? you thought to yourself, not daring to move a muscle lest you should let your boyfriend know that you were, indeed, very much awake. He would have chided you for your remark despite inwardly agreeing with you. Someone has to be the practical one in this relationship, he’d told you once, but becoming your boyfriend had to be the least practical of decisions he’d made in recent years. With your insatiable curiosity and heroic soul, you always ran yourself head first into the unknown without a single thought of what danger could lie ahead. But you were a magnetic force that even Dan Heng could not repel, and like a moth to a flame, he found himself drawn to you–every part of you–and if that meant setting himself ablaze, then so be it.

Dan Heng being so hopelessly in love with you meant that you could get away with a few more minutes of “sleep”, right…?

Not quite.

“[Name].” He gently shook your shoulders, sighing to himself when you showed no signs of waking. “March is going to give me another one of her punctuality lectures if we don’t get to dinner on time, which is ironic coming from her, but still.”

You nearly let out a laugh before catching yourself, quickly disguising it as a disgruntled snore. March 7th already annoyed Dan Heng enough as it was, but nothing unnerved him quite like when she chastised him as if she were his big sister. The disdain on Dan Heng’s face could be seen plain as day to everyone around, but, much to his dismay, his friends found themselves entertained by his so-called misery. But he was used to the antics of his fellow passengers by now…mostly.

Still, he would have liked to avoid a lengthy scolding from March if possible.

“[Name]...”

After a few moments of silence, Dan Heng breathed out a sigh of defeat. Not one to go to dinner alone (not since you entered into the picture), he decided to join you in catching up on some sleep. He situated the pillows of his makeshift bed into a more comfortable position before laying down beside you, and carefully, as to not wake you, he wrapped his arms around your back, pressing you close to his chest. You were glad that he couldn’t see the obvious flush to your cheeks—not only to spare you your own embarrassment, but also because your cover would have been blown. Sleeping people don't blush at their lovers' touch, after all. You already Dan Heng right where you wanted him, and you weren’t about to let anything come between you and your bliss.

That was, until a hot breath fanned against your neck and you jumped.

“I knew you were awake.”

“Dan Heng,” you hissed, instinctively hiding your face in your hands. “I just wanted some more alone time with you. Are you really going to get mad at me for that?”

“I’d never be angry with you,” he assured, using his elemental powers to ruffle your hair, something he only did when he was feeling particularly affectionate. “Maybe a little annoyed, but you can make it up to me by being on the receiving end of March’s lecture this time.”

“All right, fine,” you sighed dramatically, but you couldn’t hold back the smile forming on your face. “Looks like I win again.”

“And what did you win, exactly?”

“Your attention. I’m keeping track of how many times you choose to give into my impulsivity over your practicality. So far, I'm on a winning streak.”

“You really are as unpredictable as that stellaron you have.”

“And like a star, my gravitational pull is too strong for you to resist.”

“How cheesy.”

“You just wish you had a stellaron that made people so captivated by your presence.”

Dan Heng smiled and pressed a gentle kiss to your hair. “Stellaron or not, my heart would still find its way back home to yours every time, My Starlight.”

“Dan Heng—! You can’t just get all mushy like that all of a sudden, I…”

“Flustered?” he asked, and just by the tone of his voice, you knew he was grinning.

“I’m telling March that our absence at dinner is your fault after all.”

#w-when dan heng honkai star rail 😳#also im still new to the game so #hopefully what im writing aligns with canon (mostly) lol #hsr #hsr x reader #dan heng #dan heng x reader #honkai star rail

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chaseatlanticslut · 6 months

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The time is now

So I know a lot of y’all have prob been in the manifestation and/or shifting community for a hot minute, most of us a year or more. (Trust me, I’ve been in the shifting community for 3 years and the Law of Assumption community for 2 years, 3 if you count the horrible yet canon event of Law of Attraction 💀). So it’s been a while and I know how you feel. Don’t worry, you’re not alone. But at one point or another, you need to get out of the victim mindset and own up to why you haven’t manifested your desires, entered the void state, or shifted after a year or more of having a plethora of knowledge at your disposal. I’m applying this to myself as well, so don’t think I’m attacking anyone or being hypocritical. But in all seriousness, when is the last time you really tried? Be honest. And I don’t mean when’s the last time you said affirmations here and there for a few days and didn’t persist or live in the end for a substantial amount of time. Or that time you “thought” about shifting right before you rolled over and went to sleep without setting so much as an intention. But here’s the thing, I’m not telling you to try harder or do more, not in the slightest, because shifting and manifesting and entering the void state is supposed to be simple and easy if you accept that fact and let it. No, the advice and wake up call I’m trying to give is, put in a little more effort, have an INTENTION, and stop being lazy. Like seriously. Aren’t you TIRED???? Aren’t you done living this bullshit life and circumstances and not having your manifestations you dreamed so hard for? Aren’t you tired of not shifting and living in your dream desired reality doing whatever the hell you want?? Aren’t you tired of not waking up in the void state and waking up to the same lifestyle? Aren’t you sick of it? Then do something about it. We are almost done with 2023. 2024 is right around the corner. No way we’re letting YET ANOTHER year pass us by without accomplishing what we’ve been trying to do, and what we came here to do. Enough is enough. You are manifesting your dream life, you are shifting, and you are waking up in the void state or all of the above if you’re like me. I don’t care what you have to do. I’m so tired of y’all not living your dream lives like in what universe do you think that’s okay or acceptable bc it’s not. I know for some of you it’s been so long you don’t see the point and it’s hard to stay disciplined or motivated. So in the comments section anyone that needs to be kicked in gear daily until you get your shit needs to comment and I want all of you to hold yourselves accountable. Someone commented they want to shift to their Hogwarts DR? Okay, remind them every single day to shift and not stop until they do, and let that serve as a reminder to you as well. Ofc if you need to take breaks you always should do that, but if you’re in the right frame of mind to keep going and not stop, do it. The time is now. No more procrastinating. No more “I’ll wake up in the void tomorrow” no bitch DO IT TODAY. Goddamn it. This is your LIFE we’re talking about not a game and you think it’s okay to postpone your desires for another minute??! Hell no. Get off your ass and do what you need to do. Hold yourself accountable to the best of your abilities. Stop complaining about it bc all that time you used to complain could’ve been used to affirm or focus on your shifting or void state self concept, whatever steps it may be to lead you closer to your end goal. I know you’re tired and drained fucking trust me I know how hard the journey has been, but maybe it wouldn’t have been so hard if we had just buckled down from the start and done what we needed to do and figured out what worked best for us and stopped listening to people that are close minded with limiting ass beliefs. So from this point on, starting IMMEDIATELY, you are not going to waste another day. Haven’t tried to shift in over a year and a half like me? (I took a “shifting break” in May 2022💀), or however long it’s been?

Idc, looks like tonight’s your night and every single night after until you fucking shift. Haven’t tried to enter or wake up in the void state for a hot minute? (I stopped in July bc it was low key ruining my mental health the way I was obsessing over it). Oh, cool, looks like you and I are attempting tonight no ifs ands or buts. NONE. Consider this a challenge. It’s called “Get your desires before 2024” if you’re manifesting, “Tap in the void state before 2024” if you’re trying to enter the void state and manifest your dream life that way, or “Reality shift before 2024” if you’re shifting. It’s early November and if we really persist the entire time this is more than achievable. So, the only rules for this is to either in the comments section of this post or in your own separate post you’re going to document your journey from here on out and update once you’ve finally done it. Every single day (unless ofc like I said you need a break or life happens and you for whatever reason can’t, I get it shit happens lol). I’ll even be doing it with you, so stay tuned for that. No more over consuming info you already fucking know. Use all your free time you possible can or just utilize night time wisely if you only do shit before bed. We’re done. We’re getting our shit. And if you don’t participate I will personally come over and beat your ass bc YOU DESERVE TO LIVE YOUR DREAM LIFE not daydream about it, not sit around wising and hoping for it but actually fucking living it. And idc what I have to do to get the message across. So with that being said, do the “challenge” or however you want to view it and I love you and you got this. 💕

#reality shifting #law of assumption #manifesation #loassumption #void state

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foxofninetales · 4 months

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Liu Sang Watcher’s Guide - Part 18

Man In the Rain. No, Not That Rain, the Other Rain

Link to part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | Interlude | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 |

Season 2 Episode 16

15:00-21:05

i.e., I hope everyone enjoys dim lighting, whoo!

Wu Xie contemplates mortality. That this also involves contemplating a sleeping Liu Sang is the silver lining in a rather depressing cloud.

Look at these little sleeping beans, aren't they cute. Good thing nothing bad will ever happen to them.

Wu Xie sneaks out alone to continue his quest, as if every single person present isn't 100% expecting him to do that.

This is the closest I could get in still image of capturing the stupidly adorable little smile Liu Sang gives as he catches up with Wu Xie - part smugness at Wu Xie's inability to sneak past his hearing, part resigned amusement at Wu Xie himself.

As Liu Sang acknowledges that Wu Xie is in the final stages of his disease, and Wu Xie says he knows he won't be allowed to go alone, the elements oblige with thematically appropriate rainfall.

Wu Xie asks Liu Sang to get the others out safely and not follow him. He pats Liu Sang's shoulder as he leaves, which has approximately the same affect that it would have on a lonely rescue dog.

Liu Sang watches him walk off with the rest of the Iron Triangle and tries to figure out where he went wrong and started Having Emotions.

Bai Haotian wakes up and realizes Wu Xie is gone. Liu Sang looks guilty (and extremely pretty).

…that's right. Break it to her tactfully.

I'm sorry, how am I supposed to pay attention to plot when he's sitting here being this pretty?!?!

23:52-24:34

Liu Sang and the others watch from a distance as Boss Jiao discovers their recently-vacated hideout, right before Hei Xiazi leads Boss Jiao's men away to try to give the others time to escape.

28:26-32:25

It… does not work. Everything is terrible and everyone is bound and on their knees and Hei Xiazi and Liu Sang stare at each other and intently say each others' names. The author would say that this awoke something in her but let's face it, that happened several episodes ago.

If Liu Sang had a dime for every time he is tied up and sees his team-mates taken out in front of him, he would have TWENTY CENTS TOO MUCH. (Good thing they were only SUPERFICIAL WOUNDS and everyone involved is COMPLETELY OKAY at the end of the series.)

At least this time he has a little more leverage, and bargains his cooperation to help find Thunder City for Xiao Bai's life.

The one silver lining is that we get treated to his 'ooooh parceling that new trauma away for later because for right now screw you' expression.

The author just wants to hug everybody, and it's only gonna get worse from here!

Next time: Blood is like drama-mouthwash, right?

Gifset posts from this episode: Man in the Rain by @ohsehuns

*Please feel free to use any of the screencaptures from these LSWG posts for your own purposes - crediting is appreciated but optional.

#dmbj #the lost tomb reboot #liu sang #liu sang watcher's guide

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sleepingdeath-light · 10 months

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barnaby + going through a rut hcs ; 18+

requested by ; anonymous (22/06/23)

fandom(s) ; welcome home

fandom masterlist(s) ; sfw | nsfw

character(s) ; barnaby b beagle

outline ; “Can I get hcs for Barnaby going through a rut? I'm 22 BTW”

warning(s) ; sexually explicit content, rough sex, breeding kink, also a lot of general kinky stuff

note ; playfellowxxx was the tag created by clown and the team specifically for nsfw content — if you don’t want to see that sort of thing then that is the tag to block

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

he tries his best to keep track of when his ruts are meant to happen but there are times where he’ll lose track and they’ll take him by surprise — usually when he’s distracted by something important going on in the neighbourhood

those times are much more difficult since he didn’t have the opportunity to stock up on the sorts of things that usually help his ruts go by smoother

things like sex toys (that get ruined long before the season is over) and good foods (that keep his energy up) and medication to stop him from humping everything in sight since his hormones are constantly through the roof

thankfully, though, in contemporary times he has you to help him when he’s at his most vulnerable — after talking you through everything in advance, when he was in his right mind, to ensure you understood exactly what you were signing up for

and the thing you’re signing up for is a large boyfriend who is horny and hungry 24/7, refuses to leave you alone for even a minute and will growl at anyone who gets too close — at least that’s what he’s like during his rut, usually he’s pretty friendly

you’ll need to stock up on food and drink as there’s very little chance that you’ll have the time or opportunity to make anything proper for yourself — at least not without an erection rubbing against your ass whilst you do it (which, as can be assumed, is very distracting)

aside from very brief breaks for eating and relieving yourself you’re basically going to be stuck in his bed getting fucked into oblivion

ass up with your face buried into a pillow, held up only by his tight grip on your waist as he fucks his cum deeper into your hole(s) — filling you to the brim and beyond until it’s leaking out around his cock, dampening his fur and dripping down your thighs and onto the bed

cheeks and chin wet with drool, tongue lolling out of the side of your mouth, ass and stomach caked in cum and unable to do anything but whimper and sob

overstimulated, mind blanking, practically inflated from how much of his release was stuffed inside of you and being thrown forwards with every single thrust — at his mercy in the truest sense of the word

his pace quick and rough and shallow, not wanting to spend any more time outside of your warmth than he needs

and he’s far from quiet: growling, grunting, panting and muttering strained sentences and intentions beneath his breath

mostly just refers to you as ‘mine’ or some variation thereof as he gets exponentially more possessive when he’s in a rut

every now and then he might switch the position midway through, tossing you onto your back and entering the ‘mating press’ position — but for the most part he sticks with fucking you from behind

leaving claw marks and bruises on your ass, hips and sides

leaving you so overstimulated and fucked out that you can’t even recall your own name — making you his dumb little breeding bitch (even if you’re not someone he can get pregnant)

bites a lot out of instinct — lots on your throat and thighs but he’s also been known to mark up your chest if you’re in a position that allows it

wakes you up with sex, has sex throughout the day and then fucks you to sleep — you will not get a moment’s rest until you’re out cold on an evening

he just can’t help himself — but when he’s in his right mind he will take care of you and make sure that you know how much he appreciates you (gifts, compliments, praise and plenty of oral to make up for all of the rough play you went through for him)

#sleepingdeath #playfellowxxx #gender neutral reader #minors fuck off #minors don’t touch #minors dni #smut #smut hcs #welcome home smut #welcome home x reader #barnaby b beagle x reader #barnaby b beagle smut

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nrdmssgs · 6 months

Note

Hello my lovely person :) I hope your day is treating you well.

Question about Zhar... is there any unintentional habit that she does that Nikolai notices and find it endearing??

🥰

Masterlist

smut. because I can. because we need it.

It's the little things, that get Nikolai. Little things nobody else, not even she notices.

From the outside, it might seem as if they are not even a couple: each of them is always on the run, constantly drowned in work. But when they finally end up together and alone - it is a myriad of little things, that shows Nikolai, how much she cares.

And right now, as he lays in a bed, fighting sleep, he craves these little things. Nikolai did not risk coming to another country only to meet Olga 12 hours earlier without warning her. As much as he loved surprising her - he didn't want to find out, what happens to the man in her hotel room, when she awaits to spend this night alone. So he sent her a short message, letting her know, he will be waiting in her room.

He is almost asleep, when she opens the door and silently slips inside their room. Nikolai could sleep soundly in the same room with a working chainsaw, but Olga always engaged all her stealth-skills, when he wasn't awake. She takes a quick shower and finally enters the main room, filling it with the aromas of soap and her cream.

When Olga softly and carefully climbs onto the bed, he is ready to take her in his arms and press against his chest. But then comes one of her little habits: she covers his face with a blanket. Nikolai knows what it means - she wants to work a bit more, needs some light for that and is worried, that can wake him up.

He told her multiple times, that years in the military has taught him to sleep in any circumstances, but she still made sure, that Nikolai has silence and darkness around, when he rests. That wasn't even intentional from Olga's side - she cared for him so much - her body did that automatically.

Nik spent no more than a minute under the covers, listening to the rustle of paper pages that she brought to bed. No way he is going to let her work. Not now, when she is so close, so warm and tempting.

He scoops her in a one swift motion, traps her body securely, holding her under the knees and behind her back, so that she practically has to lie down, pressing her side to his chest.

"Hey." Nikolai's voice is quiet but insistent - he is not going to share her attention with work.

"Hey. Sorry, I need to finish the calculations before tomorrow. Go to sleep, radost`*." Another little habit, she unintentionally develops only for him. Usually one won't be able to squeeze a single Russian word from this woman, but for Nikolai she finds the warmest pet names.

"No, you don't. Nebo moyo*, throw these papers away for one night, will ya?"

"I throw these papers away - I will have nothing to present to my boss tomorrow, Nikolai." She kisses his cheek, but turns away, when he tries to catch her lips.

"Fuck that guy, I couldn't care less." Nikolai rumbles lowly as his hands start wandering around her body.

"Nik, you are 'that guy'! How am I-"

"I said what I said." His lips travel down her neck and pause for the last three words to tease her with hot breath.

"Fuck. That. Guy."

She tries to concentrate on work, she really does. For a few minutes, Olga looks at the papers, but cant read a single character there. And who in her place could, when Nikolais hands squeeze her thighs, adjust her body so, that she feels how badly he needs her, when his breath falls heavy and his low raspy moans reach her ears.

He smiles to the sound of papers falling down from their bed. It is maybe the little things, that get him, but right now he needs more - he needs all of her. So Nik pulls off her big old T-shirt that she uses as a sleepwear and makes a mental note to thank her later for not wearing panties tonight.

His lips finally meet hers only after he spent enough time on kissing, licking and nipping every centimeter of her chest, to make her pant and whimper. Nikolai will eventually switch to just softly loving her, but for now he needs to claim her, take all her attention, destroy whatever self-control she has left. When his tongue slips past her lips - his fingers brush against hot wet folds and drown inside her.

Olgas vision goes white. She arches her back, and digs her fingers into his shoulders, leaving red marks. Slamming her eyes shut, she moans, feeling Nik smiling against her lips.

"I know, I know, I know, nebo. Such a violent man, interrupting your work!" He breaks their kiss and coos, deepening thrusts of his fingers. "What will this poor girl tell her boss tomorrow, when he asks her, where are the calculations? How would she be able to look him in the eyes and think of anything except her coming all around that guy's fingers, all around that villains cock? Or maybe it would be his lips, reminding her of..."

She grabs his forearm, trying to slow his movements. "Nikolai, please! I won't be able to hold-"

"You want me to help you, darling?" He purrs right in Olga's ear. He doesn't lower the pace or intensity of his movements, though. "I will. Gladly. As many times as you want. But you will have to ask nicely. Tell me, how you want it. Maybe my girl wants to go on top and have me pretending for a few minutes, that she is in charge? Only hold her steady and fuck her lovingly, but mercilessly later?"

"No, I want it as we are now..."

And when Nikolai is ready to throw his head back laughing and tease her more, she does that another little thing, that gets him every time. Olga runs her fingers through his hair, directs his face to meet her gaze and quietly adds 'Please'.

He freezes for a moment and swallows. Nikolai maybe is able to make her all worked up with his hands, but she can do it with one gesture and one single word. Her single 'please' is enough to get this man on his knees.

"Anything for you." He lowly growls, lining himself.

Nikolais initial plan was to pent her up to the point, when she comes all over him the moment he enters. But that plan goes to hell, when he eases himself inside her and feels her hot walls squeezing him perfectly.

"You are.... F-fuck... Nebo, I'll need the second round. F-f-f" Nik hisses, holding her thighs apart, as she moves towards him. She is too good, she feels, sounds and smells like a heaven. Nikolai thought, he's seen it all, but her body is a pure magic to him.

It is his turn to try to slow her down, make her stop moving, so he holds her tightly, pressing kisses against her temple. "Sh-sh-sh, I beg you, nebo. Let me take a pause, let me go down, just don't-"

"Please!" she moans back breathlessly. "I want you just like this."

He can't say no to his girl. Not when she asks him so eagerly. So Nik clenches his teeth on her neck and his movements become more desperate in a primal hunger for her release.

Maybe it is her arched back, maybe its his hand squeezing and guiding her hips, but they find an angle, that make them both close their eyes and almost suffocate from her release leading to his. Nikolai holds her firmly, breathing and grunting heavily with his last pushes.

He finds his favorite spot to kiss Olga - right behind her ear, then lower and lower: all the way down, till his lips are pressed against her shoulder. She used to flinch when he touched her scars, but that little habit was a thing of the past. His girl trusts him enough that he can see her, touch her wherever he wants.

It's the little things, that get Nikolai. Even if these things are dead habits.

radost` - my joy

Nebo moyo - my sky/heaven

#cod #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod fanfic #call of duty mw2 #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mwii #mw2 fanfic #cod nikolai #nikolai cod #cod x oc #nikolai reboot call of duty #nikolai smut

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kingdom-by-the-sea · 2 years

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With My Whole Heart

Summary- Y/N and Spencer have known each other for what feels like forever. Long enough that admitting they have feelings for each other seems like too big of a risk to take- especially since they have been living together and raising Spencer’s daughter, Annabel, for the past seven years.

Warnings- mostly fluff with a bit of angst, Spencer Reid being a dad, a sizable serving of Poe mixed in

Pairing- Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Word Count- 5.5k

A/N- For @imagining-in-the-margins Roommates Challenge (specifically the prompt about one of the roommates being a single parent). I have come to the decision that I am done with this fic. It is the longest completed thing I have ever written and I still feel like it could be better but I generally feel happy with it.

~~~~

“What’s a mommy like?”

The tired honey sweet voice of Annabel Reid drifted through the peaceful silence. A pleasant quiet hung over the room interrupted only by the rhythmic purrs of Y/N’s cat. Y/N drew the small girl closer to her as she began to carefully craft a suitable response.

“That’s a tough one, Annie,” she answered, combing her fingers gently through the little girl’s unruly brown curls that always reminded her so much of Spencer’s, “I guess…. A mommy is the one person in the world who will always love you with her whole heart no matter what- except for your daddy of course,” Y/N corrected, watching as Annabel’s eyes drifted shut with a small smile at the thought of her dad.

“A mommy is always thinking about her kids and does everything in her power to make sure they are happy and safe,” Y/N continued, now staring off at the blank ceiling, “She would do anything and everything for them…”

Annabel’s breathing had slowed and grown shallower till Y/N was sure the little girl had drifted off to the land of dreams. Slowly and gently, putting considerable effort into not waking her, Y/N unwrapped her arms from Annabel’s small body until she was standing in front of the bed.

“I love you, bug,” she whispered softly brushing a stray hair away from Annabel’s face before leaning down to place the lightest kiss on her forehead.

It only took a few steps to leave the room but Y/N lingered watching her best friend’s daughter dream and feeling an overwhelming sense of love for the little girl sleeping before her. It hadn’t taken much for Y/N to fall in love with that little girl. Annabel was the purified version of Y/N’s best friend, Spencer Reid, wrapped up into a seven year old with the biggest heart. She was absolutely precious.

From the moment Y/N had met Annabel, they had both latched on to each other. Even as a baby Annabel had chosen Y/N to be one of her people and Y/N was grateful to be a part of her life everyday. Raising a little girl alone while working for the FBI had been a lot for Spencer to handle. His schedule didn’t easily lend itself to single parenting but everyone knew there wasn’t a single thing Spencer wouldn’t do for Annabel. She was his entire world.

For a while he had considered leaving the BAU to raise her but it seemed fate had stepped in when Y/N told him she wanted to move to DC and everything fell into place. Her work schedule was the complete opposite of his. As a freelance writer, she had about as much flexibility as she could want, allowing her to be there for every school concert, every science project, and every story time.

As much as Spencer hated being away from his daughter, he knew that she was safe with his best friend when he was called away. Spencer continuously showered Y/N with thanks, never understanding how much she valued this time with his daughter. Annabel had taken up residence in her heart and showed no intention of leaving. And if Y/N was completely honest with herself, she knew Annabel wasn’t the only one.

Although Spencer was her best friend, she had always been able to recognize how attractive he was and constantly felt a simmering jealousy towards the girl at the other end of the love story she knew he’d one day have. That feeling had always been there, lingering but it had grown to a new height when she moved in with Spencer and Annabel. There was a fire in her heart that called for him despite all of her attempts to settle it. Y/N loved him with all over her heart. But it didn’t matter. She would never say a word, content to burn to ashes in her desire if it meant she could stay a part of their little world. She was sure he couldn’t possibly feel the same way and yet her heart shattered at the thought of Spencer finding someone else to share his life raising Annabel with.

~~~~

Coming home to them had to be the best feeling in the world. After a long week of investigating dead ends and running in circles, opening their apartment door to see Y/N watching over his daughter was like falling into a warm cushion of love. Spencer felt a smile pull at his lips for the first time in nearly a week as he set his things aside and joined Y/N in his daughter’s doorway.

“Hey,” he breathed out quietly watching Annabel sleep as he wrapped Y/N in a tight hug desperate to have the comfort of home even closer to him.

Spencer gently unwound himself from her body so they stood next to each other in silent observation of the peaceful sight before them.

“Hi,” Y/N responded with a smile, simultaneously loosening and tightening at the feeling of Spencer’s arm still gently draped around her waist, pleasantly echoing the too quick hug. She couldn’t help but lean into his touch.

“Thank you,” Spencer whispered to her and the cool air that surrounded them.

“Oh shush,” she lightly swatted at him in response, “I’ve told you, you don’t need to thank me for anything. I love that little girl with my whole heart.”

He turned to face her with a smile, sleep softening his features but doing little to hide the blatant appreciation on his face, “You’re amazing- you know that right?”

“Of course,” she teased with a light laugh, pulling him away from the doorway and into the living room where they could be a little louder. Her own tiredness made Y/N strangely confident as she held his hand in both of hers.

But he didn’t mind- not by a long shot. A large smile filled his face as Spencer let himself enjoy the enveloping feeling of safety and comfort without his usual anxieties.

“How are you?” Y/N asked once they were both plopped on to the couch asking not in formality but with genuine interest and concern.

Spencer nodded slightly before answering, “Everyone got home safe….”

She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, the light pressure alleviating some of the stress that had been sitting in the pit of his stomach the past several hours, “Just because it’s over doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

“I just…” he shook his head at the floor, “The things they saw, what he did to them that’s going to stay at the forefront of their minds until the day they die. If you or Annie had to even just see the things that happened to them- I can’t even imagine it.”

“Spence…” her heart tightened at his words, “You did everything you could for them. It will always be a part of them but because of you and the team, it won't be their entire stories.”

Spencer smiled sadly and leaned his head against her shoulder, exhaustion taking over, “Tell me about you and Annabel.”

Y/N reigned in her excited pride about the last week before she began, “Well, we only have a chapter left of James and the Giant Peach, she’ll be really happy you’re here to finish it with us.”

A smile danced on Spencer’s lips as his eyes bobbed shut and he leaned more of his weight against Y/N and the couch.

“On our way back from the library, Annabel saw a street performer playing a violin and has been learning anything and everything about them since then,” love and joy seeped through every word and Y/N did nothing to hide it enjoying the way Spencer smiled with his closed tired eyes.

“Did you know that the word violin comes from the Latin term vitula which means female cow?” He said without making any move to open his eyes.

Y/N laughed softly, trying her best not to shake the doctor leaning against her, “Actually I did. Your daughter told me yesterday morning before school.”

Spencer’s smile tightened with pride.

~~~~

The sun rose over their peaceful Saturday morning, sending streams of light through the windows to dance on the hardwood floors. These were the kinds of memories Spencer held tight to while he was gone. He pictured it like a photo folded up in some corner of his mind, tainted by the warm sun and worn at the edges like a well read book.

He could hear Annabel shuffling around her room before he saw her. All of a sudden it was like a flip had switched and the little girl came bounding from the room frantically looking around before she let her hope run wild. It was like night and day when she noticed him standing in the kitchen. She bounded towards him with outstretched arms.

“Dad!” her voice was light and happy and Y/N watched as Spencer pulled the little girl up into an embrace. The pure joy shown through to the best version of Spencer. Bright, happy and with his daughter in his arms.

“I missed you so much, bug,” he brushed a hand over her hair holding her tight against him.

“I missed you too,” Annabel said against the fabric of his shirt.

Gently setting her down, Spencer watched her face light up with stories she wanted to tell him.

“Oh!” Annabel brightened again, taking Spencer’s hand and pulling him towards the kitchen table, “I saw this lady playing the violin when we left the library! She just kept playing and playing and the bow and her hands moved so fast. I wanna learn how to play the violin so I’ve been reading about them and writing stuff down.”

Spencer sat in a chair and pulled his daughter on to his lap, content to listen to her tell him anything and everything she cared about.

Y/N smiled at the two of them loving every moment and interaction more than she could verbalize. Eventually she eased herself from the sofa pulling Spencer’s purple scarf from the shelf and wrapping it around her neck, “I have to go meet with the publisher visiting from New York.”

“Wait-” she spun around quickly to face Reid, “Do you mind printing out the new chapters of my manuscript? I want to start editing soon.”

He nodded in response like she knew he would. Y/N hated leaving during these kinds of moments which were often far and few between but as freeform as her job was, there were some things that were unavoidable. Annabel waved her off not even turning to look as she engrossed herself with sharing everything she had learned over the past several days. And Spencer- he turned to smile at her, Annabel still in his lap. Y/N couldn’t help the tug in her heart that yearned for something more, some sort of goodbye that involved more than just a kind smile. Before her mind could muddle with any more complicated feelings, Y/N returned the smile and crossed the doorway out of the apartment.

“Oh! Oh!” Annabel's face shown bright and she counted facts on her fingers, “Did you know that the violin is 500 years old? The first modern violin was in Italy during the 1500s but it probably originated from the lyre and something called a rebab.”

She rambled in a familiar fashion and Spencer beamed at his daughter. She was everything he could have hoped for and so much more. Annabel truly was a mini Spencer through and through and as much as it scared him to think she would inherit his insecurities and struggles, there were moments like these when his heart soared to find himself in another person and know that Annabel would never have to grow up feeling that she was alone in her tendencies or fascinations.

He hugged Annabel against him, “I just love you so much, bug.”

“With your whole heart?” Annabel questioned absentmindedly tracing patterns with her finger over the notes and drawings she had made of the violins.

“Absolutely,” he answered, studying her notes.

“That’s what Y/N said moms do,” Annabel continued innocently finally turning to face him, “She said that mommies love their kids with their whole heart no matter what.”

She roughly quoted the words she had heard last night, further proving to Spencer that she had at least partially inherited his memory.

“That’s true,” he answered, nodding slightly.

Annabel slumped against him, “Why don’t I have a mommy? Everyone at school has one and my friend- Marina, she even has two mommies.”

Annabel’s tone had changed slightly and he heard a familiar yearning in it that he recognized from his own childhood. The quiet desperation for something every other kid in the world seemed to have other than you. He did his best not to let her words weigh too heavy on his heart. It was natural for a child to want what they didn’t have, especially if it seemed to them that everyone else had it but he still hated it. Spencer wanted her to have everything, to never feel like she was missing out. He wanted to stuff her heart full of love until it poured out.

“Well,” Spencer began precariously, “In order for you to be born, I had to get some help from someone else. She made you in her tummy for me so that I could have you without needing a mommy there to help me.”

“I know,” Annabel whined slightly, frustrated that she couldn’t get her point across, “I know that’s how I was made but why don’t I have a mommy now? If there are families where the mom and dad can decide they want to go get a baby without making one, why can’t there be a mommy who decides she wants me like how you decided?”

A pain twinged near his heart as he searched for some magic word he could say to make it all better.

“I know it’s not always easy, bug, but I love you so much and Y/N and I will always be here for you,” Spencer attempted to answer.

Annabel leaned her head against his chest, “Do you think Y/N would be my mommy? She goes to all the concerts and meetings that the other mommies do.”

“I don’t know,” Spencer answered honestly, brushing his fingers through his little girl’s hair in an effort to soothe her, “Maybe someday but that’s a big job and she already does a lot for us. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

Annabel sighed leaning further into him.

“Do you want to go get ready for your sleepover with Henry and Aunt JJ?” he offered, trying to buoy her spirits. She nodded solemnly and rose from her spot taking her dad’s hand in hers as they headed towards her room.

~~~~

“Long nights of writing a story that flows like water till the sun rises and being able to dream of that book while the sun’s away- careful, you might tempt what remains of the twenty-four year old version of me.”

He hadn’t meant to read her emails. It had started out innocent enough, Spencer opening her computer to print the new chapters of her book for her. It had started out this way but once he saw her open inbox and the message she had left for the publisher from New York, he couldn’t help himself.

More than her name signed at the end of the email, what shook Spencer was the truth in her words. They were Y/N’s words through and through, every phrase painted and signed in her unique way. It wouldn’t have felt out of place in one of the manuscripts she kept precariously stacked on her desk.

Long nights? Dreaming while the sun’s away? Something pulled taut inside of him as he pulled the unwritten reason she couldn’t live out the fantasy she described in the email. There was no writing all night and sleeping all day. Not when she had to be up to make lunches, take Annabel to school, and all the other mundane tasks that conflicted with the romantic dream of her life as a writer.

As much as Spencer wanted to deny the picture Y/N had painted with her words, his mind couldn’t bridge the cavern of truth that lay there. This was the life she had described to him in college when they both sat outside drunk on exhaustion during finals week. This had been what got her through every bullshit assignment and misogynist professor. It had been her dream as long as he could remember.

A dream that she had set aside to come change his daughter’s diapers with him in DC.

Worry pulled his muscles tight. Y/N wouldn’t leave, would she? Not when he had just promised Annabel that she was dependable, that she would always be there. Spencer knew that Y/N had changed her life to move in with him and his several months old infant all those years ago but he had believed her everytime she told him that she was content with the arrangement, that she didn’t mind. It all came crashing in on him how much she had given up just for the sake of helping him with his infant daughter. Y/N had shattered a version of her life to be there with him, a version she could never get back. It would be natural for her to want it back. To want something other than life in a cramped apartment with him and his daughter.

His mind spun with fear and anxiety, stray thoughts running into each other until they turned into a dizzying ball of anxiety. Spencer moved to the living room and sat on the couch glad JJ had already come to pick up Annabel. Whatever this crisis amounted to, Annabel didn’t deserve to bear the weight of it.

~~~~

It had been his apartment, his and Annabel’s, but over the years she had slowly leaned what had been Spencer’s dark academia styled apartment into something brighter and more lively. Y/N wasn’t a maximalist by choice necessarily, but she had a way of accumulating objects. Something cute she had seen waiting in line at the grocery store, some obscure item she had seen on Pinterest. But what she collected more than anything was books.

There were books on nearly every surface, leaving just enough room for the apartment to still be livable for two adults and a seven-year-old girl. Books on coffee tables, books on counters, books stacked in piles on the floor. Together they had long surpassed the carrying capacity of the shelves, leading books to spill out on to every available space and ultimately providing Y/N’s cat an easy way to bound from every piece of furniture in the apartment without having to step on the floor.

There were books on every topic any of them had found fascinating during any point of their lives. Books on gardening from when Y/N had grown fascinated with growing herbs, books on dinosaurs from when Spencer had wanted to impress Jack and Henry with less known facts, books from every stage of Annabel’s life.

The books told a story, albeit a messy one. One where the three of them danced from fascination to fascination sharing their interests and passions with each other. It was a beautiful story and one Spencer hoped would never end.

As much as Y/N enjoyed the detailed accounts of obscure places and creatures that filled the apartment, he knew her true love was fiction. That was what filled her bags wherever she went and often covered her entire bed. These were the books she laughed and cried to. Ultimately that was who she was underneath the biographies and historical novels he and Annabel managed to surround her with.

She was a storyteller.

Her mind spun with stories picking them out of her brain like cotton candy and he couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see it and he couldn’t appreciate her the way she deserved to be.

“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night,” the words passed through Spencer’s lips as Y/N crossed through the doorway and began to unwind his purple scarf from her neck.

“Sitting in the dark quoting Eleonora?” Y/N questioned, eyeing him through the shadows of the apartment, usually she was able to keep up with his strange language of phrases and quotes but this was different, “Are you going for a Poe thing today? Just promise me you won’t run off and go marry your thirteen year-old cousin.”

He twitched slightly at her words, beginning to recognize how strange he was being but continued sitting on the couch solemnly watching her in a passive attempt to memorize the way she moved and spoke as if he could ever forget it.

Spencer could barely see the way her eyebrows furrowed slightly before she moved to join him on the couch, taking a similar position to where she had sat the other night, “Are you okay?”

“Are you leaving?” he asked suddenly, regretting the fact that he couldn’t add “me” to the end of the sentence. For all the years they had spent in that apartment together he still couldn’t claim her in that capacity. If she left, she wouldn’t be leaving him, she would simply be leaving.

“What?” Y/N asked in genuine curiosity, perched on her knees on the couch facing him and internally begging him to do the same.

“Are you leaving to go to New York?” he rephrased the question. Something in him burned and wanted out. He was mad and tired. Mad and tired with himself for letting them both play house together for seven years while his heart screamed at him to do absolutely anything other than let things keep moving forward as they were.

“What are you talking about?” her voice rose in a similar fashion, exasperation and confusion painting a new expression on her face.

“Are you leaving for your ‘Long nights of writing a story that flows like water till the sun rises and being able to dream of that book while the sun’s away?’” Spencer threw her words back at her with an unwarranted venom.

She traced her words back to their source and tried to catch up to whatever train of thought Spencer was spiraling on, “Are you talking about my emails with that New York publishing guy who keeps begging me to work for him?”

Spencer’s silence reverberated through the room giving Y/N a fair impression of the truth, “He emails me a couple times a year, I was just being polite. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then why didn’t you tell him no,” he finally turned to her eyes brightly lit with a fire she couldn’t place. A fire that was blazing and passionate, but laced with anger.

“I’m going to!” she stood from the couch and began to pace, as if she could retrace his steps this way, “God, Spence. Why are you so mad?”

“I’m mad because you lied to me,” he scraped the bottom of the barrel finding anything he could blame her for in an attempt to settle the fire that raged inside him, “You told me this was enough. You told me that you didn’t mind spending your days with me and Annabel!”

Y/N shook her head aimlessly gawking at whatever deranged story he was trying to tell himself.

“But-” Spencer paused momentarily to dampen down the flames escaping him, “You told him that you were tempted by his offer. That you wanted ‘long nights writing and sleeping all day.’”

His eidetic memory misquoted the words, striking a match against Y/N’s exasperation, “And since you read my emails, you should know that I also told him that was what I wanted when I was twenty-four. Look around you, Spencer. Neither of us is twenty-four anymore!”

She scoffed slightly before saying the words that finally drove him to his breaking point, “I mean for fuck’s sake, Spencer. You have a seven-year-old daughter now.”

“You’re right,” whatever was boiling inside of him came to a simmer, “I do have a daughter. A daughter who has become so attached to you that she wants you to be her mother and she deserves a mother like you but I know sure as hell I can’t ask that of you.”

“Oh my god!” Y/N called out running a hand through her already tousled hair, “is that what this is all about? You feeling guilty about wanting me to be Annabel’s mom?”

“No, no-” he cut her off suddenly, voice tainted with desperation, “I feel guilty because I want you to be my wife!”

~~~~

Whoever said that first kisses were electric was terribly wrong. If anything it was magnetic. Once they started falling into each other they couldn’t stop, every emotion tearing through their bodies simultaneously. Every passion and reservation that had been so delicately balanced between them came crashing down. Their lips locked again and again barely leaving time for breath as their magnetic force pulled them back together again and again. Y/N had a thousand thoughts racing through her head, a thousand questions she wanted to ask but any slight inclination she had to pull away from Spencer was immediately stifled by the crashing wave of another kiss.

Spencer pulled her closer and closer to him until he was pulling her up towards his own lips wanting every touch, every breath to be shared leaving no room for the space they had both continually put between each other. Her fingers twisted in his hair desperately holding on to the very real feel of him in her hands. The eager push and pull of their bodies wasn’t particularly conducive to balance it seemed, as they tumbled onto the couch in an awkward bundle of intertwined limbs. They were one. They were whole and even without words they both knew they were in love.

No one ever mentioned how exhausting it was. The emotional overload and frenzied limbs making quick work of all remaining energy and stamina. They slowed together melting into a collective mess of rapid heartbeats and heated breaths. Melding together into a ball of love on the couch. Spencer leaned his forehead to hers, taking solace in the moment he knew would be forever seared into both of their minds.

“Do you know-” he heaved a heavy breath out, “how long I’ve wanted to do that?”

“Sixteen years,” she gave her own answer to the question, finding it rang true when he smiled and pulled her impossibly closer to him.

His laughter gentle and pleasant, leaving his mouth in warm breaths and dancing on the side of her check, as they both relished in the weight that had left their chests and hearts, “I’ve loved you for so long, so stupidly long.”

“Me too,” her hand brushed through his soft curls as she examined him in this new context.

“I loved you when you decided to read the entire Harry Potter series in a weekend,” his paused to interject his words with soft kisses trailing up her arm, “I loved you when you sat with my mom and talked about Margery Kempe for three hours straight,” another kiss, “I loved you when you sent me letters from Nevada everyday for a year,” he had made it to the top of her shoulder, “I loved you when I saw you hold my daughter in your arms for the first time,” Spencer planted a kiss in the crook of her neck and sent a shiver through her entire body, “I have loved you every single day since I first saw you sitting on campus against a willow tree with a pile of books.”

He pulled back from her to look into her eyes, “I have wanted this for so long. I don’t know what you want now or what you’re ready for in terms of a relationship but whatever you want, whenever you want it just let me know and I will give you the entire world.”

Her hand was soft and smooth when she brought it to the side of his face and finally whispered, “I want to be your wife.”

A familiar light sparkled in his eyes with liveliness and all the spontaneity Spencer Reid could manage.

“Well let’s go then,” in a swift movement she hadn’t been remotely anticipating, Spencer scooped from the couch and pulled them both up with her in his arms. She yelped in surprise at her new position and Spencer’s ability to carry her like this.

“What are you doing?” Y/N cried out with a laugh as he began to carry her towards his room.

“We’re getting married,” he laughed, the playful light in his eyes shimmering with even more brightness.

“In your bedroom?”

“No,” he crossed into the room and set her on his bed before looking over his shoulder at her, “This is just a pit stop.”

“A pit stop?” she echoed voice still light and her smile apparent in her tone.

“There’s something I want to get for you,” Spencer trailed of slightly as he began rummaging through his things. Y/N pushed herself up from the bed to get a better view of what he was doing. Eventually he pulled a small velvet box from a drawer and tossed it to her.

In a miraculous display of coordination, Y/N caught it and held the small box in her hands with a slight tilt to her head, “What is this?”

“Open it,” he leaned against the dresser watching her with a careful gaze.

Sending him one last questioning gaze, Y/N eased the box open to reveal a golden ring with a red gemstone set in the middle of it, “I still don’t understand.”

“It was my grandmother’s,” Spencer began to explain, “My mom gave it to me a little after you moved here, she said she thought I might need it.”

“Seven years ago?” she asked.

“Seven years ago,” he nodded, “She’s always believed there was something between us.”

Y/N studied him doing her best to make sense of the words he was sharing with her, “Well, I guess she wasn’t wrong there.”

Her eyes trailed down to the ring, the red gem sending bits of light bouncing around in the box.

“You don’t have to take it,” Spencer started, “We don’t have to do anything right now or ever for that matter. I just-”

Y/N shook her head slightly and stood bringing the box with her, “I already told you, I want to marry you.”

The corner of his smile leaped up again as he took the box from her and pulled the ring from its place. Slowly, as if he still expected her to change her mind, he took Y/N’s left hand and slid the ring onto her finger.

“I like that,” he whispered to the quiet between them.

She smiled down at the ring on her finger, “Me too.”

~~~~

“When I decided to use a surrogacy program to have my Annabel I did so because I thought I would never meet the love of my life. I was right, in a way. I had already met her.”

The sun was warm on everyone’s skin but the breeze managed to cool everything to a comfortable temperature. It wasn’t exactly a speech but Spencer still managed to speak with a clear and confident quality to the large table of people at the party. It mostly consisted of BAU members, past and present, with a few family members dotted here and there but it was just right.

The party had been Garcia’s idea. There was little point in anything too formal when Spencer and Y/N had eloped the night after they confessed but seeing everyone they cared about gathered in one space with pleasant easy grins on their faces was absolutely worth it.

He smiled to everyone but his eyes locked on hers as he continued, “I did the whole family thing a little bit backwards, having a baby, then watching you become my daughter’s mother and now marrying you. It’s a little strange but I can’t find the energy to care when it got us here.”

Y/N beamed up at him, the sun and his words warming her heart to an easy glow.

“I love you and I’m so glad we finally got here,” he finished with a bright smile on his face. Y/N stood and leaned in to kiss him with as much love and joy as she could manage here in front of their friends and families.

“I love you too,” she said, cupping his face in her hands.

“And-” Y/N looked down at Annabel standing between them, “I love you with my whole heart forever and always.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid self insert #spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine #dad!spencer #dad!spence #Spencer Reid dad #fluff #domestic fluff #Spencer Reid daughter

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lamnwar · 1 year

Note

You know I love every single story you write? I mean you're so clever and talented! I was struck by your Ryouta complete headcanon, so... I was wondering... Poor Daiki doesn't deserve one too?

So I'm officially requesting one for our best boy (when you have time and inspiration 💝).

Have the best of days 😽

VESPER MY LOVE 💕💕💕 this has been sitting in my requests for too long, so I got you babe and I'm finally feeding us some hcs on our best boy 🥺

THE BEST BOY // Aomine Headcanons

Context: what I think a Daiki in love with you would be like <3

Pairing: Aomine Daiki x gn! Reader

Warnings: can get suggestive (especially in the horny boyfriend! Aomine section) but other than that, it's fluff 🥰 suited for all audiences!

WHEN HE HAS A CRUSH ON YOU

Aomine is in complete denial at first

Like him, having a crush on someone? NEVER

But he's a big dummy and he doesn't realize that everyone knows, including you

Because he actually makes an effort when it comes to you

Tell him that you'll be part of the group hang out and he'll be there before anyone else waiting for you

He will absolutely wake up from a nap if it's you calling him

One thing that he does too is that he always comes to you with his accomplishments

He tries to act like he doesn't care but he always have to tell you first when he's won a match or been nominated best player of the month

My boy is so in denial but the whole court sees him smiling like an idiot when he sees you in the public cheering for him

It literally takes Momoi and Kuroko almost scolding him for him to finally admit that he is, indeed, pretty much into you

WHEN YOU FIRST START DATING

I think once he's fully embraced the way he feels about you, he's pretty quick to confess and ask you out

And he's a completely different person now

He's so proud of having you as his significant other

The whole world has to know because he's got himself the most beautiful, the hottest, the smartest person on Earth

Very possessive during the first couple of weeks/months of dating

Because now that he's no longer in denial, he also sees how many people are into you

And he needs them to know that you are entirely his

Buys you a necklace with his initials, he doesn't force you to wear it but when you do, he's got the smuggest smile on his face

Very direct in the way he shows affection

He's the kind of guy that will take you on dates unplanned because

"Ain't that what I'm supposed to do for my pretty one?"

Isn't shy with the PDA, if he wanna kiss you, he'll do it

Doesn't matter where you are, even in the middle of the supermarket, he wants to kiss you pretty lips so he'll do it

TOUCHY BOYFRIEND! AOMINE

He cannot and he doesn't want to keep his hands away from you

He's always touching you

Loves holding your waist and your face the most

He doesn't care a single bit if people stare

His hands are on you!

It's worse when you're alone

You have to be within his reach all the time

He's got you sit on his lap when you're watching TV

He's pressed to your back when you're cooking

He pulls you on top of him where you're sleeping

Talking of which, he absolutely falls asleep with his hand under your shirt

You don't even know when his hand got there, but he has no intention of moving it away

TEASING BOYFRIEND! AOMINE

He's favourite form of entertainment is teasing you

He likes to see you all hot and bothered because of something he's said or done

And he's so good at it too???

Will say the most out-of-pocket unholy stuff to you and then he'll raise an eyebrow at your flustered face

"What's that baby, anything wrong?"

It's annoying, really, because you can't win in these situations

And every time you have to see that unsufferable smirk on his face

Loves to get you tempted by him and then act all innocent and clueless afterwards

"What's gotten into you, pretty, do you want me that much?"

Uuuurgh he's so mean I want him 😩

HORNY BOYFRIEND! AOMINE

This goes hand in hand with the fact that he's touchy and a tease

But let me tell you, you can't catch a breath with him

He's so hungry for you, you can barely understand it

But at the same time, it kinda spreads to you too

Because the longer you are with him, the more you want every part of him

He's very frank about it too

He'll blurt it out without any hesitation

"Want you, pretty"

And it's physically impossible to say no

He's so hot when he's like that, you can't help it either

CEO of make-out sessions 🤭

PROUD BOYFRIEND! AOMINE

As mentioned before, you are the most perfect person ever to him

And the fact that he's managed to get someone like you to love him is his biggest accomplishment

He won't shut up about it

Always introduces you when you're together as "my love"

Everyone has to know, you're his love

Brags about it too

Especially to Kise because pretty boy may have the whole world thirsting for him, he'll never have you

But when Daiki is the most proud is when you make an accomplishment

Whether it's your grades, some praise you've received at work or from your family, he's the first one to be happy for you

Sometimes it's just little things

You've managed to cook something you've never been able to before

Or you've ran an extra kilometre during your jogging

Doesn't matter

He'll be there praising you for it

He'll outright say it

"I'm so proud of my baby" with a kiss on the forehead <3

PROTECTIVE BOYFRIEND! AOMINE

Now, it's not like you find yourself in situations of danger often

But if you ever do, he's right here ready to take anyone or anything that's threatening you

Always picks you up when you are out late in town to take you home

Holds you close to him when you're in a crowd so that nothing happens to you

Hasn't punched someone for you yet

But at some point it's bound to happen

And he won't feel bad about it

Always ready to defend you even with words

Has someone every trash-talked you, he's replying

And he's not nice with his words

He'll outright call someone an asshole if that's what they're being to you

Tells you everyday and every night that you are precious so he can't help the urge to be your guard dog

Even when you tell him that you can defend yourself, which he believes, it's just stronger than him

You appreciate it though, and you'll always be grateful to have Daiki by your side <3

#manifesting a real life version of daiki rn #thanks for the request love #you had me daydreaming with this one <3 #knb #aomine daiki #kuroko no basuke #knb hcs #knb headcanons #aomine headcanons #aomine hcs

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yourlocalarlecchinosimp · 2 years

Text

general relationship headcanons — arlecchino

reader: gn.

a/n: OOC but who cares?

a/n²: I was half asleep when I wrote this, don't expect much.

currently listening to: Lonely Dance by Set It Off.

— spending time with your girlfriend would be quite rare, considering how busy she is with the orphanage and her own things as a Fatui Harbinger. however, sometimes she might postpone an unimportant activity only to dedicate some time to you and your relationship.

— she's... not the biggest fan of PDA. Sure, she doesn't hesitate to take your hand or greet you with a quick kiss, but don't expect her to be clingy or cheesy.

— things change when you're alone, though. you can ask her for anything and she'll be like 'hm, all right'. kisses? sure thing. you want to hug her? go ahead. cuddles? why not. Arlecchino may seem cold, but deep inside she has a soft spot for you.

— she doesn't have many pet names for you, but she likes to call you 'love' or 'darling'.

— Arlecchino isn't that much of a tease, or better said, she's not a tease at all, but if you're someone who gets easily flustered, sometimes she takes advantage of it only to see you blushing and tripping over your own words. knowing she's the one causing such reactions in you puts a smile on her face.

— she's more protective than she lets you see. even though she won't do anything unless you really need her, she tries to stay by your side or behind you when possible, always making sure no one has any intentions to cause you any harm.

— not the jealous type. Arlecchino knows that your heart only belongs to one person– her. there's no use in wasting time worrying or overthinking every time you interact with someone else, not with the trust she's put in you.

— okay but. we all know how freaking cold it is in Snezhnaya. if you're not used to low temperatures, imagine her giving you her coat without saying a single word when she realizes you're almost freezing, looking at your eyes and nodding. if you're alone, she'll also take one of your hands between hers until it's warm enough, only to do the same with the other one right after.

— if you two sleep together, it doesn't matter if you fall asleep cuddling her or not– when you wake up, she's always holding you by your waist and it's impossible for you to go. not because you don't want to, but because she holds you so tightly, even when she's sleeping, that you just can't.

— god I love her so much

#genshin x y/n #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #arlecchino x reader #genshin arlecchino #arlecchino

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samuskitchen · 2 years

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bottom of the deep blue. (6)

⇒ mermaid!suna x siren!reader

summary : sirens, creatures of unmatched beauty and cunning charm, they lure men in with their voices and grace, taking advantage of all the gullible fishermen and pirates. mermaids, the peacekeepers of the deep blue sea, naive and kind to a fault at times. a fated encounter between the two underwater dwellers leads to a difficult situation and a love that shouldn’t be.

warnings : naive reader, mentions of death, mentions of blood , mentions of being captured, mentions of torture, cruel treatment, brief description of mutilation.

genre : mermaid au, pirate au, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, betrayal

a/n : i think the last few chapters are gonna be pretty short, like 2k-3k cuz im really busy with work and i just broke up with my boyfriend so that’s fun 🤩 oh well. let me know what you think about the chapter!!!

w/c : 2.2k

it was never his intention to hurt you, rintarou didn’t want you to be chained up and stripped of your very identity every waking hour of the day, however it was his actions and selfishness that led to this situation. you were to be chained and tortured from sunrise til sunset — or until captain yuuji deemed you too unwell to handle anymore harm for the day.

rintarou wasn’t a horrible person, but he was an idiot. when yuuji had first promised not to kill him in return for a siren scale, rin was blinded by the idea that maybe if he gave yuuji more than what he asked for— he could get a bigger reward. freedom.

unfortunately, rintarou didn’t take into account the fact that the extraction of those scales would be by force, not a single drop of sympathy from the sleazy pirates. your screams pounded against his skull, your begs and cries for him to help or for the crew mates to stop and to leave you alone, they clung onto him from the moment he woke up to the moment he once again fell into a slumber.

he knew what he needed to do, he needed to find an opportunity and use it to get you out of that cage and back into the water where you’d ultimately be much safer, and maybe if the two of you were lucky, you’d be accepted back into your family and he wouldn’t be a dishonoured guard.

however, rintarou knew that was wishful thinking.

getting you out of the cage wouldn’t be the hard part, and your sisters accepting you wouldn’t be an issue either. what posed a threat was the act of getting you off the ship and into the water especially now that the crew had stunted your legs from forming. he would have to drag you and use all his body strength to get your heavy tail off the floor, but it could be done.

he just needed a little bit of patience, and a lot of grovelling.

—

with light footsteps, rintarou picks up a bucket and fills it with sea water, if your legs couldn’t form the next best option was to keep your tail wet so you wouldn’t die of dehydration. the ship was dead asleep save for the captain who seemed to never close his eyes. yuuji was locked away in his quarters, paying no mind to what rintarou was doing— not that he could even see the scheming merman.

rintarou sprints to where you were locked up as quietly as he could. his goal was to not let any of the water drop while also keeping the attention off of him, and he thanked whatever God there was for letting him complete at least one task successfully.

he makes it to your cage and mumbles a small greeting, following it up with an apology before he threw the entire bucket’s worth of water all over you. you could only gasp at the sensation of being hit by a large wave of water.

“…thank you.” your reply was dry as you blinked rapidly to clear up your eyesight. “what do you want?”

rintarou clears his throat, choosing to ignore your short tone and icy glare. he sends you a sheepish smile. “so, i have a great idea!“ he got himself situated on the floor in front of you, leaning back to rest his body weight on his hands.

“i think the only advantage we have is our sleep schedule being drastically different to that of a human’s. pirates are also heavy drinkers, so i was thinking i could get them drunk— they pass out, i get the keys and we jump overboard?”

you hummed half-heartedly, thinking over the plan in your head, it didn’t seem horrible, but it did seem like it could go wrong very easily.

“and when would we do this?”

rintarou stayed silent for a few seconds, lips pursed and brows furrowed as he went over the remaining timeline before the final harvest. “i don’t really think we have enough time to perfect the plan, we’d need to do it as soon as possible… m-maybe tomorrow night?”

“rin…”

“no— it’s fine, tomorrow after they come down to harvest your scales again, i’ll suggest we celebrate about how much profit we’re going to make, then once they’re drunk enough i’ll get the keys from them.” he nods at his own words, setting them in stone and preparing himself for the day ahead of him.

“yn, i hope you know i truly am sorry. my apologies can’t take back the hurt i’ve caused or make up for betraying you, but i do regret what i’ve done. when we get out of here i’ll spend the rest of eternity making up for what i put you through. i promise.”

“i don’t need your promises, rintarou. i just want my sisters back.” you look away from the man, who had put his hand through the opening of the cage, curling his hand until only his pinkie was left outstretched.

rintarou keeps his hand held out to you for a few more seconds, before dropping it, he knew you wouldn’t reciprocate the action.

“i’ll get you out of here, yn. just… hang in there.”

you kept your head turned away.

—

rin watches closely as the two usual crew mates make their way down below the deck, sinister smiles on their faces and an empty bucket in each hand. rintarou’s brows furrowed… why did they have two buckets?

light on his feet, rintarou takes quiet steps towards the door that leads to the room below the deck, heart beating just a little faster than before and his breath hitching as he picks up on what the two of them were saying to you.

“count your hours, pretty. the last thing you’re gonna see before captain yuuji guts ya is us!” they cackled, shoving one another and slapping their thighs as if what they said had been the peak of comedy.

you remained silent, head down turned and eyes trained on anywhere but the two men standing menacingly above you. they scoffed at your lack of reaction.

“stupid siren, bitch. i’m gonna make sure you feel the pain my comrades felt when you ate them alive.” he spoke lowly, crouching down before you and roughly gripping your jaw from outside of the cage, he sneered at the sight of you.

rintarou bites his nail, you no longer had a few days— they wanted to speed up the process, they wanted you dead by sunrise.

pushing himself away from the wall, he slithers into the room, clearing his throat to announce his presence. “lovely evening, isn’t it?” he pulled out one of the chairs that had been stacked in the corner of the dimly lit room and sat on it, resting his arms against the backrest of the chair.

“y’know, just a word of advice— the longer you take to kill a siren and the less you harvest their scales, the more potent they become.” he smiled brightly at the two men who looked to him, then turned to each other. mulling it over in their heads for a second before slyly smirking back at rin.

“anything to cause these leaches more pain.”

rin’s bright smile drops into a stiffer one, he pays the backrest once before jumping off the chair, biting back a grimace at the sound of your newly beginning screams. he spotted the key on the shorter man who remained seated by the cell door with the bucket clutched tightly in his arms and the keys dangling from his hip.

with limited time, rin runs back up to the upper deck, frantically searching for the alcohol that had been stocked on the ship. he didn’t need to get everyone drunk, just the two who had been assigned to harvest your scales from you. racing across the large ships deck, he makes it to the far left corner of the ship, where many new boxes and kegs were placed on display.

he was sure the two men weren’t the pickiest, pirates weren’t known for their refined palates. grabbing two bottles in each arm, rintarou sprinted back towards the door to the lower deck, ignoring the groans and shouts of protest from the crew mates manning the deck. they’d be asleep soon enough anyways. the sun had begun setting and the sky had now been engulfed in a pretty purple hue.

he made his way down the steps and loudly dropped the bottles of alcohol onto the chair he had previously sat on.

“boys, it’s your lucky day— look at what i snagged!” he holds one of the drinks in his right hand, raising it as a toast to the men. the two of them looked at each other, the bucket half full of your scales, then back to rin who now shook the bottle tauntingly at the men.

with a satisfied nod, the men pick up the bucket, lock the door and take a seat on the floor with a bottle each, taking large swigs until eventually the bottles are all empty. the two drunken idiots giggle and murmur to one another, laughing about how they got the privilege of drinking the special alcohol, rin paid no mind to their blabbers.

when he was sure they were far gone enough, he snagged the keys from the short man who was now passed out face down on the moistened floorboards. rintarou tip toes his way to your slumped over figure, holding back a gag at your mutilated tail, you had essentially been laying in a pool of your own blood, tears and discarded scales. he didn’t know if you’d be able to handle the pain of the salt water seeping into every tiny cut and crevice on your heavily injured tail.

with a shaky breath rin unlocks the cage, and makes quick work with you, grabbing your limp arm and slinging it around his shoulder, muttering a quick apology at what was about to happen, before dragging the rest of your body, your heavy tails scraping against the harsh texture of the floor, you bite back cries of pain even in your weakened state. you could cry when you were free.

rintarou uses one hand to push the door open, the other still tightly gripping onto you. he peeks his head out and when he confirms the area is empty, he uses the strength he built up after many nights training in the royal guard program to haul your body closer to the ledge, once you were in the water things would be easier.

but easy wasn’t a word that rintarou liked much. as the two made it to the edge of the ship they hear a loud and amused sigh, heavy footsteps slowly making their way towards the two. rintarou curses, turning to look over his shoulder at yuuji who slowly claps the closer he walks towards them.

“i’ve gotta say, im impressed. you actually almost made it.” pulling his pistol out from the place beside his hip, he had the gun pointed straight at rintarous chest. an icy grin on his face.

“unfortunately for you, im not as dumb as you think. drop the siren, rintarou.”

the two men held eye contact, a silent battle fought only with harsh glares.

“let her go, or i shoot the both of you.” he cocks the gun, eyes still firmly locked onto rin’s. the merman could only gulp. he looked at you, your eyes no longer half lidded, your body more alert now that there was an active threat placed in front of you.

you looked so… fragile.

rintarou sighed, letting go of your arm and letting you drop to the floor with a cry. he stepped away from your body, ignoring the weight of your hurt gaze.

“if— if i leave her here, if i promise to stay far away from the ship… will you let me go?” his eyes are down cast, a frown prominent on his face. he closes his eyes at the sound of your choked gasp.

“rin… w-what—” your broken whisper is stopped by the sound of yuuji’s loud cackles, the blonde man clutches at his chest tightly as his laugh becomes more hysteric.

“you truly are a bastard, y’know rin, i really liked you. sure— whatever, you wanna live so badly? go jump, but if i see you anywhere near this ship, i will make sure your death is a slow and painful one.”

rin let’s out a relieved sigh, sparing you one last glance before preparing himself to jump over, he shivers at the fire burning behind your heartbroken gaze.

“oh, rintarou. before you go,” yuuji lets a bullet fly straight into the fleeing boy’s shoulder, watching in satisfaction as he falls overboard with a shocked gasp and a cry of pain. “foolish boy.” yuuji places his gun back by his hip.

he turns to look down at you, examining your weak body as you lay silent on the floor. if you weren’t a damned siren, yuuji would think you were quite the beauty. with a hum, he turns to knock on one of the cabin doors, getting the men inside to drag your body back into the lower deck cage, ignoring your pleas and begs for them to let you go.

on the way back up, the two drunken fools were dropped by yuuji’s feet.

you wouldn’t be the only one begging for your life tonight.

taglist: @lomlsuna @akaashiwife @plixy @on-crows-wings @1-800-s1ya @sabztov @keiji-in-a-can @tamak00 @erintaro @bertqut1 @usermins @yanihatesu @rntrsuna

#🌀. botdb #suna x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #hq x reader #suna x y/n #hq imagines #haikyuu angst #suna angst #suna rintarou angst #suna rintaro x reader #hq angst #suna series

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silvfyre-writings · 3 months

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Hold me up, won't you? (BSD Fanfic)

I've been slapped in the face with depression, so I did what I do best, and make my favourite character suffer the same. (Sorry daran army, no fluffy daran this time, maybe next time)

This is just something short to help me cope, but still leave a comment and kudos if you liked it~

Thank you for reading <3

Sometimes, you wake up feeling like shit, with no discernible meaning.

Sometimes you want to curl up in bed and hide, but can’t.

Sometimes you want to cease existing, but you also don’t want to hurt those that care.

And right now, Ranpo was feeling all of the above.

He stared at nothing; mind blank ever since he’d woken up, although it wouldn’t be much longer before it woke up and began to remind him of every single fault that he had, of every single negative moment of his life that he could remember, and considering it was him, there were a lot of memories for him to recall and remember, whether he wanted to or not. That, accompanied by the heaviness that his body had been stricken with upon opening his eyes, and Ranpo resigned himself to spending yet another day in his futon.

Just like yesterday.

And the day before.

And for all the days to come.

It wasn’t as if there was a reason for him to be feeling this way either—there seldom was, which was common apparently—there were just some days where he woke up and felt like living required a lot more effort than usual. It was on days like these, that Ranpo would send a text to the President that he wasn’t going in to work, and then switch his phone off so that he could be miserable all on his lonesome. He wasn’t fool enough to think that his co-workers didn’t worry about him whenever he did this, he was sure that they did, but the last thing that Ranpo wanted to do was deal with people trying to comfort him.

His problems were his own, and he would deal with them as such.

At least… that had been his intention, but for some reason, Ranpo found himself feeling irrevocable loneliness, and it made him feel worse than ever before. Even though he knew better, that people cared about him, and would check in on him once he could drag himself from his bed, right now, he felt like the entire world was against him. It felt like everyone was whispering behind his back, words of hatred and disgust, words that he wasn’t, nor would ever be, good enough for them, words that were completely false. But his mind was irrational in the moment, so right now, it was the truth,

Ranpo curled up, dragging his blanket further over his head.

He always hated when he felt like this.

His oldest friends wouldn’t hesitate to give him a solution, wouldn’t hesitate to try and counter the negativity in his mind with praises and comfort, but in the cases where your mind is the enemy, it will twist those words until they become warped and unrecognisable, leaving them worthless. It was why Ranpo pushed everyone away, it was easier to deal with being alone than to deal with even more negativity being thrust upon him.

Society always called him the greatest, his co-workers, the strongest, but right now, in that very minute, Ranpo felt nothing more than the speck of mud on the bottom of someone’s shoe.

The sound of his door opening dragged him back to the present, yet he didn’t move, didn’t call a greeting. Only two people had a key to his apartment, and both of them should’ve been at the Agency, working. And considering he’d managed to call out that morning, he knew who it was invading his apartment in an instant. And he should care, should feel relieved that the person he cared about the most was coming to check on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to even raise his head and look over his shoulder. He didn’t have the energy, the will; he just wanted to close his eyes and sleep until he felt better.

The last thing that Ranpo wanted to do was damage his relationship with Dazai.

He listened to the door shut, to the footsteps that headed in his direction; there was a rustle of a bag which said that Dazai had brought food with him, but by the time that he was standing beside Ranpo’s futon, the bag was gone, deposited in the kitchen most likely. Ranpo continued to stare at nothing, continued to say nothing, even as the blankets of his futon were lifted and he was joined by a warm weight at his back.

A bandaged arm came to wind around his waist, pulling him closer, and lips pressed against his crown. Ranpo tensed, waiting for the words to come, for the are you okay’s and the what can I do’s, but they never came. The room remained silent. And as the time passed, with the silence growing onwards, Ranpo relaxed into Dazai’s hold, his head tucked underneath the youngers chin, his back to Dazai’s chest. Dazai’s arm tightened a little, his thumb mindlessly stroking the skin on his stomach, and he shuffled closer. It was warmer than any blanket Ranpo could hope to smother himself with.

And although he should’ve found Dazai’s presence unsettling—because Ranpo had always dealt with these feelings of his alone, he didn’t. He knew why, of course, as unwell as he was, he wasn’t stupid.

A genius like Ranpo, alone at the top like Ranpo, and attacked by his own mind like Ranpo, Dazai was the only person in his life that could hope to understand what it was that he was going through, and know exactly what to do. Dazai understood what it was like to feel like the world hated you, he knew what it was like to struggle to get out of bed some days, and—

—he knew what it was like to want to die.

There was no helping people like them, you either gave in and died, or struggled and survived, and Ranpo had chosen to struggle.

So he rolled over, pressed his face into Dazai’s chest, and chose to let Dazai hold him up this time.

And maybe next time, he would as well.

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #daran #dazai osamu #edogawa ranpo #comfort #depression #writing #fanfic

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the-light-finds-its-way · 4 months

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Fucking... She made it, thank Odin. But I almost lost my fucking mom... He can't take her away from me when I'm literally at my lowest ever, and need her now more than ever. I prayed to Him ages ago and said I'd never be able to make it if she passed before my father. I could never put up with suffering alone through his abuse, and with nobody there to tell him to stop...

Mom had tons of blood clots that reached her lungs. She had lots of fluid surrounding her heart. Suddenly, she called out that she couldn't breathe at all, and her blood pressure dropped significantly, and the staff had to sedate her and rush her into surgery. They said she'll be there to be monitored for 2-3 days. But last time that was the estimate, it became a week. I'm fucking crying in my bed rn at 8am, just remembering to breathe because my mom can't and she'd want me to and would tell me to.

You know, my old cat, Emma. She passed away from cancer about 2 years ago now. I called her my daughter, she and I were an inseparable pair, and everyone knew it. She'd sleep with me every single night curled up on my feet in bed, and wake me up every morning with soft meows and stepping on me, and she followed just me everywhere I went. Nobody else. She didn't sleep with anyone else, either. And lately, ever since Mom began getting testing done for all this six months ago, I've been... sometimes feeling a cat curl up on my feet when I go to sleep, but Patron, my only cat, isn't allowed in my room (he breaks my stuff and is afraid of my 3D printer) and the door is closed at all times. I literally feel the intents in the blanket, the weight on my legs and feet, and the comforting final weight of a cat laying across them both at once, as though hugging me.

And when I was sleeping today, I had that feeling yet again. In the middle of my rest, as always, I woke up in that hazy rest/wake I always do when I feel this, exactly how it was when Emma was alive and would come step on me in the middle of whenever. And footsteps of a cat pressed into my blanket, on my legs, and finally, a cat sat down across my feet. And stayed. And I fell back asleep.

She's returning the favor to me. I was her papa, loving her at all times and making sure she wasn't alone, and I was holding her in her final moments and carried her all the way home and buried her. And she's here for me now, when I have no mom to be there for me and comfort me. Emma is taking care of me in her place. And for that, I am beyond grateful.

Those who are with us, fight to stay. And those who aren't anymore, they're never gone.

#tw death #mun is a titan #not destiny

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star-named-riddle · 5 months

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Day 16 - Worship

Lord Voldemort stretched on his bed, enjoying the perks of the late morning he had decided to have.

His brain had reeled for a good part of the night, turning over the memories of his last successful attack.

Dorcas Meadows was no more. It had taken time, and skill, but he had finally quelled the witch. One by one, he would destroy the Order. Dorcas had been a fine dueler, and he considered it a waste that she had to be killed, but she would not turn her cloak.

Bellatrix stirred next to him, still deep asleep.

He had taken her with him, trusting her to handle whoever else might be hiding with Dorcas. She had not failed him, killing two other wizards while he battled with his target. She had cast the Dark Mark high on the night sky, and followed him to his chambers.

He had claimed her body rashly, quick to find satisfaction in her. He had left her wanting, he knew that much, hungry that the both of them had been for one another. The days were of open warfare now, and neither was allowed much rest, let alone time to be together outside of a battlefield.

His Bella, his rotten creature, thrived amidst the war, dancing through battles, killing without remorse, and extracting every single piece of information from her victims at his command. She forewent sleep, and food, and even him in order to better serve his cause.

He let his mind wander, searching for her sleeping one. It was harder to breach like this, her carefully built defenses unable to move aside in his presence as they would were she awake. Still, he probed it, looking for a way into her dreams.

He never found it. Suddenly alert, Bellatrix’s mind shook him off with an ease he had to admire. By his side, his most faithful woke up, gasping for air, sitting up on the bed without any regard for her nakedness.

Her mind was like a hound on prey. Searching for what had disturbed her, looking for the intruder with every intention to maim, to kill. And all of her fury melted away into nothing as she found him.

“My Lord,” she said, her voice made deeper by the sleep that lingered on it. “I didn’t know it was you.”

Lord Voldemort chuckled, moving one lazy hand to lay on her thigh.

“Steady now, Bella, I didn’t mean to wake you like that.”

In fact, he had every intention of infiltrating her dream and rouse her in a much more… pleasurable way for the both of them.

“Good morning, my Lord,” she said, restarting their day.

She moved to lay back down, next to him, one leg thrown across his, one arm wrapping around his waist, and her mouth kissing a path up his chest and neck.

Her request was a silent one. It was bold, she knew, but she had earned the right to be bold around him.

Her lips made their way up to his cheek, then his temple, not daring to claim his mouth. He turned it to her, granting her permission, and she took her prize. She kissed him, long and deep, her hands coming to cradle his head, as his grabbed her waist and pulled her atop of him.

Bellatrix moved down his neck again, kissing, always kissing, her hands flying across his body, caressing him everywhere.

It was the closest thing to worship he had ever experienced, the way Bellatrix moved on his body.

Nothing before her had been so enlightening of the notion. Not the priest at the orphanage, not the matrons that despaired in order to teach him prayers to a god he did not believe in, not the glory of finding himself alone at Hogwarts in the middle of the night. Neither the quiet of the library nor the echo of his steps in the Great Hall had ever instructed him on worshiping quite like Bella had done.

She prayed with touch, and breath, and the warmth of her skin. And he alone was her god.

Bellatrix slithered down his body, turning her eyes up to his from his bellybutton, and smiled. A wicked, giddy thing, that made her intentions clear.

He would not have it. He did not crave her mouth on him there this morning.

He sat up in bed, holding her face up with one hand while the other dragged down her back. She arched beneath his touch, the runes on her back picking up on his magic. He held her face close to his, and when he let go she did not move. His palms settled on her hips, his fingers digging into her skin, and she mewled from the contact.

He kissed her, then dragged her up to sit squarely on his hips. She gasped, removing her mouth from his. Her hands moved to tug at the sheet between them, and he enjoyed her short lived frustration at their incomplete contact.

She lifted herself off him, and nearly ripped the sheet as she pulled it first, then tossed it to the floor. Her hips moved of their own volition, building friction between them.

He had left her wanting, and she had woken up starving.

Also to be uploaded onto AO3 later tonight

#bellatrix lestrange #lord voldemort #bellamort #bellamort december #hp fanfic #bellatrix x voldemort

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thechenfordanalysis · 11 months

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The Chenford Analysis: Season 1 Ep. 13

We've now reached the middle of season 1 and are finally starting to notice recurring motifs and patterned interactions between our characters.

Following the no-contact #Chenford we experienced in the last episode, the give-and-take dynamic we've come to recognize with these two is in full swing as we are now pushing them back into joint interactions.

Both Tim and Lucy have officially put their past respective relationships to rest, so moving forward, keep in mind that every interaction between these two holds the context of them being newly single.

With that, we dive right in.

Season 1 Episode 13:

The vibe of this episode is very split between the first and second half. I have to imagine that it's purposeful, as we don't really see many Chenford interactions in this one. There is, however, a lot of implied context and dialogue within the few meaningful interactions they do have. These serve as an acknowledgment of the shift in their dynamic since Tim's divorce. The whole episode feels like an intentional reset, with both Tim and Lucy reaffirming their commitment to their jobs first and foremost.

The episode starts off with a cold open from our faves. Tim and Lucy are on night patrol, and Lucy is battling a major sleep bug. Tim, as usual, is giving her a hard time regarding her approach to the job. He's lecturing, and in her tiresome haze, Lucy takes notice of a figure standing in the road outside of their shop. They step out to inspect, much to Tim's chagrin. Lucy wanders off into the woods and ends up in a confrontation with a masked figure alone. Lucy demands that the figure take off its mask and right as it peels it’s face off, a big bright light is revealed.

Lucy then wakes up from what was supposedly a dream.

The bright light is actually revealed to be a slew of flashlights shining in Lucy's face as part of one of Tim's elaborate pranks to teach her about policing. In this instance, he rounded up a bunch of night shift officers to wake her up as she fell asleep on shift. It's just a cold open, but we get to watch as Tim walks over to take a picture of an embarrassed Lucy. He smiles just a little as he does, of course, entertained at her reaction. Lucy seems more embarrassed than annoyed, understandably. Either way, this is incredibly entertaining.

Cold opens are a great way to summarize the core dynamic that exists between characters. Because it is no more than a two-minute time slot to fill, there is not much dialogue to be had. Instead, we get to see a glimpse of how certain characters behave and react to each other, which offers more emotional insight. It's good to have scenes like that which are more centered around actions and circumstances rather than dialogue-forward interactions.

We move on to the first act of the episode, where a clearly exhausted and slightly frustrated Lucy is seen entering the station. Nolan follows quickly behind her, asking if she's happy to be back on day shifts, to which she responds with a resounding yes. She tries to continue, but he cuts her off, ripping open his polo to reveal a t-shirt printed with the picture of Lucy that Tim took as she woke up from her dream.

Lucy sighs, almost immediately accepting her fate as Nolan explains that "Tim had shirts made."

"Of course he did." She replies.

She continues on to talk about everything bothering her at the current time. She's being forced to find a new place to live since her apartment building is being turned into condos. Jackson suggests moving back home or bunking up with Nolan (he is still oblivious to Lucy and Nolan's past relationship at this point, although we find out in later seasons that he did actually know about it). Nolan is a little defensive at first but then offers her the couch at his place anytime. There is a little bit of awkwardness as Lucy politely declines and states her determination about finding an affordable place to live. A clear boundary exists now between her and Nolan.

The roll call room experiences a bit of a mix-up in this episode as Sargeant Grey takes Nolan's seat and forces him to conduct the assembly. The topic today is about accepting gratuities from the general public because you are a cop and whether that is ethical or not. Angela and Tim don't disagree with accepting freebies and see it simply as a way to build community relations. Talia admits that she might accept a free cup of coffee every now and then, but it is usually the exception, not the norm. They all acknowledge that even though it can be seen as a bribe or a source of payment in exchange for leniency, it doesn't mean that cops should actually take it that way. Someone doing a cop a favor is independent of a cop needing to do their job, and that sense of discretion is incredibly necessary to their function. Grey reminds the rookies of the power that comes along with the badge they wear and how it is easy to give in to narratives of exchange when it comes to the work they do and the feeling that they deserve extra compensation for doing it. The takeaway is to never abuse the power that comes with the title of being a cop.

Independent of Tim and Lucy's interactions, I really enjoy the morning roll call room sessions as they usually set the tone for the rest of the episode. It gives the audience a good indication as to what headspace our characters will be in as they go about their day. It also serves to remind us of the purpose of the show, and why all these characters exist in the same space, to begin with. It helps us to remember the underlying context in which all of these personalities interact and helps us look out for all the parallel storylines that follow.

Later on during the day, Tim and Lucy are on-site at a fertility clinic, responding to a call about a break-in. Before they walk in, Lucy asks Tim why he defended the acceptance of freebies to Sergeant Grey even though they haven't received a single one since she started training with him.

I mentioned in my last analysis how Tim's perspective on life and relationships experiences a major shift after his divorce from Isabel. If we recall, her major issue with Tim was his idea of a black-and-white morality and how harmful his rigidness on the subject was to their relationship. Yet, in response to Lucy's question, he answers that "Hard rules like that [not accepting freebies] are stupid. What we do doesn't exist inside a vacuum. Circumstances dictate actions, not the other way around."

This dialogue does a lot for the development and growth of Tim's character. As he's learning and recovering from his divorce and spending more time with an extremely empathetic rookie such as Lucy, his growth continues to take place in a more considerate fashion. It's hard to imagine that the past version of Tim would ever be so sensitive to the idea of what people's circumstances can do to their actions, independent of the objective morality of any situation. Yet here he is, becoming more understanding of that idea and more accepting of the reality of emotions.

I often talk about how Tim's healing throughout the series takes place more and more in Lucy's direction. I fully believe that is by design. Apart from just the forced proximity they share, Lucy's introduction into Tim's life is almost strategic at a time when it became necessary for him to understand emotion in order to grow as a person. Not only did her presence save him from becoming entirely apathetic and aloof, but it helped him to become a more even and well-balanced person. Even having to justify his thought processes to her during the training process helps him to figure out the right approach morally, as he knows Lucy is really attentive to that aspect of life.

Tim and Lucy often showcase as examples of the "right person, right time" trope. There are many instances, such as Tim's change in perspective, that could've been beneficial to his relationship with Isabel but ultimately could only take place after her at a time when Lucy just so happened to be in his life as well. There are more occurrences like this in later seasons, where Tim actually proves to be the person that Lucy needs for her own growth. It's interesting to see them grow individually in a way that brings them closer together. Either way, intentional or not, the effort these two put into themselves always is most noticeable through their interactions with each other. This ends up making them each other's unintentional safe spaces.

While following up on the break-in turned robbery at the fertility clinic, Tim and Lucy arrive just in time to mediate a domestic dispute between a couple arguing over who gets to keep the embryos that were fertilized while they were still together.

Just before the scuffle turns violent, Tim steps in. Still raw from the fallout of his own marriage, he seems to be displaying his newfound empathy in an effort to bring about a resolution.

"You're angry. You have every right to be." He reassures.

"But doing this isn't going to put your marriage back together. Nothing will."

You can see Lucy's eyes shift to him. It's not overtly acknowledged, but I get the feeling that she's already learned about his separation.

"You will come to hate yourself if you go through with this, so put those tubes back in that container," he demands.

The woman tearfully complies, and Tim turns her around to place the handcuffs on.

I want to acknowledge the choice Eric Winter makes in this scene to not look down as he places the handcuffs on this woman; rather, he looks up and past her, right at Lucy (she's off-camera, but you can tell given their placement). The expression on his face, like most of his others, is one of mixed emotions, but this one is different. He seems stern and defensive, yet a bit vulnerable and almost needy, as if he's looking up for reassurance from Lucy.

We already know that Tim struggles to be vulnerable with Lucy and is often defensive about his own emotions when they're on display in front of her, but he occasionally has moments where he stops just to see her reaction. It feels to me that he searches for her approval and reassurance in those times when he is vulnerable. As a character, he has no shortage of morality but has little understanding of subjectivity. Lucy is great at not only being subjective but also at understanding subjectivity through the eyes of others. I've always felt that Tim recognized this in her when they first started working together, so it's no wonder that he looks at her as a guide to his own emotions at times. In addition, knowing that people often look at those who they hold in high regard for approval and reassurance just reaffirms the fact that Tim knows how emotionally intelligent Lucy is. It also reaffirms my conspiratory doubts that Captain Andersen and Sergeant Grey knew exactly what they were doing when they paired Tim and Lucy up as trainer and rookie, to begin with.

In direct support of that theory, we're now back at the station after the arrest, where Lucy chooses to make another inquiry. She wonders why they are arresting both women that were involved in the dispute even though one of them was acting in self-defense. Tim answers strongly, stating that there isn't anything that can be done about it since it was a domestic dispute and those laws are strict for a reason.

"What happened to ‘circumstances dictate actions’ ?" Lucy retorts.

Tim is stern once more as he doubles down on his answer. "Trust me, this is one rule I'm all for," he answers.

"Cemeteries are full of women who'd still be alive if cops were forced to hook up their spouses the second he or she laid hands."

Lucy stops in surprise at this, giving him a compliment for having such a surprisingly enlightened attitude about domestic issues.

"You sound surprised," he says.

I can't blame her, though. It's hard to believe that Season 1 Tim would be enlightened or passionate about any such rules.

"Sir, you surprise me every day," She admits. I can't help but smile giddily. It's really wholesome to see their redemption arc develop in a way where they can be pleasantly surprised by each other as time goes on.

Tim lets out a sassy "mmhmm" before telling her to go gas up their shop. I love sassy Tim.

Once again, Lucy has prompted Tim to walk her through the reasoning behind his morality. It is undoubtedly instrumental in helping him understand his own emotions and it keeps him consistently headed in one direction with his own growth.

I also can't help but think he was a little amused and proud about surprising Lucy. I love how far we've come from just the beginning of the season. Even though we're only halfway through, I love that the progression of Tim and Lucy's relationship feels natural. The writers do a good job of maintaining the balance between comfort and adventure with these two, wherein they are constantly learning new things about each other while also establishing some normalcy and baselines to their relationship. It is really hard to keep the progression of relationships moving at a naturally appropriate and steady pace, especially in 22-episodes-per-season shows where you are required to space things out and develop more interactions to fill time gaps, but The Rookie generally does a good job of that, at least in the beginning seasons.

Following Tim's instructions, Lucy and Nolan convene mid-day and share a conversation about how interesting their respective shifts have been so far. After discussing the current prospects of a criminal's former apartment, they get called away to deal with Nolan's perp of the day, who turns out to be an undercover cop that's been infiltrating a drug gang. He gets the rest of the Mid-Wilshire division to help conduct a tactile operation in efforts to recover about a million dollars in illegal drug money before it's shipped off to Mexico.

Again, we follow the team of Rookies and T.O.s as they navigate the rules of conducting a tactile raid. The writers continue to establish the show's main purpose, which is done in a pretty savory way as we watch the procedure be explained to each Rookie by their respective T.O. in a formulaic, rhythmic, yet comedic manner. It is really entertaining and engaging, not to mention it highlights the procedural aspect of the training in a very strategic and creative way as well.

They wait until nightfall to conduct the raid and surround the location until the right time to break in. While getting in position, Lucy notices a man with a duffel bag walking by them, not too far from where the money is being stored. She doesn't get a good look at his face, however, and doesn't waste one more second dwelling on the stranger due to the more important and demanding task at hand,

With the house surrounded, the fellow officers break in and conduct a successful raid, securing both the drug money and the gang members behind the operation. After processing, the rookies are tasked with keeping an eye on the pile of cash until the appropriate officers come to take inventory. They are told to get comfortable as the money counters like to take their own time while arriving (hence why the task is being given to rookies).

While waiting, Lucy, Nolan, and Jackson entertain ideas of what they would each do if they had a million dollars. They float around suggestions; anything from buying helicopters to fancy trips or even doing the responsible thing like paying off student loans. Ultimately, they all decide that they love their jobs too much to ever stop, even if they did acquire the kind of money that would give them a chance to leave.

Eventually, the money counters arrive to take over, and the rookies each take one last gander at the pile of cash before making their exit.

Despite being stretched thin after pulling an all-nighter, they are all woken up early the next morning to report to the station. The urgency of the matter is revealed to be a discrepancy in the amount of cash counted after the raid. Captain Andersen highlights that of the million dollars that were to be recovered, only $750,000 were accounted for, leaving the remaining $250,000 essentially missing.

With their T.O.s in the room, the rookies quickly catch on to the implications being made. They are asked to submit to a polygraph test to help rule out their involvement in the disappearance of the remaining money. Although initially hesitant, they all agree to take one and are ushered off into interrogation rooms to do so. Lucy gives Tim a quick glance before walking away, which I find kind of endearing. I also like the parallelism used here, where Lucy is now looking at Tim for reassurance and approval, just as he did earlier in the episode. It really plays into the give-and-take nature of their relationship as well.

The T.O.s discuss the possibility of their rookies actually being involved in a scheme of this caliber. Angela and Talia agree that Nolan and Jackson couldn't have been involved on account of their goody-two-shoes-like moralities, while Tim suggests that if Lucy was involved, she would never get caught. Talia questions if Tim is complimenting Lucy, to which he deflects and retaliates by suggesting that Lucy is simply too smart to get caught in this manner.

For the sake of my own gratification, we're gonna refer to this as another proud T.O. moment for Tim, coming in second only to when Lucy helped deliver a baby and earned a "good job, boot" from him in episode 9.

Either way, it's nice to include little moments like this where we can see examples of the existing knowledge that Tim and Lucy have of each other, especially within the context of their jobs. It also helps to mark the passage of time through writing for the audience. Of course, we've seen Tim and Lucy's relationship improve in the past few episodes, but not nearly enough to the point where full comfort between the two should exist. Although it still doesn't at this point, time-suggestive dialogue can help make clear to the audience that time has passed between the previous and current episodes, which makes the elated progression of any relationship more implied and believable to follow throughout the continued narrative. The implication that Tim has gotten more time to understand Lucy and her capabilities in a more intimate fashion makes it much more endearing when he displays full confidence in her. It also reaffirms our theory that he recognized Lucy’s intelligence from the get go. We don't get that many untainted proud Tim moments throughout this first season, so it is truly nice to see him empathize with her in that way.

Crumbs, I tell you. That's really all we survived on during the first season.

In interrogation, we get a series of simultaneously amusing and stressful clips of the rookies being interviewed. The topic of gratuities which was introduced at the beginning of the episode, has made its way full circle as the rookies are asked questions regarding their potential involvement and opinions on taking advantage of their positions while performing their jobs.

At one point, Lucy is asked if she has ever lied to protect another officer, to which she initially responds "no" but then "yes" after there is an indication of deceit. It seemed like an interesting choice to include this question as it could be referring to the time when Lucy is forced to lie about her relationship with Nolan to keep them from getting fired during his I.A. investigation after he shoots and kills a criminal, or the time (s) when she helped Tim through his issues with Isabel without ever reporting his instability at the time. I'd like to think it's the latter, although we never get confirmation because the answer does not pertain to the case at hand.

Despite their hiccups, the rookies pass their polygraphs and are sent on their way until the missing money is recovered. Even though they are not completely off the hook, Lucy decides to use the time by continuing her apartment hunt. She is clearly disturbed by their situation and is even a little curt with Nolan and Jackson when they suggest that she spend the rest of the day with them.

As a quick side note, it's amusing to me that Lucy's way of dealing with anger is by bottling it up often. It seems counteractive to her usual empathetic yet emotionally mature self. This is an interesting aspect of her personality that we will see develop further as the series continues.

A while later, Lucy calls Nolan and Jackson to discuss the risk of the case they're involved in, especially if the money is never found. Being the last people to see the money, it is not likely that they'd be able to keep their jobs if the case isn't solved.

Their conversation is cut short when Lucy gets locked in on the road by the members of that same gang. They've also heard about the missing money and believe she has it. Nolan and Jackson hear the scuffle over the phone and immediately come after her to help.

While on the run from the criminals, Lucy recognizes one of the gang members as the man with the duffel bag that she saw outside the house on the night of the raid. With his cover being blown, he tries to shoot his way out of the confrontation but is taken down by Lucy in a split second. Nolan arrives just in time to help arrest him but not before taking some shit from a still frustrated and angry Lucy for showing up late.

The episode ends with the missing money being recovered and Sgt. Grey congratulating Lucy on a job well done. Although Tim and Talia both walked in with the gang member Lucy arrested, we don't get to see any further interaction between our two faves for the last half of the episode.

All in all, it was a pretty good episode both writing wise and Chenford-wise. I like the circle pattern that The Rookie often displays with their scripts wherin concepts and ideas that are discussed as theory in the begenning of the episode are played out in application in it’s duration. It’s a non-suspensful kind of foreshadowing that helps guide the narrative and gives us a solid starting and ending place which is extremely helpful when writing.

I would have definitely liked to see Tim's reaction to Lucy's confrontation with the gang and her arrest of the culprit (it was so badass I feel like he would've been proud), but ultimately, I understand why we didn't get to see it.

The divide between heavy Chenford interactions in the first half combined with the limited interaction in the last half of the episode felt intentional. They helped highlight the kind of inconsistency that might exist between the two as Tim tries to settle down from his divorce and Lucy tries to move forward in her own life.

There is not ever a guaranteed meaningful interaction between Tim and Lucy in the first season. Some days they achieve breakthroughs of interpersonal understanding and other days only their professional responsibility to each other keeps them in the same unit.

It’s all part of the development and stretch of content, however. Sometimes the best way to prolong the intensity of a relationship is by withholding certain aspects of it.

The Chenford scenes we get robbed of undoubtedly keep their relationship that much more interesting. It leaves plenty of room for growth and togetherness as time goes on. Because we don't get to see EVERY interaction, there remains some mystery to the facets of their relationship, which keep it entertaining and engaging.

It’s why we continue to love watching these two and why we feel like we can never get enough of them. It's also a pretty genius move from a writing perspective as it practically guarantees an audience.

That is of course, an audience who will forever continue to cherish their crumbs.

#chenford #the rookie #tim bradford #tim and lucy #lucy chen

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