#its just so undeniably her and its so endearing

[titanic-angel]

мιgυel o'нara х ғ!reader

◥︎ 『 coғғee ︎pт.2 』︎ ◣

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

ѕυммary ➞︎ мayвe мιgυel lιĸeѕ нιѕ тнιngѕ ѕweeтer тнan нe wanтѕ тo adмιт.

warnιngѕ ➞︎ none

noтeѕ ➞︎ нιgнly reqυeѕтed ғollow υp, ι cannoт eхpreѕѕ нow тнanĸғυl ι aм ғor тнe ѕυpporт on тнιѕ мιnι ѕerιeѕ ❤︎ this is the final installment :)

↽︎ parт 1

︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

“And he drank it?”

You nodded, sipping at your morning cup of coffee. The sweetness stuck to the roof of your mouth, caffeine slipping into your chest. You watched as Peter B ran his hand through his hair, eyes wide in curiosity and shock.

“Every time I put chocolate in mine he looks at me like I killed someone!”

You laughed, shaking your head. “That’s because no one does that, Peter.”

He scoffed, puffing out his chest and shifting his baby strap, where Mayday bounced contently. “Well Mayday seems to like it!”

As if on cue, the red head purred, giggling at her fathers exasperated sigh.

“Do you think his exhaustion is getting to him? Miguel…isn’t the open minded type.”

You thought back to the night before, his soft brown gaze making your cheeks turn pink. The feeling of his lips under your thumb, and his-

“Well there is one more thing,” you said, eyes drifting to your coffee cup, “he…well he smiled.”

Mayday and Peter both went silent, faces blank. You shifted, awaiting the eventual explosion from the two of them.

But it never came. Peter closed his mouth, as if all the air and words has been caught at the back of his teeth, sucking in a sharp, stunned breath.

“Miguel…smiled? Like, a happy smile. Not a fake one? Or a sarcastic one?”

You shook your head, taking another absent minded sip of your coffee. Was it truly an unbelievable, impossible sight? Was the idea that Miguel could smile so foreign and strange that one of his closest acquaintances couldn’t conjure the image?

Mayday crawled out of her fathers carrier, cooing at you and reaching for your arms, as if you distract you from your wandering thoughts. You gladly took the grinning child, who curled into your arms, eyes fluttering in comfort.

“No. I think it was genuine.” You finally replied, smiling down and letting the little girl grip your fingers.

Peter sighed, tone calming at the sight of his happy daughter in your arms. “Well, consider yourself lucky. Even Mayday struggles to bring out a smile in that man.”

You laughed quietly, bouncing the girl in your arms. “Well now that’s just unthinkable!” She hummed happily in response, head leaning into your chest.

“What is?”

His voice had retained some of its evening whisper, but under its assured stature, laid a raspiness that was undeniably tiered and stern. It captivated attention even in its subtlety, abstrusely spoken in a manor that made you shiver.

You greeted Miguel with a smile, looking up at him as Mayday squealed, enthralled to see his shadow, casted by the morning light peaking through the windows in the coffee room.

“We were talking about how no one couldn’t like this sweet girl,” you tickled her stomach with your fingers, making the smile she had gotten from her father crinkle her eyes, “not even you.”

Miguel huffed, shoulders shrugging in mock offense. “I don’t dislike her- she’s just,” he looked down at the blubbering child, face softening for a moment before regaining its usual scowl, “unpredictable.”

Both Peter and you laughed, sending each other a knowing look. Nothing was predictable enough for Miguel, much less a child.

Mayday moved out of your arms and onto your shoulders, looking up at Miguel with an insistent, giddy smile. He sighed, extending his arm so she could crawl along it, resting on his shoulder and fiddling with his disheveled hair. Both you and Peter smiled at the endearing scene, Miguel grumbling frustrated, incomprehensible Spanish under his breath.

You took a sip from your mug before sending a guilty look at the empty machine. “Sorry Miguel, we’re all out of coffee this morning- we finished off the last bag of grind,” you paused, your eyes darting between Peter, your cup, and then Miguel, “but you could finish my cup. I’ve had plenty this morning.”

Miguel sent you an incredulous look, instantly aware of the game you were trying to play. “I wouldn’t want to take-“

“Please I insist.” You lifted to cup to his chest. He sighed through his teeth, taking the creamy, light liquid from your hand. You smiled sweetly at him, which he returned with a warning stare.

“This was a nice break- and always lovely to see you, Mayday,” you poked her shoulder, the giggling menace still happily perched on Miguel’s broad shoulders, “but I’ve got plenty of work to do. Including getting some more grind from the storage.”

You sent a final look to Miguel, and a message through your eyes. He rolled his, bringing the warm mug to his lips.

You got to see Peter B’s mouth drop before you closed the door.

▂︎▂︎▂︎▂︎

You walked triumphantly down the stark white halls, that similar heat simmering in your chest. You welcomed it with a quiet sigh, your shoulders light with the reminder of it all.

You and Miguel were close, in the loose term of the word. Being one of the few early members of the society, you had your fair share of adventures and fights together- but labeling the dynamic between you two is difficult.

Peter B would always be his right hand man- his confidant. Jess was probably the closest thing he would ever have to an older sister, despite her being a little less than a decade younger.

But you and Miguel didn’t have a category. You sat in the natural, comforting, almost familiar air that surrendered itself in your presence. Begrudgingly, you’ll admit that for as long as you’ve known him, attraction always fizzled in your ribs when his voice said your name, or his skin met yours. But for just as long you have decided it was ridiculous, even in the moments he looked at you with that endless brown.

“Why did you do that?”

There it was again- that subtle raspiness and the shiver that followed. You can’t say you’re surprised that he followed you, after all you did tease him.

You be honest with yourself, you weren’t sure why you took so much joy from making Miguel surrender to your wit. You knew that not many get the luxury of making him flustered, and that you’ve always taken advantage of your…affect on him. But as to why? It stumped the both of you.

You sent Miguel an innocent look. “Do what? Give you my coffee?”

Miguel pressed his lips together, torn on whether he should retort or agree. “…yes.” He decided.

You took a left, starting to remember the route to the storage room. It was massive, but because you’d rarely ever paid it a visit, its location remained misty in your mind.

“Well, you seemed to like it last night,” You sent a look to his empty mug, and then to him, “and clearly this morning.”

He huffed, setting the cup down on the nearest table, embarrassed he had been caught.

“You look like you need a boost, anyway.” You replied with a smugness in your voice, that was almost undetectable. Almost.

You took a turn around the corner, following the graphic signs to the storage room, grateful they placed markers to navigate the maze that was the Hub. Miguel had stopped behind you, but you still felt his looming presence down the hall.

“You told Peter, didn’t you.” He narrowed his eyes to punctuate his accusation.

“Tell him what? That you like my coffee?” You finally reached the storage doors, pressing your thumb against the scanner, hearing the programmed beep vibrate the scratched plastic screen, “Maybe.”

Miguel pinch the bringe of his nose, whispering, dios santo, me estás matando. sharply under his breath.

The gigantic doors slid open slowly, revealing the shelves stacked with an assortment of inventory. It had everything- everything, but organization. You went left, trusting the foggy memory of the storage map and where it placed the grind. You made yourself more sure as you counted the aisle numbers, cold air making the hairs on your neck prickle.

It was that, or Miguel’s presence behind you, demanding attention.

“He didn’t need to know.”

Your laugher echoed off the shelves, making the cans and bags shake in their spots. You turned down aisle 7, pleased (if not a little proud) at the sight of tan bags with “New York Grind” written in a typewriter font sitting at the middle of the aisle.

“What? Does cream and sugar stain your reputation?”

He was hot on your heels. “Yes!” He nearly wailed.

You stopped, facing to him with a playful smile drawn on your cheeks.

“Miguel, have you ever considered that people pay more attention to your pursuit of a coworker all the way down to the storage room and less to what’s in your coffee cup?”

Miguel paused, eyes roaming the steel shelves, as if he had just become aware of his surroundings. You shook your head, your smile still wrinkling the sides of your eyes.

You stopped in front of the coffee grind, now looking much higher up than it did only seconds ago. You stood on your toes, swiping with out success to the bags that sat a tantalizing, teasing, fingernail away from your grasp.

“Really, Miguel. I didn’t mean to ruin whatever mysterious, solemn image you built for yourself here,” you let out an exasperated sigh, straining your legs to no avail, “but I just think it’s sweet that you enjoy sugar and cream in your coffee.”

Hot breath fanned on your head, and your eyes watched as a large hand clasped over the bag of coffee. Your breathe hitched, suddenly very aware of the warm, familiar feeling that enveloped your shoulders.

“You think I’m…sweet?”

He said it with so much confusion, that your brain barely processed the underlying tones of hope that resided in the question.

You froze, replaying your words with a clarity that made your jaw click. He handed you the grind, but didn’t step back. You felt frustration building in your center (either from his clear attempt at intimidation, or how much it was working). You sighed harshly, turning while opening your mouth to say something.

It quickly closed, at the sight of overwhelming brown.

You were finally able to place the emotion that made itself home in his irises when he looked at you, and the mere thought that you might be correct made your heart leap into your throat, silencing every quip or retort you had prepared.

You weren’t trapped. His hands rested comfortably at his side, giving you the option to escape in any direction that wasn’t forward.

But not even the animalistic part of you, the survival instinct, wanted to escape. It felt more alive being exactly where you were.

“I am not…upset you told him about last night. It’s just that….” You turned to face him, the beat of your heart thriving tension that existed between the small space that separates your lips. His brows casted a shadow of contemplation on his eyes, concealing they’re hue.

You weren’t sure if you wanted them to be brown or red- but you knew that it was ecstasy to have him this close.

“Just that…?”

He sighed, the corners of his mouth neutral. You hated that his features were a perfect mask, never giving anything away- while your reddened cheeks, shaky breath, and gaze trained directly on his lips did.

“I wanted that to be between us.”

You shuddered at the thought. “…why?”

He looked at you, and his pleading gaze told you two things.

You knew exactly why.

And you were right about what was in his eyes.

Your mouth felt dry. “Does…does that also stain your…reputation?” You said, all of the bite in the response dead in your whisper.

He had leaned in, the brown so close you felt as if you could be sucked in. “Yes.”

Chills ran up your spine, eyes drifting to his lips, remembering the white cream that once lined them. You swallowed, fingers tracing the smooth plastic of the bag in your hands.

“That’s too bad.”

You held your breath, eyes not drifting from his lips. His hum rumbled in his chest, the sound making your knees weak.

You dropped the bag, the memory of why it was in your hands instead of him was now a distant and feeble mumble. He stiffened at the sound, watching you as if you were just as unpredictable as Mayday.

However, the way you’re eyes had refused to look at anything but his lips was a dead give away.

Miguel did things slow and small. It was one of the (many) things you appreciated about him. His energy was the essence if not the pure definition of subtle. Even if his loom made shivers crawl up someone’s spine, or his shadow alone made the opponent cower, nothing in his actions called attention on purpose. He used that subtly to his advantage, his goliath shadow speaking for itself to the enemy- his intimidation silent.

But you were no enemy.

In fact, you were the only force that he didn’t want to fight- he was completely fine embracing you instead.

And so he did.

The kiss was all of his subtly and more. It was soft, from the gentle movement of his lips against yours to the way he placed his hand shyly against your lower back, leaning you up against the cold metal shelves. You struggled to think straight, but the first thought that whispered in the back of your mind was that you were completely right about what you though his lips would taste like.

Coffee.

It was chaste, and as you pulled away every fiber in your body prickled at your skin and in your muscles, craving to collect in your lips. Your eyes fluttered to meet his, gleaming and foggy.

He was smiling, that beautiful crease in the valleys of his jaw making the wires in your brain spark and circuit. When he opened his eyes, he looked dazed, as if he felt as though he had just woken from a dream.

Their color didn’t really matter to you now.

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

That evening, you assured Jess you could take her coffee shift, promising her that you could handle him for another night.

Her rough laugh and weary eyes thanked you, and you were left to walk the cold, empty hallways alone.

But when you reached his platform, smiling gently at him, the absence of Lyla (most likely by his doing) louder than the smile he returned, you felt like you were anything but lonely.

You handed him a coffee. It was lighter than his usual, the murmur of sugar and cream deep in its caffeine. However, it was darker than yours, different than the overwhelming taste of sweet.

He took the cup, sending you a gentle, knowing look. You returned it, placing a hesitant hand on his.

“Let’s start small.”

▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎▁︎

I wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming support I got after I posted part 1, you genuinely mean so much to me. I hope you enjoyed!

special thanks to the following (aka taglist): @myownsimp (your message made me cry ty legit touched my heart) @vxxxb (thank you for your message abt the way I write miguel ❤︎) @cooch1ecruncher (your so sweet and ur arts adorbs) @blue-raven-universe (TYYY) @miggyoharaswife (thank you for the support on pt.2) @abyemayiamay (your compliment means sm to me ty) @iwatobiswimbros (I’m feral for him to tbh) @lilithandherharlots (honestly same but for him? anything ❤︎) and @mochi46106 (ILY TY)

[kryannoy]

can i request a andrew x reader thing where reader is his lover, his girlfriend, and they are like head over heels in love with eachother, and reader is a female, but for some "traumas" shes a bit nervous to lose her virginity to him. shes also kind of insecure, because of the fact she isnt very feminine, and bcuz of her looks.

(if youre not comfortable with writing this its completely fine!!)

genre: nsfw, smut

character: andrew graves x reader

warnings: praise kink, body dysmorphophobia (?), trauma, virginity loss, cum

a/n: thank you for requesting! i can relate to this as i always make my ocs like this. also, sorry it took long, i'm busy with life

It started with the two of you hanging out and enjoying each other's company. Then, a kiss. And that leads to a make out session.

For Andrew, it was hard for both his self-control and his dick. He couldn't help that you got him turned on and horny now. Of course he doesn't blame you, no. Andrew is mature. He knows himself that he is too in love with you. He loves you so dearly that he couldn't bear to think of you with any other guy. He loves so dearly that he gets hard every time you're close to him and he can smell your sweet perfume. And those times, he always excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

But somehow he's always nonchalant about it and you find it attractive. Obviously, you know the reasons he went to the bathroom but you don't really understand why.

Why did he get turned on seeing your body? It wasn't curvy. You don't have big boobs or squishable ass.

His hands always run down your hip and up to your waist, playing with the fat there while kissing. Sometimes even fiddling the hem of your shirt, pulling and twirling, asking for your permission to go further.

You don't say anything nor give a sign. You were nervous. How do you do this stuff? How do you initiate? What do you have to do? So, you let him do his thing.

That's when he pulls away, leaving traces of saliva connecting from your lips. His green eyes looked at yours, pleading. You know what he wants but again, how do you initiate? Are you even able to go all the way with him?

He senses your unsure feeling and lifts himself up. The warmth radiating from his body is no longer there. "We don't have to do it, y'know. I'm not forcing—"

You grab his sleeves, even more worried about him than yourself. "It's fine. It's just . . ." You were embarrassed to say that you have no idea what to do yet you know he knows that you're a virgin, but he doesn't know that you were somewhat scared of losing it. It's just the thought of putting something foreign inside you is . . . weird and sounds uncomfortable.

"I'll guide you. I promise I'll be gentle," he says so softly it's soothing. His lips pull into a smile, an endearing one that doesn't show any mischievous hint. He pecks your forehead with thumb strokes on your temple. Despite the soft touches, his dick was undeniably rock hard you can feel it brushing on your thigh.

His hand slips inside your shirt and moves upward, riding up your shirt but stopping at the edges of your bra. If you weren't wearing any, he would've reached your nipples for not even feeling the mounds of breasts from how flat it becomes when you lie down. He stares down at you pleadingly before sliding behind you to unclip your underwear.

You were getting nervous once he sees them. What if he's disappointed? What if it turns him off—?

You hear a moan coming from Andrew once he touches one of your nipples. You also let out a sigh from the touch. He pulls off your shirt and bra together and gazes at your naked body.

"Fuck," he moans again under his breath. Oh shit, does he hate it?

He dives into your nipples and gives a hard suck, proving your point wrong. You whimper and that really seems to motivate him. He licks it, suckles on it, even bites it. Your idle nipple has already been paid attention with his fingers, pinching and pulling and flicking. All of it made your head swirl that you can only think of Andrew and the amazing sensations. You've been moaning for him your pussy is getting wet.

When you whimper, he would look up at you but his mouth is still occupied with your nipples. Sometimes you can even feel him smirk.

Once he's satisfied, he switches to the other one. You find the saliva connecting from his lips to your nipple hot. His empty hand starts to inch its way down to your pants. He slips inside and circles on your clothed clit. You gasp, your body reacting to the attention. Your legs automatically close around his hand it made him open it up again and pinned one of your legs down. You whine when he continues to rub on your clit. Your legs keep thrashing but his smile gets wider and his breathings are labour. Somehow, your reaction excites him.

He fully pulls off your pants, leaving your panties on just to purposely pull it aside. He rubs a few on your clit before diving a finger into your hole. When you feel it prodding at your entrance, your eyes widen and you quickly push his hand away without thinking before realizing what you did. You look at him apologetically, but he was fast to reassure too. He kisses your lips and all over your face to distract you. Andrew tries again, touching your hole and slowly pushing it in. Gladly, this time you didn't squirm away.

"Good girl, that's it. You're doing great," he talks you through it before moving his finger. You gasp again but he keeps whispering sweet nothings and praises in your ear.

"Everything's okay. Just relax, alright?" Another kiss on your forehead and you're melting into him.

He picks up his speed, still focusing on your expressions for any signs of discomfort. He adds another finger in and you moan. Your mouth is shaped into an 'O' and he just has the urge to bite your bottom lip so he just does it, even sticking his tongue into your opened mouth. It was an opportunity, he took it.

He feels you tighten around his finger and it makes him grind down on you, accidentally pushing himself deeper. You whine from it.

Andrew takes out his fingers to pull off his pants, flinging his dick out. Your eyebrows furrow upwards at the sight. It made you drool but the realization that that thing is going inside you snaps you.

He notices your worried expression and kisses your nose. "Don't worry. We don't have to go all the way if you're not ready."

You look down at his cock again, hard and red. Very red on the tip. "What about you?"

"I'll do this—" his cock glides on your wet pussy. "Ngh, if you don't mind?"

Your moan and a nod testifies to your consent and his hips got to work. The rubbing of his dick on your pussy and clit was a whole new level of pleasure for you. You thought that that was enough to make you crazy, he pushes in more of his cock into you with his thumb to get more friction and that makes your eyes roll behind and your back arching for more. Your small tits were displayed for him he had to grab onto it and squeeze. Adding a few pinches to your nipple before letting go.

The cute noises coming from your mouth motivates him to go faster and a teensy bit rougher. "Fuck, fuck! I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum! Andrew!"

"Yeah? You're gonna cum? Go ahead, doll. Let go for me. Mmh, fuck! You feel so good."

Your pussy is soaking wet it makes his grinding much easier. And the sight, oh he loves seeing it sloppy. He can't wait to cum on your pussy. The thought makes him close to his climax. "Babe, I can't! I can't— I'm gonna cum!" He whimpers but he didn't know that you've already cummed a few seconds ago.

"I'm cumming! Haa!" He gasps and white shoots out, painting your stomach and your pussy, just like he wanted. He groans as he slowly grinds on you to ride out his orgasm. It took you a moment to notice his cheeks are red and his ears too.

His cum spreads all over pussy and inner thighs now from his slow grinds. Once he pulls away, he can't help but to stare at your messy pussy. Some of the white cum still running down you and it got into your hole. His intrusive thoughts win and he gathers some more cum and pushes them into your hole.

"Andrew!" You gasped from the sudden intrusion.

He chuckles, "Sorry." But his green eyes are still glued to your pussy. "I wanna lick it so bad but I don't want to taste my own cum, haha. Maybe next time."

[babsisbakery]

The truth always comes out - (Alessia Russo x reader)

Gif by @alunarrose

Pouring rain hits the windows of Alessia Russo and her girlfriend's apartment. You are waiting for Alessia to come home after her night out with the Arsenal girls. Sadly, you couldn't join them due to feeling under the weather. Lessi didn't want to go without you or at least not when you are unwell but you reassured her that it was okay. After all she needed to get to know her new teammates better to form a greater bond with the girls which would create an undeniable chemistry on the pitch. That didn't stop you from missing her dearly. Even mere minutes apart caused both of you to seek the comfort of the other. 

*Ding* Your phone brought you out of your endless day dreaming about your favourite striker. Looking at your home screen you see a new notification from your girl. "Babyyy how are you feeling? Did you drink enough fluids? Ugh this get together would be more bearable with you by my side. Wish you were here <3 xxx" The message warms your heart, why is your girlfriend so incredibly adorable. "I'm better Lessibear, drank the tea you made me, thank you for taking care of me <333. Miss you too gorgeous, you'll manage without me. Try to enjoy an evening with just your gal pals xx"

A thud against the window makes you look up. Just the wind blowing a branch against it. Looking out the window you see a figure running towards your apartment entrance. They are soaking wet. It’s noticeable that the person isn’t wearing waterproof clothes to prevent such events. As the person comes closer you recognize her as your best friend. Zoe knocks continuously until you make your way to open the door. She’s out of breath, apparently, she had been running a long distance. Due to her athletic nature, it is only on rare occasions that she starts to sweat even slightly from physical activities. To say you are baffled at her arrival would be an understatement. 

"Zoe wha- you know what why am I even asking. Get inside come on, don’t want you to catch something" Zoe still out of breath grins at your words. " Why thank you. Uhm I have to tell you something of urgent matter. Its ab-", you interrupt her. "As urgent as it is, please go change into something dry. You can tell me afterwards.". "But Y/n cooome on I have to tell you now" pulling out her puppy eye trick she tries to convince you. You don't falter as you've deal with these eyes for a quite a while. "Zoe, no. You can get some fresh clothes and I'll wait downstairs for you with a cup of your favourite tea. Go change. So chop chop." She sights. No way could she persuade you now. So, she gives in and changes into the clothes you had let her choose. Even though Zoe has some of her clothes at your place, as you had frequent sleepovers, she picks out one of your favourite t-shirts. Loving the faint smell of you on it. 

You never noticed her heart eyes when she looked at you. Alessia of course wasn't blind to Zoe's endearment towards you but after you assured her that there would never in a million years happen something between Zoe and you, your Lover let it slide. Even if you still thought Zoe was just overly friendly. Alessia didn’t want to cause unnecessary arguments.

After Zoe dry’s her hair a bit with a towel she ran downstairs. Not registering that you were talking on the phone to someone very dear to your heart. "Y/n/n, now I have to tell you. It’s a paramount issue." She mumbles an apology right after noticing she disturbed you, deciding to slurp on the tea you made her instead. "Sure, Leah can come over later for a drink but drive safely." only now seeing Zoe being back "Gorgeous I have to go now, we'll talk when you get home. - I love you too. Mwaa" Y/n hung up and turns to face Zoe. "Sorry I just had to talk to Lessi", you say with a slight blush "what is the oh so urgent matter". A frown makes its way onto Zoe's face after she hears the striker's name. Why does everything have to revolve around her. There it was again, jealousy. Jealousy over your relationship. Feigning sadness Zoe begins to speak "Actually its Alessia I wanted to talk about. Uhm, you know I work at the place the girls went out today?". "Oh they went to your bar, yeah totally forgot.", you let out a nervous laughter "What happened?". "Y/n I don't want to hurt your feeling but I simply have to tell you. You have to know that I will be here for you if you need me, alright?" Zoe starts to search for something on her phone. You immediately begin to overthink. What if the striker got injured and didn't tell you to not stress you out. Which could honestly happen as Alessia hates worrying you. "Did something happen to Lessi? Zoe tell me. This is freaking me out."

"Something did occur but it wasn't to Lessi but rather with her.", responds Zoe. You hate that she was beating around the bush, "Get to the point Zoe or I swea- ". "Alright, alright sorry. I- I saw Alessia. Looking rather cozy with another girl.”, utters Zoe nervously. Seeing the confusion written all over your face, she decides to continue. “Before you ask, it wasn’t one of the Arsenal girls. I’ve seen this woman a few times at the bar before but never with any of the Arsenal girls.” “What are you trying to say Zoe, this makes zero sense.”, you are still utterly baffled. “I’m sorry Y/n/n. It looked as if Alessia and this woman were flirting. Furthermore, they were standing very close like they were kissing. I know you don’t believe me right now but I realised you would only believe me if I had proof. That’s why I took photos.”, reaching for her phone, which she had placed on the sofa next to her. “Show me the pictures Zoe.” She simply shows you the taken pictures. You are in pure disbelieve. The pictures show exactly what Zoe was describing a minute ago. “No Zoe, this cant be true. It just can’t. Zoe please tell me this is a prank. Zoe please.” You are on the brim of tears. “I’m really sorry. I know it wasn’t my place to say something but I couldn’t hold this information to myself, you deserve to know.” Zoe puts away her phone.

With sadness coursing through your veins, you let the tears fall. You leap into your best friend’s arms. She didn’t want to cause you heartbreak but in her eyes it had to be done for it to work out. By stroking your back and mumbling encouraging words, she tries to make you feel at least slightly better. “Shh everything will be alright. She didn’t deserve you anyway. You were always too good for her bug.” “This cant be true Zoe, it has to be fake.” Plastering a compassionate smile onto her face Zoe speaks, “As much as I regret seeing you this way you have to open your eyes and recognize that I want what’s best for you, which clearly isn’t a cheating girlfriend, sweetie.”

These words crush your last glimmer of hope. Tears streaming down your cheeks like a waterfall. Zoe tries to wipe them away with the jumper she borrowed from you. New ones replace them as soon as the last ones were gone. Only sobs can be heard in your apartment. Your heart broken. It had shattered into million pieces. Nothing can stop your emotions from overtaking your mind. You can’t think clearly, too consumed by the thought of Alessia’s betrayal. *Poof* Seemingly gone the future you imagined with Lessi and all made promised blown away by the wind. It feels as if you’d been hit by a car over and over again. A sucker punch to your heart. Falling apart in your best friend’s arms who wants to catch you so desperately.

Even after this information you couldn’t bring yourself hate your soon to be ex-girlfriend. You just couldn’t even if you want to. You don’t want to blame or to punch her. Of course, you still love her, it was just minutes ago you accommodated this knowledge. You never pictured yourself in this situation. *After all, doesn’t Alessia love you? She showers you in it every second of the day. Were you simply not enough for her anymore? Was your love not enough? Was this all a game to her? Did she fall out of love with you without communicating it? If yes, how could she string you along. * Your brain was running wild with ideas. Some sounded more ridiculous that the other. With every added thought, the sobs got more violent.

Suddenly, the ring of the doorbell is heard. Well at least Zoe hears it because you were in your bubble of sadness, shutting out any noise or movement around you. Zoe doesn’t want to open but after continues ringing she no longer could bear the sound of it. Leah and Lessi waiting impatiently as they probably stood outside for a few minutes. They exchange worrying glances. Y/n knew they were coming, they also knew that you’d normally sprint to the door to engulf your beloved into a massive koala hug. The door cracks slightly open to reveal who is standing on the other side. Zoe quickly tries to shut the door but before she has the chance to Alessia pushes it wide ajar as the sobs of you ring into the hallway.

Your Lover runs to your side “Baby what’s wrong, why are you crying? Who do I need to beat up?”, trying to take you into her arms. Realising it was Less you push her away. She is flabbergasted to say the least. “Don’t call me that, don’t you dare call me that. How could you do this,” you say barely over a whisper, voice laced with emotions “it’s over!” Zoe has a faint smirk instantly switching to her concerned friend face. Leah still sees it and immediately connects the dots but there is no chance Less could talk to you in this state.

Alessia’s face falls. She doesn’t understand the world. Her eyes begin to water. “Tesoro,” trying to step closer to you but you instantly take one back “why, what did I do?” Desperation laces her voice. “You cheated Alessia, you cheated. Zoe showed me some pictures. You guys were so close.” At the thought of the pictures you start to sob again. Being slightly tipsy, Alessia can’t figure out what pictures you are talking about. “Y/n/n, pictures?” “Don’t play stupid Alessia. I saw them. You don’t have to pretend to love me anymore.”

Leah touches the striker’s arm to catch her attention. She whispers into her ear “She isn’t thinking clearly, she won’t listen to you either. Let her calm down and then try to explain what happened at the bar because I’m pretty sure I know what she is referring to.” Lessi shot her a confused frown, not understanding anything. “I’ll explain in the car Less but we need to give her time to collect herself. We can come back tomorrow. You are too tipsy anyway.” “Am not” If looks could kill, Leah would be buried 10 feet under already. Leah just raises her eyebrow, signalling reallyyyy. “Tesoro, I will come back tomorrow morning, so we can talk with clear minds, okay. Please hear me out, this has to be a giant misunderstanding.” Alessia walks to the door with her head hanging low. Leah squeezes your arm and follows her teammate. You can’t even respond properly due to your frequent hiccups. Zoe rushes to close the door after them.

“Y/n/n she doesn’t deserve you. She will make up some excuse for the photos. Whatever she says don’t listen.” Zoe’s plan can’t fail now or she would forever lose you. She had to have you wrapped around her finger for this to work. To believe her over Alessia, which would be hard but she promised herself to try.

Your so-called friend holds you in her arms for a while until you succumb to exhaustion from bawling your eyes out. She pulls you as close as possible. Moreover, trying to remember every detail of your face, to capture this moment in her brain for eternity, watching your breathing become more even, her gaze softens. Since you fell asleep she repositions you to lay on top of her on the sofa, so you both are comfortable and don’t wake up with sore limbs. Soon she closes her own eyes and is out like a light.

~Next morning~

Zoe wakes up first, you soon follow. It was 9 am. Upon realising that there is nothing in the pantry, Zoe decides to go to the store to buy some groceries. To make you breakfast, treating you like her princess. What she doesn’t know is that Leah and Alessia are outside, waiting in Leah’s car, obviously both with a disguise, for Zoe to leave your apartment. After she is out of sight, they take this as their opportunity to explain everything. Running to the front door Alessia unlocks it, searching every room for you. She succeeds upon entering the bathroom. While washing your face you don’t notice it was the striker. “Zoe how come you are back so quickly did you forget your money yet again?” you ask chuckling. “No, it’s me. I wan-“, Lessi tries to speak but you soon interrupt her. “What are you doing here???” But Alessia isn’t prepared for your tired sounding voice. She expects you to be livid, after Leah explained what she thought happened. “Please just hear me out, I promise it isn’t what it looked like.” With a sight you agree to listen, throwing away a long-term relationship without at least a talk seems imprudent. Lessi was or is your girlfriend after all, you aren’t so sure yourself, not giving her a chance to plead her case would be atrocious.

Leah is chilling in the kitchen, not touching anything because she knows she’d cause a disaster there, so she is sipping on a glass of water while waiting for you both to make up. Lessi wants to take your hand in hers which you notice and hesitantly she intertwines your hands, you let her. Sitting on the sofa Alessia begins “These photos are fake. I can prove it Tesoro. Let me show you something, okay?” Mumbling a response, you look at her phone. “Now can you tell me who this girl is next to me?” asks Lessi. You are at loss for words. “I- I- Ohhhh my god. Its Clara. I didn’t recognize her Lessi, I’m so sorry.” “See baby, I would never ever cheat on you. Certainly not with my cousin.” You both chuckle at her words. “I’m really sorry Lessi, I couldn’t see her face on Zoe’s photos. Also, in these you aren’t as close as in the ones Zoe took. Weird.” “It’s because she photoshopped them Tesoro. Leah saw her smirking after you said we are done.” Alessia feels bad because Zoe had been your friend for a long time, losing a “friend” isn’t easy. “Soooo, we are good right?” asks Alessia. “Of course, we are, I’m sorry for not hearing you out yesterday. It was all just too much. But we are okay.” “All good baby, I know seeing such photos can mess with someone’s head. You heard me out, that’s the important part.” A few minutes went by just the two of you wrapped in each other’s arms.

In the meantime, Leah had found some cereal to eat to distract herself. She hasn’t left guys yet because Zoe was still to return and she wanted to give her a piece of her mind.

You kiss Alessia softly, showing her with it how much you love her. She responds to it immediately, kissing you back. More soft kisses are shared between you two. They start to get more passionate, soon you straddle Alessia, forgetting Leah is in the other room. Alessia’s hands are firmly placed on your bum, giving it a squeeze. A moan leaves your lips. Her left-hand slips under your shirt, Goosebumps arise due to her cold fingers on your skin. She trails kisses down your jaw to your neck, biting slightly into the latter.

But before you can continue you hear a gasp. It’s Zoe. What a cockblock. Zoe doesn’t even have a chance to utter a word as you start to talk, “Zoe I’m disappointed and mad at you. I don’t know what Alessia or I did to you that you wanted to destroy or relationship so badly. But it didn’t work, she told me everything. Faking pictures just to point a bad light at my girlfriend. No real friend would ever do such thing. I don’t want to see you ever again Zoe. You aren’t my friend anymore. This is goodbye, so don’t contact me again.” “But I love you Y/n, I’ve loved you for some time now. I did this for us, to be able to be finally together as we are meant to be.”, stammers Zoe. “No. There was no us, there is no us and there will never be an us. Lessi is the love of my life so you can piss off.” Shooing her out the front door and closing it right in her distraught face.

Leah chimes in “Wow what a day and it just started. Honestly, I wanted to have a go at her but you rocked that Y/n/n, bravo. Welp who wants to go out for some donuts, its our cheat day after all?” You and Lessi simultaneously answer with a, “Meee”. Smiling at each other you share one final kiss before stepping out of your shared apartment to get those well deserved donuts.

[callum-librrry]

Uncanny Valley

Tom and Hazai were exploring a planet recently added to the intergalactic database. Navis was tasked with bringing supply packages to the sentient species there. It was all, of course, an effort to have the planet be knowledgeable of the wider community of space while attempting to keep their technological influence to a minimum. They did something similar to Earth way back when the lightwaves finally made it to the council and Humans were confirmed to be sentient themselves. Unfortunately, any attempts made were quickly swept under the rug known as secret government agencies.

 This planet seemed to be doing much better environmentally than Earth was. Lifeforms here evolved somewhat eerily. Most flora was found underground where liquid water was in constant supply. Tom had also seen a large plant with what looked suspiciously like bones in various odd places. After some confirmation with various off-world researchers, it was noted that the plants here were carnivorous. This made sense in Tom’s mind, considering there were multiple examples of such behaviour in the plant life on his home planet. This information spooked Hazai quite a bit more. She was nervous around anything with roots for the entire rest of the mission.

 They had been wandering with a vague sense of purpose for quite some time and they were yet to come across any sort of sentient life. This fact did not help the ever-increasing complaining of Tom’s muscles under the weight of the supplies. Gravity here was slightly stronger here than it was in standard conditions, which did not help the ache in Tom’s back in the slightest.

 “Hey, Hazai,” he said at last, “I think we should take a break. I can’t carry this pack any longer.”

 Hazai reluctantly agreed. She was itching to get out of the underground tunnels and back into the starlight. Nevertheless, they sat down beside a large woody plant that smelt vaguely of honey and laid down some sleeping bags. Well, Tom did in any case. Hazai liked to rest sitting upright with her feathers ruffled in a way the Human found incredibly endearing.

 Tom was almost asleep when he heard the sound of footsteps echoing off the tunnel walls. He jerked upright. Hazai had heard the sounds too but seemed less troubled by it.

 The footsteps continued. They sounded odd to Tom. They were familiar. Concerningly so. He could hear that whatever it was was bipedal. Its footfalls were also heavy. Not much could echo in such a densely vegetated area. The sound seemed almost… human.

 Almost.

 Some primal instinct was crawling its way up Tom’s spine. Something was seriously wrong here. He just couldn’t pinpoint what.

 He edged up from his sleeping bag, not taking his eyes off the slight bend in the tunnel where the footsteps grew steadily closer.

 Hazai seemed to sense the tension now. Her feathers puffed up and she raised her arms in a way not dissimilar to a threatened owl. She did look bigger, but Tom found it difficult to see the Braal as any more intimidating.

 Then, from around the bend a figure emerged. The dull light of the cave system made it difficult to make them out in any detail but Tom was still certain that there was something wrong with this alien.

 "Oh look, Tom!" Chirped Hazai in relief, "It's a Human! Maybe they can help us find--"

 Before she could finish, Tom cut her off with a warning whistle. His nerves made it a little off-key but the message came through nonetheless. Tom eyed up the approaching figure.

 It did look Human, in every way it should. It had two plantigrade legs and stood upright in the same way a Human would. It had all the key features on its face. Every part of its anatomy was undeniably Human.

 Except, for the fact that it wasn't Human.

 There is an interesting thing amongst the species that isn't seen anywhere else in recorded databases. It's a unique sense known only to Humans. Something that has been dubbed the 'uncanny valley' effect. An ability derived from the insane capability of the Human mind to find a Human face. The mind is in fact, so good at finding faces of the same species that it can impeccably recognise when a face is not Human even though all key indicators show that it should be.

 Notable comments made by various subjects in studies of the phenomenon say that they themselves cannot pinpoint what exactly causes the effect for them. Some guess it can be the way the Not-Human's mouth moves, or that its hands are ever so slightly out of proportion. Another key feature mentioned is the eyes.

 The eyes are what tip Tom off.

 "That's not a Human."

 Hazai looks at him questioningly. She couldn't see any difference between the average Human and the one in front of her.

 "I know you can't see it," Tom said as he grabbed the Braal's feathered shoulder, "but you have to trust me on this."

 Hazai hesitated for a second but complied. She’d seen enough of Humans to know not to question their instincts. She eyed the alien in front of her. She looked desperately for what Tom saw in the being. She didn’t have much time though, because soon after Tom dragged her down the winding stone tunnels. A few plants followed them with their gaping traps. They weren’t running. At least, Tom wasn’t. Hazai managed to keep up with his speed walking by hopping forward occasionally.

 The Not-Human was following them in strides slightly too long. It moved casually. It even spoke.

 “Wait,” it said, “I only want to talk.”

 Hazai had the impression they were speaking through a translator. She could hear the metallic drone behind each word. But she could hear desperation behind it. Something she’d heard from Tom multiple times before.

 “Please,” she tugged at Tom’s sleeve, “Can’t we listen? They might stop once they know we know.”

 Tom grimaced. He was thinking through all the possible ways attempting to negotiate with the alien might go wrong, but with one look into Hazai’s eyes, he complied.

 “Fine,” he groaned, “we’ll talk.”

----

 The alien sat in front of them on a mossy stone. Their limbs were splayed around them in a way that really shouldn’t be comfortable. They looked comfortable now though. The short conversation they had (which was more of a declaration that Tom saw through their disguise) allowed them to relax.

 As it turns out the alien is from a species of ‘shapeshifters’. They explained that it is mainly used as a defence mechanism but as the species became more sentient they tended to use it more for fun.

 “I didn’t mean to freak you out,” They explained, “I just thought you looked cool, and it’s always easier to make friends when you look like them.”

 Tom didn’t make eye contact. He could barely still look at the alien. He understood them, to a certain extent, but the whole ordeal still had him on edge.

 “I’m surprised you knew I wasn’t… uh Human. Generally, my disguises are pretty good”

 Tom spluttered for a second as he tried to think of an answer.

 “It’s– Um, it’s just something we’re good at? We just know when something isn’t actually human.”

 The alien hummed.

 “Don’t think I’ve heard of anything like that before…”

 “You probably haven’t. We’re weird like that.”

 The group fell into a mildly comfortable silence. Tom glanced at Hazai who also seemed to be mulling the new information over. She had a concerned look in her eyes.

 Eventually, Tom remembered the reason they were there in the first place. He handed over the supply pack.

 “It’s mainly just some information about intergalactic culture. Dos and do nots and all that. I think there's some stuff about similar planets and how to survive basic space travel,” Tom picked up a few items as he spoke. “We’re not meant to interfere with ‘the natural technological progression of a planet’, so I can’t really help you out with the getting to space part.”

 “Ah.” The alien was thinking. Tom noticed a certain pattern in the way their limbs moved when they were considering things.

 “I guess I’ll have to get this back to the rest of us,” they said finally.

 The conversation turned to goodbyes here. Tom was eager to leave the weird uncanny valley planet and Hazai just wanted to be able to see the sky without the fear of being eaten by an off-brand pitcher plant. The alien, though, seemed at home here. He explained how he hated to see the two travellers go.

 “But I guess we’ll get more now that we’re registered with, whatever the space organisation is.”

 Tom agreed and they parted ways.

----

 Back on Navis Tom and Yongrae were eating together.

 “I had the weirdest experience on that new planet we went to,” Tom said, “The sentient species there can shapeshift, it’s weird as hell.”

 “Ah,” Yongrae smiled, “like a Not-Deer situation?”

 “Worse. They looked Human.”

 “Ohh…”

 “Y’know I tried to explain it, but it’s just really weird. What even is that?”

 Yongrae thought for a second.

 “Uncanny Valley?” he said, “Like with that one guy in Rogue One?”

 Tom nodded eagerly. It had been on his mind ever since they left the planet. Uncanny Valley. It had a nice sound to it. He’d have to do more research into exactly what it was.

 “Thanks for that, man. It’s been bothering me.”

 “No problem,” Yongrae hit his shoulder, “You know what we should do now? Binge some Star Wars.”

 Tom laughed. While being an Earth classic, the movies really showed their age now. It was more like watching a documentary on what the past Humans thought about space, but it was fun nevertheless.

 “Yeah, that sounds like a plan.”

[eveningepiphany]

welcome to the final show | H.S, part 2

the girlies asked so I deliver!

read part one here, or check out my masterlist!

summary: after the accidental cafe run in, harry and y/n have wound up with each others numbers. and are quick to go from casual texting to organising another time to meet up. including a cafe trip and an unexpected ice creamery visit.

warnings: fluff, swearing, minor mentions of alcohol, nothing too heavy, just our lovely italyrry who is the sweetest ever.

a/n: thank you all so so much for the incredible amount of support on the first part of this official series. and also for your patience in waiting for me to hurry up and post an update. i know it’s been like 2 weeks since the first part, but I really wanted to give you something i took my time working on <3

———

There’s a certain type of disbelief that comes around once and a while. It’s rare.

It’s the kind that you feel straight to your core. That randomly dumps on you during the day like a bucket of water, and leaves your head spinning like that very bucket came crashing down with it.

It happens in a single moment, but lingers for a long time after the fact.

That’s exactly how you felt after harry texted you first. Because not even a few hours later after you’d exchanged numbers, he sent you through, not only a message, but a photo of all things.

One that made your heart swell with its endearing qualities.

A photo of a plate, filled with the food you’d told him earlier that day was one of your favourites.

Sent with a further little message below it,

Your favourite is currently up for grabs at the family gathering. H

The way he’d signed his intial off at the bottom had you nearly throw your phone across the room at how adorable it was.

Like as if you didn’t even know who you were texting.

Again it strewn your thought— is he aware the kind of mental effect this is having on you? Because you’re borderline going to need to phone for an ambulance.

You’re a simple person. A fangirl, to say the least. This shit, despite being able to say ‘I’ve met and talked with Harry Styles for more than 10 minutes’ does not just disappear.

And you had promised yourself not to tell anyone that this had happened— or was happening? Because there would be nothing worse than this somehow ending up online.

And not to treat him like a flighty deer instead of a grown man, but you would hate for that to place a kind of distrust in his hands.

However, all of that self-agreement doesn’t take away the nagging voice in your head that just wants to tell at the very least your immediate friends and family.

But you’re proud to say— after a long 2 minutes of pacing around your hotel room— you manage to craft a reply back.

Well, only after a few rough and undeniably embarrassing drafts that quickly get deleted out of the text bar.

You’re back to sitting on the floor against the bed frame, facing the window looking out on the gorgeous colours of the evening Italian sky.

Heart pounding, and you’re sure this scene from a third person perspective would look like it was pulled from a hallmark movie.

Girl fawning over man’s simple text. Kicking her feet in the glow of Italian sun, with a glass of wine on the floor next to her.

You stared at your finalised message and decided if you didn’t send it now, you would spiral into a never ending pit of doubt. And just end up overthinking the whole thing.

So you just did it. And now on the screen, under his blue message, was your own grey one.

there’s no way. it looks so good! im gonna see if it’s on my room service menu tbh. consider me inspired.

You bit your knuckles. Acting up like a fucking teenager. Waiting for the shock to subside before you actually get up to find the hotel menu.

After you replied back, you were sweating, honestly. Anxious at the fact you had just sent a text to Harry Styles. And unlike a conversation, that shit is permanent. So too bad if it comes off embarrassing.

Which of course, it didn’t on his end. Unbeknownst to you, he almost physically gleamed at sight of your name on his screen for the first time.

You’d nearly dropped your glass of wine when your phone vibrated up on the counter of the hotels kitchen where it was charging.

It’d been about half an hour from when you replied, you’d since ordered room service and sat in your bed to watch tv.

You made sure to place your glass elsewhere as you ran over to grab your phone.

If it wasn’t already all gone I’d save you some. Any luck with the room service?

You’d replied back swiftly, disregarding any kind of waiting to text back rule. You were all too eager to wait.

i managed to score some up from the room service. didn’t look as appetising as yours, but it was still enjoyed. x

And at this, he smiled, looking at the Italian sunset as he thought of you with a curiosity he recognised as all too unhealthy.

———

If you had told yourself two days ago in that cafe, that you have had several full conversations with harry after getting his number… you probably would have laughed.

Yet its not a joke of any kind. You can pinch yourself over and over again looking at those texts, but all you’ll end up with is a bruise and they will be just as real.

But as you read over the most recently received one, pinching would have not been enough of a reality check.

Maybe a frying pan? Probably would do the trick.

You scanned over his words, rubbing your eyes like you were tired and seeing shit— even though you’d been awake since 9am, which was 2 hours ago.

Unless you have plans, I’m going to try this cafe a friend recommended me a while back, if you wanted to tag along?

[ 1 attachment link]

And there’s simply no way that this is happening? But after 30 seconds without a follow up text telling you he’s accidentally sent this to the wrong person, you sit up straight.

Well, you’re not about to ask him if he’s serious right now, so you channel every fibre of casualness left within you and use it to construct a response.

id love to! I’ll get ready to go soon if you want to meet there before 12:30?

That works perfectly. did you need a lift, or are you in walking distance. I can pick you up if you need.

You almost keel over at his offer, and the absolute gentleman move he just made.

You also realise you didn’t even look where the cafe was. Because if Harry Styles asks you to go somewhere with him the answer should always be yes. Figure out the means of getting there and back later.

Either way you open the link and get taken to google maps, and the cafe in question is literally a 10 minute walk away from you.

im in walking distance, it’s about 10 minutes away. so I’ll just make my way there at about 12:15! thank you for the lovely offer though.

And you move as quickly as possible from your bed to your suitcase, ready to tear that thing apart for an outfit.

You don’t want to be over the top, but you have to go with something on the shorter side because it’s already in the high 20’s and it’s not even afternoon yet. So you lug out the many summer dresses you crammed in there, hoping that one of them will strike your interest.

Some get tossed back into your bag as you filter through them, not making the cut for a variety of reasons— like showing too much of your cleavage.

Yea, a good few of them get ruled out for that reason.

But eventually— and thank god, because you were starting to loose hope— you find one that is perfect for the occasion. It’s all types of flowy and comfortable, but still maintains the pretty connotation that summer dresses are known for.

Before putting it on, you go into the bathroom and do your morning routine— fixing your hair as a final step, but deciding to leave it out since there is hardly any wind outside to make it a mess. Plus it will suit the dress.

You somehow managed to take long enough that the next time you look at your phone you realise it’s nearing 12:15pm a lot faster than you expected. So you hustle to get the rest of your shit together, and make your way out the door.

The walk there is as peaceful as you could imagine, just the sounds of chatter from passer-by’s and birds lingering in trees dotting the sidewalk.

But on the inside you are still panicking. The last time you’d meet him in a cafe was a total surprise. This time it’s planned, and that leaves too much room for your brain to overthink it.

As you finally push through the doors of the cafe you had found your way to, a tiny bell above jingles. But you’re hardly focused on it as you look to the front counter.

Seeing the exact person you were here for already grabbing two drinks from a barista at what you can only assume is a pickup counter.

As he spins around, he catches your momentary surprise, complimented by flushed cheeks. To this he smiles and nods you over with his head.

He looked excited to see you. Like a longtime pair of friends meeting up again after a while apart.

Your feet kick back into gear at his nod, following him over to a table that’s tucked into the corner. He had his pleasing bag slung across the top of the chair.

“Hi lovely,” he says the minute you’re close enough to hear his deep voice.

“Hi Harry.” You smile, heart still beating too fast. The words feeling different as they get spoken from your mouth.

He walks the few steps around the table, closing the gap still between you— and he doesn’t wait for you to hug him, he just pulls you straight into the warmth of his arms.

Wrapping you up in a way that you can smell the cologne lingering on the dip of his neck into his shoulder.

His accent is muffled by your hair as he talks gently, “how’ve you been?”

The common question has your head reeling. In its simplicity is still sweetness.

You pull back, his eyes training on yours, looking keenly at you, awaiting an answer from your almost shy lips.

“I— yes, I’ve been really good thank you.” You nod, how could you not be? Look where your standing, who you’re standing with.

“What about you…?” You ask, watching as the corners of his pink mouth upturn.

He’s freshly shaven, you notice, and your fingers twitch with the need to glide over the smooth skin of his cheek.

You resist as he answers, still relatively closer than you should be out in a public place.

“I’m doing well, even better now.” He raises his eyebrows, a cheeky grin coming on his face.

He revels in blood that rushes into your cheeks, reddening them up like you’ve just run a mile.

“Oh, stop it. You’re a bloody flirt.” You roll your eyes in an attempt to play it off, and you also take a step back to seat yourself in the chair at the table he’d picked.

Maybe he was a flirt at most times. But from his perspective, with you in a dress like that? Not to sound like he’s drawing on the one direction lyrics, but as if you don’t know you’re beautiful.

I mean, sure, he thinks you’re aware that you’re pretty. But in the way it’s working him up, you seem to be clueless.

Because he’s almost stumbling on his words at the sight of you, soft fabric flowing seamlessly over your tan skin, cutting off above your knees leaving him with thoughts that he should not be having in a public space.

But at the same time, he tries to convince himself it’s nothing but a wholesome coincidental friendship. Even though if at any point tabloids get a hold of this, it will be very very far from that.

You’re watching as he looks a little caught up in thought, and you chuckle at it.

The sweet noise breaks him out of it, and he’s grateful for that. It was a rabbit hole he was happy to just not go down right now.

“Can’t help it,” he shrugs, going over to his own seat.

“Now, i need the full story of what happened with your friends luggage at the Singapore airport?”

You let out a laugh, a little surprised he even remembers to bring it up. You had been texting about travel, and told him the time your friend had her luggage lost in a layover between Singapore and London last month.

“I mean, where did it leave it off?” You had explained a partial amount of the story. But told him, if you’d planned another cafe trip it would be a lot easier to explain the ins and outs.

And he was overly excited to watch you tell the tale. Watch the way your hands moved as you animatedly told the story, and the way your eyes get a little lost in thought.

He caught tiny glimpses of it the first time you’d met, but he craved to watch it happen in full. Among other things.

You told him how you’d had 12 hour layover, but that you guys didn’t want to book a hotel since they were so expensive. But you were still meant to collect your luggage— and everyone else but your friend Bonnie got it back.

“She’s Scottish, crazy red hair and she is like a fire cracker. She was actually at the last show, in the front with us, but anyway— so she’s running around Singapore airport accosting all the staff with her stressed out and angry Scottish accent.”

You went back and forth with the many fuck arounds of that day, how you went from halfway across the airport to a misplaced baggage unit per a staffs advice, only for the lady at the front desk to say it wasn’t there— and to go back to the support centre.

“It was not funny at the time,” you said, “but fuck, looking back now it’s pretty good. And it makes a fun story to tell.”

“So where did she actually get her stuff back?” He asks, frowning with a curious smile.

“Oh, like 6 hours after we originally got off the plan. They’d told us to wait up at that little customer support place and after like another hour and a half, some really frazzled guy came running up with it.”

And you laughed at the image in your head, sweaty and looked terrified he’d gotten the wrong bag, “We asked where it had gotten lost, but he just asked if it was certainly ours, then when we said yes he nodded and practically ran the other way.”

Harry was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

“God, is that quite a story.”

“See why I said texting it would have been way too hard.” You amend, reaching for the deserted cup of tea you hadn’t even drank out of yet, taking a sip.

Exactly how you like it, and you smile. Watching him watch you drink it.

“Just how you like it, yea?” He asks to confirm. But also lost a little in the way the liquid seamlessly travels from the cup down your throat.

“Yea, perfect.” You nod, clutching the warm cup between your hands, tongue swiping out over your lips.

“Anyways, what about your own crazy travel stories. Since you’ve done plenty of it.” You prompt, unaware of his remaining gaze.

The afternoon went of just like that. Telling stories and sharing funny little anecdotes that had you laughing so hard that tears were about to spill from your waterline.

You slowly forget that it’s Harry Styles you’re sitting with. And of course that sounds weird. But it’s like there came a certain point in the afternoon where he just became simply Harry.

Nothing more, nothing less.

It had been a rather long time you sat in that same cafe with him. So much that the chairs, originally very comfortable, had started to become the opposite as time flew on.

“Are these chairs starting to hurt your ass too?” He asks, humour lacing his tone as he watches you adjust yourself in the chair for the third time in the last 10 minutes.

“Yea, the metal seats are lowkey not it.” At this he laughs, the way you word things somehow being more entertaining than most.

“Well, cmon, I already paid, we can go for a walk if you want?” He rises from his place, and you’ve never stood up quicker.

“Braving the Italian sun at its very brightest are we?” You joke, smiling as he grabs his bag and slings it over one of his broad shoulders.

“Could be a big regret, could also be very scenic.” He says as you grab both your empty cups.

“I forgot to put sunscreen on as well, so might have a different colour forehead to the rest of my body but… oh well.” he shurgs, following you over to the small bin by the cafe door.

You’re immediately thinking of the time he went to a show after going out golfing and he had a sunburnt head.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” And it takes you by surprise that the teasing words made it out of your mouth.

Yet, he seems happily indifferent to it, like it’s of course something you’d know, “Whatever you.”

Your laughing at his response as you hold the door open for him, exiting the cafe into the heat.

A tortured sigh is let out of you both at the swelter of it. The concrete pavement doing nothing but intensify it.

“I underestimate the weather every day here, I’m wearing too many layers of clothing to be dealing with this.”

“Take your hoodie off you dolt.”

He usually keeps layers on so that his tattoos are less visible. Since they’re often a dead giveaway of who he is. So his hands hesitates as they slip to the hem of his jumper.

“Don’t tell me you went out with just a jumper on, no other layers. In Italy?” You shake your head, still smiling as you slowly walk into the shaded part of the sidewalk.

“No— I did.” He laughs, “just m’tattoos usually garner some attention.”

He clarifies, “that sounded really egotistical, not the tattoos themselves, I meant people recognise me easier when they’re out.”

“Oh!” You stumble a little in your thought process. Feeling a little silly for not realising.

“I kind of like… forgot?” You say, coming to a stop as he eventually succumbs to the heat and peels the jumper over his head. Folding it up and popping it into his bag, glancing at you with a tiny breathe of relief at his new found ventilation. Hands moving to tousle with his hair in attempt to flatten it after pulling the jumper over it.

“I mean, i did. too honestly.” He agrees, continuing to walk forward.

You read into that a million different ways. But he makes sure you don’t get confused, “Y/N, don’t look so worried. I just mean you’re a very easy person to get… i dunno, lost in.”

Oh okay? How does one just casually continue putting one foot in front of the other after someone says something like that?

“You flatter me too much.” You roll your eyes, still as awful as ever at masking your shock or adoration for something someone’s said.

“Cmon, you’re just too humble i think.” He bumps you with his shoulder.

You’re laughing at him. But stop dead in your tracks as you stop something across the road.

“H.” You say, and he also comes to a halt. Taking a moment to process your use of his nickname. Like the way it so gently came from you.

Yet you sound almost dire, so he’s looking over where you are, scanning the sunny street for something that could possibly concern you?

For a moment he thinks it may be paparazzi, but this side of town is usually much better in regards to that.

He feels protective of you, “What? Are you okay?”

“There’s ice cream over there.” You say, hand coming up to cover your mouth a little.

A breath of relief fills his lungs, “i— you made it out like this was a life or death situation about t’unfold.”

Your expression turns to a grin, “no, i just love Italian ice creameries!”

“Can we please go and get some?” You glance back to him, and his own smile widens at your face. Gleaming with this unfiltered excitement over something so simplistic.

“Of course we can.” And you’re immediately grabbing his wrist to tug him across the road towards the shop.

“As if I could say no to you, anyway.” He laughs as he keeps up with your quick pace, clearly on a mission.

Once inside the store, with its pink and mint coloured walls and decor, you move to look at the collection of flavours.

The staples such as vanilla and strawberry, but then a small selection of more slightly diverse ones, like peanut butter brownie or salted caramel.

Their cookie dough ice cream looks amazing though, filled with chocolatey chunks of cookie. So you decide relatively fast that’s what you want.

And then you turn to Harry, whose eyes are still darting between flavours indecisively.

“What one do you want?” You ask, and he adverts his eyes to you.

“No I’ll order.” He shakes his head.

“No-no. Let me get this for you, please.” He goes to protest and you nudge him with your elbow, “don’t be stubborn. I want to get you something.”

“I— fine. But know you’re just as pushy as i am.” He scoffs with a laugh.

“I’ll get… maybe chocolate?” He points to it, and you nod.

The older lady at the counter is overly lovely, and you’re rattling off your order to her with a beaming smile.

Harry watches your interaction with her, and how you take a moment to compliment the heart covered apron she was wearing.

His heart trips over it’s own rhythm at the sight.

You pays and he still feels a little guilty, but figures he can make it up to you next time they go out by getting you a cookie or two with your tea.

You come back to his side with the two cones, stacked two scoops tall, and hand one to him.

“Thank you, you didn’t have to though.”

“It’s fine, Harry. Do you wanna find somewhere outside to sit?” You ask, turning to wave at the lady who served you as your slowly exiting the shop.

“Sure, i saw that little bench under a tree a couple shops down near that park.” He nods, taking his turn to lead the way there.

You shortly find the way there, sitting yourselves down on it, looking out onto a small playground with some kids swinging on monkey bars and sliding down the slide.

“Italian ice cream will forever be the best kind of ice cream.” You sigh out with pleasure, licking over the cool scoop.

He unwittingly is blushing at the sight, suddenly batting away mental images at the sight of your pink tongue jutting out of your mouth.

Shaking his head, he pushes them aside. “Definitely. You can tell it’s handmade.”

He busies his own tongue on his own ice cream, only stealing occasional glances to you at his side.

But he can’t help but tilt his cone to you, “Wanna try the chocolate?”

His offer comes as the equivalent of a brick to the head, but you’re invested in making yourself not seem psychotic.

So you nod nonchalantly, “i will, but I have a feeling that’s just because you want some of mine.”

“Mm, maybe I do a little.” He agrees, but any other coherent thought dies where it was in his head at you leaning over to his own cone. Your tongue running over the ice cream, collecting up its sweet residue.

You nod, “That’s so good.” Acting like you’ve got a normal internal monologue right now. Even though she’s hurling things at you that you can’t all process in such a short flash of time.

You just put your mouth where his has been! He is about to do the same thing! His eyes look a little blown out! What the fuck!

Pretty much what it sounds like up there, along with some alarm bells and screaming.

However you just gesture your cone to him, taking mental images of him mirroring what you did just before.

He hums a sound of enjoyment as he pulls back, glancing up at you, pinning you with his green gaze. “Good choice.”

You agree with a slight mumble, shaking your head momentarily to clear your thoughts. Ready to change the subject so you can internally recollect yourself.

“I only regret sitting out here since it’s melting so fucking fast.”

“I know,” he also settles quickly back into the normality of the moment, “i cant eat it quicker than the rate it’s melting.”

“It’s cold though, which is at least a win.”

Conversation trails on as normal while you finish off the ice cream. Discussing if biting the bottom off an ice cream cone is normal or not.

And before you know it you check your phone when you get a text from your mum, asking what time you’re able to call tonight.

She misses you heaps, you can tell. But despite the timezone difference you are making it work.

You also glance up at the time and realise it’s nearing 4pm. And you have just spent majority of the afternoon with Harry.

You also realise you’d agreed to have dinner with all of your friends in one of their hotel rooms tonight.

“Seems like it’s my turn to have to be the one to bail.” You say, popping your phone in your back pocket and looking back at Harry.

“That’s okay, love, what’s the plans for the evening.”

You explain that you’ll go over the the girls hotel room and probably just eat pizza, and then go back to your own room and call your mum for a bit.

He feels a little sad you even have to leave, which is odd, but he nods anyway, “That sounds fun. Solid plan.”

You reluctantly rise from your seat next to him. “So…” you take a tiny breath in, “am I the one picking the next cafe we go to?”

He beams internally at the fact you’re also trying to plan the next time you’re able to meet up with each other.

“I reckon so, Angel.” He stands as well, “I’m good for any day.”

Any plans he has can be rearranged for you.

“Alright!” You feel better immediately knowing you can see him again soon.

“Thanks for the ice cream too, by the way.” He says, walking back over to the pathway with you.

“It’s okay.” You smile, nervously being the one to give him a goodbye hug. A small flutter erupts in your stomach as his hands pull you flush to him around your lower back.

“I’ll see you soon, mkay?”

“Yea. Ill talk to you later.” You remind yourself that he’s easily accessible to talk to. You literally have his number.

“Bye H.” You give him a squeeze, pulling away with a smile, “Bye Y/N.” And you wave as you start the walk back to your hotel. Plenty of things to think about.

———

“Did you guys see the supposed pics of harry today on harryflorals? He was hanging out with someone apparently!” Nina asks everyone.

Only two of you hadn’t, including yourself.

She passes the phone first to you, and you frown.

“I know, looks like it’s taken on a potato.” She says, assuming your furrowed brows are due to the fact the image is really hard to get anything from.

Unless you know that park bench he’s ‘allegedly’ sitting on. And that the blurry figure next to him is almost certainly you— but no one else can tell.

“Yea… shit that is…” You pause, brain freezing a little, “bad quality.”

You hand her phone back. But caption of the post still festering in your head long after the moment is over.

HARRY *SUPPOSEDLY* WITH A GIRL IN ITALY TODAY! but this is the only pic we got 💔

———

ahh and that’s part two! I hope you guys are enjoying this, and I’m so excited to write more about these two. cant wait for you to see what’s in store for them.

thank you again for your patience while waiting for this second part, and to all the lovely people who requested this oneshot to be made into something more.

taglist:

@harrystylesgirlie @purple9950 @teamspideyman @rociolunaa21 @spiritofbuddha @lemonhrry @deamus-liv @lquvlly @kuntxrgraudunkelbunt @hsfanficsrecss

+ all the anons who sent stuff to my submission box, thank you to you guys too, all my love

[the-fictional-wife]

Finding Happiness (Itachi Uchiha x reader)- 1

This is the start of a series of scenarios for post-war Itachi (yes he lives) finding happiness with you! I miss fluff in Itachi's tag so why not make my own.

I want to mainly focus on the relationship but some chapters down the line will explain more plot also the chapter sequences might not end up in chronological order^^

This will be fem reader heads up so she/her pronouns!

Even though this isn't nsfw, some things in this series won't be exactly appropriate so imma still say MDNI!

////- means pov switch

Word count: 2.0k+

Chapter 1- Grocery Shopping + Cafe Cuties Next Chapter?

“I want to help.”

“You should want to take it easy instead,” you sigh. Itachi was up...yet again to help despite being on mandatory bedrest to help his body regain its strength back. He’s restless; it’s easy to understand; he’s banned from missions, and staying home is rather dull, but...

“Tsunade strictly said you were to rest while on house arrest. That’s the whole point I’m here.” You rest your arm on the cool kitchen countertop to grab a pen and begin writing down a shopping list with a huff.

“....”

At the silence, you turn around with pursed lips to face Itachi only to stifle a laugh when you see his face: eyebrows furrowed, lips just slightly jutted-

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s pouting.

“I would argue three weeks of nothing but bed imprisonment is adequate enough rest, don’t you agree.” Itachi huffs. 

After weeks of being detained right alongside Sasuke, Kakashi made the executive decision that Itachi deserved something better than a jail cell: temporary house arrest. 

With a babysitter. 

You glance at Itachi’s mildly annoyed face, momentarily taking in the sight.

You’ll spare him...for today.

“hm...fine, the sun would do you well anyway.” You finish writing the list and hand it to Itachi, whose eyes blankly rake the paper, then folds it into his pocket.

“Well, let’s go,” You stand at the doorway where a large black seal awaits, designed to trigger the alarm around Itachi’s ankle. Weaving the signs, you both squint at the burst of light before ushering him out the door.

As the two of you walk out of the Uchiha compound, you ponder over the last few weeks with Itachi. You can’t count the heart attacks you’ve gotten from seeing an empty bed and surprise; he was admiring the fish. 

He is a quiet, stealthy patient, somewhat akin to an 87-year-old senior citizen. On the more serious end, you think back solemnly; his eyes had often reflected his concession to emptiness. Sunken in and soulless.

‘But now…’ You peer at Itachi from the corner of your eye.

His eyes sharp and attentive; the color is back in his face; sunkissed pink cheeks, his short sleeve shirt giving view to his lean muscles-

‘He’s actually kinda...’ 

////

Itachi can’t tell if it’s the heat of your gaze or the sun flushing his cheeks.

Your gaze washes over him, a captivating light he yearns to forever bask in. Domesticity is a variable of life he is unacquainted with and…undeniably undeserving of. 

And yet, the further you expose him to gentleness, affection, and peace, the more he greedily deludes himself into that he belongs.

Encompassed in a life of peace he’s desperately craved, peace he’s found with you.

Within the shinobi existence, emotions, relationships…living. All become an unforeseeable luxury.  

It’s unsettling to desire. To be human.

Itachi silently shifts his eyes toward you, observing as you conceal your face, abashed from being caught. He finds himself smitten. 

“You were looking a little pale. If you feel weak at any time, don’t be afraid to lean on me.” 

A lie, of course. An utterly endearing one.

‘Perhaps, in this life…’

He capitalizes on the chance anyway. 

‘…I can be selfish.’

////

As you head into the village, you feel something creep around your arm. 

Neither of you acknowledge it.

+++

Your arm is still intertwined with Itachi’s as you both find purchase in a decently sized everything market. Waving to the cat perched in the front, you read the aisle numbers with its affiliated products: ‘Household items- 1, Toys- 2, Jewelry- 4,...Fruits & Dairy- 5’. After detecting where you wanted to begin, you guys head to your destination, avocados. 

Itachi lightly tugs your arm, signaling your attention.

“It’ll be quicker if we split. The potatoes are within eye range; I’ll only be a minute.” Your face scrunches in; reluctantly, you let go with a poorly concealed pout.

“... don’t trust me? I promise I’ll return to you shortly.” With that, Itachi saunters, leaving a lingering graze against your skin. 

You pause, leaving the way your heart palpitates unavowed. ‘A kiss would have sufficed,’ you snicker and return to your dilemma with hunched shoulders.

You’re on your fifth avocado before you give a groan of defeat. “I can’t tell which ones are good or not; they all look the same,” you mumble, distracted enough to miss the figure peering closer.

“May I see?”

His gentle whisper tickles your ear, you force the quiver down your spine to still- even when you feel his careless lips making one too many brushes to your ear, you wordlessly nod yes.

His broad chest and feather touch of his hair against your cheek overwhelm your senses as he reaches his arm around your waist to probe at the fruit you have in hand.

You pray he can’t feel the way your heart beats.

“Hmm...this one is ripe. You can tell by the dark color and firmness...good eye.” Within a blink, the weight of Itachi’s presence vanished, and he pulled away.

Ah. That.

“R-right, thank you,” you fumbled over your wording and rushed to the edge of the aisle. “Okay, let’s split from here to make things easier; I do the first half of the list, you do the last. Capeesh?” Fingers bend into a okay sign; you give a shaky grin and rush down to the next aisles, leaving Itachi to fend for himself.

“...” Itachi blinks, idly standing before he lets out a defeated puff of air.

 ‘...It appears I’ve made a mistake.’ With furrowed brows, he peers down at the list with a harsh, focused stare.

Your mind hasn’t left Itachi as your heart physically pains in guilt; it’s his first time out in weeks, and you flat leave him. Putting your final item in your shopping basket, you haul it down Itachi’s direction, only to find him in the exact same position as before.

Tilting your head, you ask befuddled, “Itachi, what are you doing?...” Oh. 

You steer closer, and the pitiful sight in front of you makes your shoulders pull straight; Itachi’s eyes strain, glaring down at the paper an inch away from his face at a poor attempt at reading the words.

He can’t see.

‘How long has he been-’ you quickly shuffle in your bag and call for Itachi’s attention. “You should’ve said something! I had brought your glasses with me, but I completely forgot about it-” Itachi takes it with a grateful upturn of his lips.

“Thank you..” He mutters, drawing his attention back to the list. “We are still missing the tomatoes and bread; I passed them earlier on our way in. Follow me.” Itachi gingerly takes your wrist in hand and leads you down the correct aisle.

Soon after you paid, you’ve collectively decided to grab a bite to eat. “Itachi, you smell that?” You sigh out an exhale; an alluringly sweet smell wafts itself above all the open markets along the sides from a small corner amongst the buildings. A mini cafe.

You brush against the roughness of Itachi’s calloused fingers, only grabbing his pinkie to lead him down.

You’ll pretend like you didn’t see the way he flushed. 

+++

Slouching in the seat across Itachi, you flex out the ache in your fingers from the weight of the bags as you wait for your shared order of dangos.

“I’ll assist you with the baggage on our way out.”

Looking up in disbelief, you scoff,  “Hell no- you’re still in recovery.”

“Don’t overwork yourself for my sake....”

Hypocrite.

You open your mouth to respond, only to suppress yourself at the sight of the waiter approaching.

The waiter smiles while serving your drink and food, then turns over and carelessly drops Itachi’s tea, droplets splashing onto Itachi’s lap.

With a twitching smile, the waiter laughs, “Oh, how clumsy of me, you should get yourself clean. You mutt; should be easy for a traitor, always covering his dirt.” Your mouth is agape, eyes shifting from Itachi to the waiter.

Itachi remains unfazed, his gaze fixed on the waiter with an air of nonchalance. It’s almost patronizing. The waiter scowls, turning away from the stare-down, muttering his pitiful complaints about Itachi’s mere presence.

“Geez, what was their problem?” You scoff side eyeing the waiter. Itachi sits silently, sipping his tea, looking down at his plate with a vacant stare. “...Itachi, you okay? I’ll go backhand a bitch for you, they had no right to treat you like that.” 

Itachi’s eyes shift to you at your aggressive demeanor. “Don’t. I’ve made peace with my past; their hate will only torment themself.” 

A lie. For a brisk moment, you noted how his mug trembled under the tension of his grip. You make a tsk noise, propping your head onto your hand, reluctantly letting the situation go.

Glancing up, Itachi discerns how your lips are still pulled into a snarl, glowering in the general direction of the offender. 

‘Hm, that won’t do.’

Rolling back the ache in his shoulders, he figures he could relieve your tension. If it’d make you smile,

“…besides…”

He’d be a fool. 

You turn back over with an inquiring hum.

“...they just aren’t sigma enough to control themself.” He returns to sipping his tea.

“…”

“....”

“Pfft- WHAT” You break the silence, convulsing with laughter. “I-Itachi, don’t ever say that in your life again- I’m not a good influence on you.” Still unable to break the giggles, you look at Itachi’s soft stare and slowly compose yourself under his unwavering gaze.

You cough in your hand and shift your eyes away.

“Let’s eat.”

You fall into a rhyme of chewing and idle conversation. 

“See, now you’re lying! I never laughed when you put your glasses on-” The table shifts from the weight of your knee. You firmly dangle Itachi’s wrist away from his glasses as he attempted to remove them a few seconds ago.

“...you couldn’t even catch your breath.”

“I was just surprised! I’ve never seen your eyes so…beady.” You tremble, holding back a cackle. His prescription, unfortunately, made his lens the size of a brick, but thankfully, Tsunade aided in making it more suitable.

“So now my eyes are beady,” His voice barely whispers, he looks off to the side. A look of dismay washed over your face; you cusp his face between your hands, pulling his gaze back up to you.

“Hey- don’t get all mopey; you know I think you’re cute with the glasses on.” You softly look to reassure him, guilty over your tease...until you notice the subtle twitch in his lips, a poor attempt at maintaining his stoic facade.

He was joking. 

Itachi shifts his weight into your palms, eyes closed in total serenity. “Do I?...”

‘Absolutely full of himself.’ You express your annoyance with an eye roll and flop back into your seat, leaving Itachi’s head to hang.

‘...did I displease her again.’ Itachi looks down at the final dango stick and holds it to you.

“Here, a truce for forgiveness.”

“But, that’s your favorite…and we bought that with your budget-” you sheepishly add.

“Please, I insist, I...don’t think I can finish this.” Itachi gives a light smile as he hovers the stick to your lips.

The blood rising to your face makes you dazed as you brush aside bits of your hair and savor the first dango ball on your tongue with a hum.

You swear it tastes sweeter from him.

“Thank you, Itachi; consider yourself forgiven.” You say before opening your mouth for the next one.

+++

-------------------------------

“All done,” you brush your hands off proudly after putting away all the supplies and produce. When cleaning up the bags, you notice a mini bag that looks different from the rest. 

‘Could this be Itachi’s?...’ You gently spread open the bag, eyes widening in astonishment; a beautiful crystal necklace sweetly lying in a small box with a small note tagged onto the front.

It reads,

‘I hope it’s to your liking, I noticed you wear this color frequently. Let this be a mark of our friendship ~ Itachi.’

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: Heyyy haven't wrote anything since like 2021 but I might be back probably, probably not- This is pretty self-indulgent but hope yall still enjoyed ^^

Do I think Itachi would say "sigma" if it meant you'd laugh for him after feeling like he depressed the mood? YES. Live with my canon.

Do I think Itachi actually likes physical touch but is just touch starved? YES. I'm projecting.

Any sort of love is appreciated don't be shy to say hi and good luck to everyone during finals week!

*Also-If you have any tips on writing + writing Itachi please let me know!

[isaacarellanesismyhusband]

to me, you’re… everything

pair: Newt Scamander x reader

summery: Newt showing his love to y/n(she/her)

masterlist | navigation

❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿❀✿

Newt Scamander was never one for grand gestures. He wasn’t a man who spoke in sonnets or filled the air with flowery words. But Merlin, if he didn’t adore you with every beat of his kind, gentle heart.

You had known since the moment your eyes met that there was something soft and comforting about him. The way his messy curls fell into his eyes, those brilliant blue-green orbs full of wonder and kindness, and how he carried himself with a quiet grace, like he belonged more with the creatures he tended to than with the world of wizards and witches. You could tell, even then, that this man held worlds inside him—worlds full of magic and mystery, of tenderness and patience. And now, as he moved about your shared home, you were endlessly grateful that you were part of that world too.

Newt had always been thoughtful in the most unexpected ways. He'd leave handwritten notes in the oddest of places, tucked inside your coat pocket or hidden between the pages of a book you hadn’t yet opened. They weren’t grand declarations, but simple, precious things: “I saw a bowtruckle today that reminded me of how strong you are.” Or, “You light up a room more than any Lumos spell ever could.”

Today, however, he was more bashful than usual, and you had a suspicion why. There had been murmurs of something special on the horizon��whispers of a surprise, though Newt was not one to be sneaky for very long. You found him in his usual spot, bent over one of his creatures with a furrowed brow, his hands as gentle as ever as he calmed a fidgety niffler who’d gotten itself into a bit of a tangle.

You smiled, leaning against the doorway, your heart swelling at the sight of him. He had such a soft, unspoken beauty about him. It was in the way his eyes lit up when he looked at you, how his hand would automatically reach out to rest on your lower back when you were near, as though he needed to be close to you, always.

As if sensing your presence, Newt looked up, and when he saw you, a shy smile curled at his lips. “Ah, Y/N,” he murmured, pushing his hair back in that endearing, slightly awkward way of his. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I could watch you all day and never get bored,” you teased, stepping forward until you were close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to smell the familiar scent of earth and parchment that clung to his clothes.

His cheeks flushed at your words, a delightful shade of pink that made him look even more endearing. “I, uh, I have something for you,” he stammered, shuffling slightly from foot to foot. His hands were suddenly fidgety, and you could tell he was working up the courage to say more. You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? What is it?”

Without a word, he led you to his case—the one you knew so well by now—and opened it with a quick flick of his wand. Inside, the usual flurry of magical creatures were going about their business, but it was clear something was different. Something… softer.

It was then you saw it—a delicate little creature with pastel wings fluttering just above the ground, surrounded by flowers that you couldn’t recall being there before. Its eyes sparkled as it twirled in the air, dancing almost, and Newt turned to you, his face glowing with affection.

“I, um,” he began, “I found her a few months ago on one of my trips, and she’s been rather shy. But when I told her about you, she—well, she seemed to perk up. I thought maybe she wanted to meet you.”

Your heart melted. It wasn’t just the creature itself—although it was undeniably one of the most beautiful things you’d ever seen. It was Newt, the way he spoke about you to even the most timid beings, the way he found a way to show his love for you in such a subtle, meaningful way.

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly. “You’re incredible, Newt,” you whispered, moving closer to him until your hand found his. “How do you always manage to make me feel like the most special person in the world?”

He looked down, that bashful smile gracing his lips again, but this time he squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in that soothing way you’d come to love. “Because you are, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice as gentle as the breeze. “To me, you’re… everything.”

The words were simple, but the sincerity behind them took your breath away. You leaned in and kissed him softly, feeling the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against yours. When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes half-closed, a contented smile on his lips.

“I love you, Newt,” you whispered, your voice full of the kind of softness reserved only for moments like this.

His eyes fluttered open, and there was a tenderness in his gaze that made your heart swell. “I love you too, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than words can ever say.”

And in that moment, with the magical world swirling around you, and Newt’s hand warm and steady in yours, you knew that you had found the kind of love most people could only dream of—the kind of love that was quiet and constant, full of wonder and care. It wasn’t flashy or loud, but it was real, and it was yours.

And that was all you ever needed.

[scarlettsandmaroons]

midnight rain | n. romanoff

about me | series masterlist | natasha romanoff masterlist

pairing: professor!natasha romanoff x collegestudent!reader

chapter eleven | chapter twelve: it came like a postcard

chapter summary: sometimes, weather forecasts can be wrong; yours said it would be sunny yet a storm came. the same way the bestest days can take a turn for the worst. you'd never choose rain. you did it once and now you're lost. but when you are, the sun always comes. and it envelops you in its warmth. it finds you, it makes you follow it, and you're secure. you'd must always choose the sun.

warnings: angst; non-aggressive fighting, guilt.

a/n: i know it took so long, but im too busy!!! i barely have time for anything so please understand! this took so little time actually, i wrote this in class for 30 minutes, and while i do hate the way i wrote it (for some reason i could never write proper angst?) my creative juices won't allow me for more. so please bear with me. ALSO, LITERALLY ONE CHAPTER AWAY FROM THE ENDING, YAY US.

a few months ago, you attended a sophomore party around the first few days of your sophomore year. it was at the university, in the event hall which happened past midnight where none of the teachers would have known the drinking, the dancing, and the sex on each corner of the space. 

of course, natasha knew about it. she always knew everything. more so if it's something about you. you weren't supposed to go. but you and natasha had a small argument the day before the party—something about the way she so boldly touches you even when people were around. so to get your mind of it, you went; to get back at her, you didn't tell her and planned on going home drunk; and to taunt her, you wore the most absurdly revealing outfit in your dresser. 

you were expecting to go home to her waiting for you in a robe and red wine, as she usually does when you come home past midnight. but she didn't. a few shots, and some minutes of dirty dancing later, you were pulled off the dance floor but her harsh grip, and everyone stunned at the professor's actions. 

she pulled you in her office, trapped you between her and the desk, and when you thought she'd lecture you, she didn't. she dropped her forehead on your shoulder, and she bathed you in her warmth. 

she told you she loved you. that she loved you so much. that she loved you dearly, sincerely, desperately. and the next day, you woke up with flowers and a bottle of her perfume on your bed. you need not a note to know what she was implying—you can try to grind on every person you want, but they'd know. 

that's been your routine after every fight. 

flowers, and a present. 

today was undeniably one of the best days ever. granted, you and natasha had a little argument the night before, but that's what led you to the flower shop for the first time. you spent an hour smelling every plant; feeling the difference between the patterns of every petal; basking in the colors of the life the surrounds you. 

and then you rode a bike to the mall. it wasn't your bike, it was wanda's old one from when she and vision had just moved to westview. but you found it in the shed. and with the flowers you bought in its little brown basket, you went toe to toe with the massive cars driving right next to you. and somehow, you felt like you were saving the world. 

wanda, that morning, cooked you breakfast. and then she gave you ice cream in a bowl as dessert which doesn't happen at all. wanda can be a nag about health, and you often find the domesticity of having a mother nag you for eating junk very endearing, but it never hurts to have ice cream. and did you jump out in joy when she handed you a bowl. 

billy wasn't home. wanda sent him to an errand outside westview. but he left you a sweet note and a sandwich on your bedside table before he left, and before you woke up. he should be home long past 12pm though, which would give you the very opportunity to make it right with your girlfriend before he comes back. 

she wasn't here. 

she's never here when she gets into a fight with you. she cools off her head, gives you your space, then she comes back to talk. 

you assume that's how she'd always been, even with wanda given that she did use to live away from her family that you assume is because of a blowout. you never asked. and you knew she didn't want you to.

you bought her flowers and a scented candle that smelled like your favorite perfume. something that she can put in the office that's been home to too much of your sins, and overflowing with so much of your love. 

the sun was out, and for the first time, it didn't seem to burn. it was just... warm. no chance of rain, said the weather forecast. 

but of course, sometimes, they're wrong. 

"do you know i cheated on natasha with vision?" 

and it rained. 

"sorry, what?" 

the moment you closed the door behind you, and right after wanda called for you in the kitchen, it poured. harsh, angry rain. 

"it was over a year ago," wanda clarifies. "natasha was getting too busy with work, and vision happens to drop by." 

"wanda, i don't—"

"and i slept with him." 

you stiffed. your chest tightened, and the grip you had on the bouquet you couldn't be bothered to hide behind you became strained.

you weren't sure why wanda was telling you. neither did you want her to. but suddenly you feel for natasha. like that very thing wanda did was enough to justify and save natasha from every argument, every fight, every bad thing between you two. 

"wanda, i really don't know why you're telling me this," you whisper, voice shaking, resisting. "i think it's none of my business." 

you didn't know what to do, what to feel. wanda cheated on natasha. and natasha is cheating right back. should it be called even? you couldn't say. the anger of knowing what natasha had to go through, vs wanda... your mother. sweet sweet wanda. you justified wanda in your heart. 

she was standing behind the kitchen island, looking at the yard over the floor to ceiling windows. and then she turns to you, pauses when she sees the flowers and paper bag in your hands. 

she smiles, tiredly. "is that for her?" 

you didn't have to be asked twice. your mind didn't scramble for an excuse either. surprisingly, no "for who?" or "it's for billy". just silence. 

she looks at you. 

she knew. 

her eyes stayed the exact same green shade as they were earlier. or yesterday. or the many days before that. there was nothing different. she looked the same. but she knew. 

you'd already betrayed her, you couldn't lie to her. and your mind didn't allow you to even dig through your raging thoughts for an apology. 

and she beats you to it. "i'm sorry," she tells you; her voice raspy, coated in what pain you could feel her hide. 

all thoughts left your body. and you weren't sure why it was only now that guilt surged through your every vein, every muscle. 

you might have not chosen natasha, but a part of you knew that she would choose you. that she would always choose you. and somehow, that was able to keep you in your bubble. to spare you the guilt. to keep you safe. knowing that while you would choose wanda, that you would do what's right; she wouldn't. she would choose you. even if it's wrong. and that makes the weight of your sin much much lighter. 

"wanda i—" she gave you the chance. she stayed silent. she waited, she hoped, she looked at you with eager eyes. but you couldn't say anything. you didn't say anything. 

she walked closer to you. you could tell her knees were weak, barely carrying the weight of her body. then she smiled, a sad comforting smile. like when she told you what she'd done to your mother. like when she offered you a way out. 

you yelled in your mind. screamed. the voice begged to be ousted; 

don't touch me. 

don't touch me, wanda. 

please, it's my fault. 

don't smile at me. 

slap me. curse me. swear at me. 

throw me away.

force me to go. 

don't... 

please don't be nice. 

please don't smile. 

please... 

don't make it harder for me...

you stayed silent. 

something about the way her eyes sparkled with threatening tears made you feel a sense of home and longing. like the feeling you get when you know you'd have to travel the next day so you clean your home, and enjoy the few hours you have in your room. and you feel at peace. the dread, the excitement, and the longing. you feel everything all at once. 

"i'm sorry," she tells you again. raising her visibly shaking hand to caress your cheek. you didn't know what to do. you froze. "i was supposed to protect you, i was supposed to be your mother," her voice decreased to a whisper. but you still heard the way it cracked. the way it got stuck in her throat. "it's all my fault." 

and your heart broke. your heart broke for her. your heart broke for the crying eyes staring into you—the same ones the would shine when seeing her wife, or would sparkle when billy gives her a hug. your heart broke for the hurting mother. for your hurting mother. for the mother you hurt. 

"wanda, it's not...," you whisper.

she stuttered for words. avoiding your eyes, struggling to keep her composure, "i really love her," she cries. "and i needed her. and she wasn't here. and i was desperate."

she was defending herself for a crime she didn't commit. you're supposed to be the one justifying. you're supposed to be the one crying—looking at her with grieving eyes. 

but how could you? what could you say? 

i didn't love her, wanda. but i would long for her touch, crave for her lips, burn for her warmth the same way i long for air, and crave for love, and burn for every bit of earth that falls on my skin.  

i didn't love her, wanda. but when i go to heaven, and god tells me that this very sin is what would send me to hell, i'll tell him how ironic it was to have the only heaven i'd ever known be what would send me to burn down in hell. 

i didn't love her, wanda. 

but i did. 

oh how i did. 

"i'm sorry....," you finally say. you finally gathered the courage, the words, the thoughts to apologize. may it be the wrong ones, for the wrong person, but you were sorry for tolerating natasha. you were sorry for the indulgence. you were sorry for granting yourself the heaven when you were only meant to stay on earth. 

you were sorry for natasha. for everything that you did. but not for loving her. never for loving her. 

"no, darling i...," how could she call me that? "it's my fault. i should've—i should've known. i should've realized. you should have never been in that situation if i—"

"wanda what are you—"

"she wouldn't have used you."

she wouldn't have used you. 

she wouldn't have used you. 

she wouldn't have used you. 

she wouldn't have used you. 

but she loved me...

"at least it—it wouldn't have...," she choked. "it wouldn't have gotten this far, i—" 

she told me she loved me. she whispered it to me in bed, she wrote it to me in class, she moaned it in my ear. she loved me. 

"you were a kid, i—"

she wasn't looking at you. she was avoiding your eyes, guilt surging through her body, and pain glinting her eyes. she was shaken up, she was confused. and you... you were lost. 

"i married a beautiful woman. she is kind, she is thoughtful, she is caring," and she loved her deeply. you could hear it from her voice. and see it with the way a smile crept her face through her tears. the thought of her alone is enough to put her in a trance, in her own little bubble. 

and then the bubble pops. and she looks back at you, unaware that she'd been looking away. "i...," she searches for words, looking in your soul; holding it, hugging it through the windows of your eyes. "i didn't think she'd be the kind to... take advantage of a child so she could get back at me." 

i didnt think she'd be the kind to take advantage of a child so she could get back at me.

i didn't think she'd be the kind to take advantage of a child so she could get back at me.

i didn't think she'd be the kind to take advantage of a child so she could get back at me.

suddenly the memory of her touch burns your skin. the memory of her kisses slices you. the memory of her, and everyday of the past year, and you, and the both of you—suddenly, everything was hell. and you were on fire. 

your ear rings. 

she used you.

she loved me. 

she was using you for revenge.

she loved me. 

she took advantage of you. 

she loved me. 

she pretended. 

she asked me to run away. she loved me.

she's taking it too far. 

she told me she loved me. 

did she really?

no. 

"she loved me," you resisted her touch. you moved away from her. you insisted, you screamed, you cried. "she loved me wanda." 

you saw pain through the wrinkles on her face. you saw pain for the family she's losing, and pity for the daughter she'd come to love as her own. she grieved for her family. and mourned for your innocence in your place. 

you saw it overtake her—the broken woman whose family's at loss overtake the sweet mother who'd cared for you for over a year. and more as a child. you saw it glint her eyes, the change from pity to anger. 

"she loved me...," you cried, dropping to the floor. 

you knew she was torn. should it be pity that you loved her wife, or anger that you loved her wife. she was fighting in her head. you can see the way she defended you in her own mind. you were just a kid that her wife took advantage of. but also, you were the stain in the family that she's been trying to fix.  

you didn't know which one won, which side of her. the subtle cruelty of the way she dropped an envelope on the floor to your knees, and the love that it was to crouch to your level and look at you. 

"you're breaking my family...," she told you. "i can't let you do that anymore." 

you wonder which wanda your talking to. while her words were thorned, her voice was coated with the love of a mother. 

"this is enough to get your mother out of the hospital, and last you until you graduate."

she had kept a distance between you two, especially when she stood up. she's calmer now as if she'd already decided. 

"for what it's worth...," she trailed off. "i wish you never had to hurt billy."

the fight is over. you were the kid who her wife took advantage of, and let it happen. you were the woman who betrayed her son. and she hates you. like a mother who hates her child: forever.

just like that, you were out of the house you'd called your home for the last year, and under the blazing storm. you were lost. 

"y/n!" 

until your beacon shines again. 

"oh my lord, what are you doing outside!" 

billy runs over you from his car with an umbrella. he hadn't heard. but he takes you in his arms, and wraps you around his coat. "i left early," he whispers. "what happened?"

you were lost. you always had been. but billy always found you. and you always followed him. you were lost as a child, and followed billy to his home. you were lost after graduation, and followed him to university. you're lost now. and you knew you'd chosen well. because he always found you. 

[creepzkilla]

[BRIAN THOMAS, TOBY ROGERS, TIMOTHY WRIGHT x FEM! READER]

chapter warning. gore, death, mutilation, maggots, talk of killing an animal, gutting an animal.

wc. 7860

authors note. this fic gonna be long asf so buckle up. sorry its lowkey boring up yk its building suspense. any questions about the fic or concerns please submit an ask!

important, read. even though this is implied to be a female reader that has she/her pronouns, I suggest downloading this extension for Microsoft edge to replace [Y/N] as your name and to replace she/her with your preferred pronouns to make you feel more comfortable if you do not identify as a female.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏: 𝐇𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐀 𝐒𝐘𝐑𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄

meaning. a mushroom that grows over decaying bodies

As the sun rose above the eastern horizon, casting its golden hues across the land, a lone car ventured forth on the winding roads leading to Grove, Oklahoma. The engine purred softly, its rhythmic hum blending harmoniously with the melody of nature. With the sounds of soft rock and country preoccupying the silence that the car held in its void. The silence was filled with the songs of Linda Ronstadt, and Deana Carter; two maestros of musical storytelling, graced the airwaves, serenading the passenger with a poignant repertoire of cherished memories. The tunes resounded with the recollections of sun-drenched summers spent in the Western fields, where her mother's berry farm unfurled its emerald charm.

[Y/N]’s mind wandered back to the days when the weathered white barn stood as a sentinel, and the family's nearly antique truck nestled alongside, an endearing relic from bygone eras. Each note carried her back to the sight of verdant paint curling and surrendering to the passage of time, revealing glimpses of raw metal beneath. She vividly recalled the delicate act of running her nails over the lifted layers of paint, peeling them away one by one, as if uncovering the hidden stories embedded within the truck's weathered facade.

In nothing but her nightgown, [Y/N] ventured out, her bare feet delicately dangling just beyond the worn-out Ford logo adorning the truck bed. Wandering through the fields, she traversed the rough terrain, her feet bearing the brunt of her barefoot journey. The berry saplings, a recurring sight in spring and summer, had now blossomed, displaying their succulent fruits as late summer approached. Yet before their transformation, the bushes stood tall, their leaves pointed and vigorous. Her path, confined to the Western fields, beckoned her toward the barn. Basking in abundant sunlight, the western expanse fostered accelerated growth, causing the saplings there to sprout thorns at a rapid pace. As a consequence, the girl’s feet endured the accumulation of mud and crusty blood, an undeniable testament to her traversing the formidable fields.

With dirtied feet and a stained nightgown, she embarked on her ritual every morning, just before the sun's radiant glow graced the sky. Ascending the antique truck, she found her perch, eagerly awaiting the mesmerizing spectacle of the sun's rays stretching across the vast expanse of land. Yet, amidst this ethereal beauty, her heart danced with anticipation for a different kind of awakening.

As the first glimmers of light began to peek over the horizon, a familiar melody filled the airwaves, heralding the start of a brand new day. Soft country tunes, like those sung by Tanya Tucker and The Judds, tenderly embraced her senses. However, her ears strained for one particular tune, a treasure she yearned for each morning at 8 AM.

And then it happened—John Denver's timeless classic, "Take Me Home, Country Roads," resounded through the airwaves, soothing her soul with its heartfelt lyrics. Sitting atop her vantage point, she became a symphony of joy, her voice bursting forth despite its imperfections. With every note, she poured her heart into the song, her little lungs valiantly attempting to reach every high and low.

Though [Y/N]’s singing may have lacked finesse, it mattered not, for her spirit soared with unbridled enthusiasm. Without pausing for breath, she sang the entire composition, as if on a sacred mission to carry its melody across the rolling hills and valleys. In those precious moments, the world was her stage, and she, the star of her own enchanting performance.

 Queens ensemble of trumpets and brass instruments harmoniously faded into a gentle hum, merging with the engine's subtle vibrations. With every turn of the wheel, a captivating journey unfolded, transporting her to an enchanting realm where time lost its urgency, and the world transformed into a vibrant symphony of colors.

[Y/N]’s grip on the steering wheel remained relaxed, a testament to her confidence in navigating the road ahead. However, the weight of exhaustion was evident beneath her eyes, concealed by bags that hung like heavy burdens. Her gaze alternated between the winding road and the small, blaring red text of the clock on her car monitor: 7:59 A.M.

Anxiously, her fingers drummed against the supple leather steering wheel, mirroring the racing beat of her heart. Her eyes darted back and forth, desperately seeking confirmation of the fleeting minutes. As the hum of the engine threatened to engulf her senses, its dominance was suddenly overpowered by the opening notes of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads."

In that moment, her attention was captivated by the red letters once more, and they revealed the time: 8:00 A.M. A gentle hum escaped her lips, akin to a sigh of relief, as she muttered along with the song's lyrics, embracing them with unwavering devotion. Without pausing to catch her breath, she sang along, infusing her voice with the song's nostalgic melodies.

The road stretched out like an asphalt ribbon, carving its way through sprawling meadows and rolling hills. Fields of emerald green extended as far as the eye could see, adorned with delicate wildflowers that danced in the gentle breeze. The air, crisp and invigorating, carried with it the scent of earth and the promise of new beginnings.

As the car glided forward, the scenery unfolded like pages in a vivid tapestry.Towering trees lined the roadside, their branches stretching toward the heavens like ancient sentinels. Leaves shimmered with a kaleidoscope of autumnal shades, painting the landscape with fiery reds, burnt oranges, and golden yellows. The trees seemed to whisper secrets to one another, their rustling leaves creating a symphony of nature's own design.

The road wound its way up and down gentle slopes, revealing panoramic vistas that stole the breath away. Mountain ranges stood majestically in the distance, their peaks kissed by the wisps of ethereal clouds. They stood as guardians of the landscape, their stony faces etched with the stories of ages gone by. But nothing could compare to Grand Lake. 

The bridge, spanning what felt like endless miles, gracefully arched over the water, its reflection shimmering in the gentle waves. As if in a dance, a multitude of boats navigated the water's expanse, trailing wakes that glistened in the crystalline depths, mirroring the celestial azure above and the passing cars on the bridge. The radiant spectacle transformed the water into an irrefutably luminous spectacle. It seemed as though liquid silver veins intricately intertwined with the land, carrying the harmonious melodies of life and the captivating tales of the creatures that resided within its mysterious depths. Geese gracefully etched invisible patterns against the vast canvas of the heavens, casting a mesmerizing spell on the onlookers below.

The scratching of gears wound up, blending into the symphony of sound, as the window glass slowly rolled down. The mechanical protest produced a terrible screeching sound, reminiscent of an animal's anguished cry, piercing the air and capturing her attention. Her eyes widened, captivated by the scene that unfolded before her.

Inhaling deeply, she savored the dewy summer air that gracefully entered her lungs, infusing her with an ardent fervor. Each breath became an embrace of life itself. The atmosphere, cool and revitalizing, carried a tangible energy, blending the essence of earth with the promise of new beginnings. The aroma of raindrops and freshly cut grass intermingled, filling her senses with a harmonious fragrance that evoked a sense of contentment. As she exhaled, a sigh of satisfaction escaped her lips, releasing any lingering tension—contentment.

The car engine purred in agreement at the sight of landscape, the tranquility of and complete beauty was simply enchanting.  

In a graceful display of poise and determination, she effortlessly steered the sleek vehicle away from the confines of the bustling main road, opting instead for a captivating detour onto a secluded single-lane path. As the tires glided over the uneven terrain, the verdant canopy of lush green forests enveloped the winding road.

Along this path, a humble dirt road emerged, veering away from the well-trodden route. Its weathered surface, pockmarked and rough, dictated a slower pace, Each jolt and tremor sent ripples of anticipation coursing through her veins, heightening her senses as she pressed on with unwavering resolve.

Gradually, the path unveiled a breathtaking vista, an opening that seemed to materialize from the very fabric of a storybook. A small pond, its crystalline waters shimmering under the gentle caress of the sunlight, beckoned with an irresistible allure. Nestled harmoniously by its side, a resplendent cabin emerged, a captivating testament to rustic beauty.

The cabin, although once a haven of tranquility, now appeared as a relic of forgotten memories, as if time itself had woven a shroud of neglect around its weathered exterior. Weeds triumphantly sprawled across the surroundings, their emerald tendrils dancing in the wind, while determined vines conquered the cabin's weathered facade, gracefully ascending its walls in a seemingly eternal embrace with nature itself.

In this serene tableau, the intrepid traveler found herself drawn to the essence of this forgotten refuge. Its dilapidated state only served to enhance the mystique, inviting her to uncover the tales that lay dormant within its timeworn walls. She sensed that beneath the encroaching foliage and the fading echoes of life, whispers of untold stories and echoes of forgotten laughter still resonated within, yearning for someone to listen, to breathe new life into their cherished existence.

As the shadows danced amidst the rustling leaves, she stepped out of her vehicle, her footsteps cautious yet filled with reverence as the gravel beneath her crunched. The air seemed to hold its breath in anticipation, as if the surroundings acknowledged her arrival, recognizing the significance of this encounter.

As her boots pressed against the gravel roadway, their crunch merged seamlessly with the harmonious of natural sounds that enveloped the picturesque surroundings. Advancing towards the cabin, each step resonated through the ancient floorboards of the front porch, releasing a melancholic creak as if the timeworn planks were exhaling with a subtle sigh. Weathered by countless footsteps, the wooden planks bore the indelible marks of their enduring journey, their once vibrant hue now transformed into a rich, dark oak shade. Inhaling deeply, she absorbed the essence of the place, her hand gravitating toward the doorknob of the screen door. For a fleeting moment, her gaze caught the old rocking chair, swaying gently in response to the playful caress of the breeze that meandered through the air. Finally, [Y/N]’s turned the the doorknob as the screen door creaked open—exhaling.

 She inhaled, the sharp fragrance of pine and bleach wove its way into her senses, its pungency tugging at her  nostrils. Their potent combination was not without consequence, for it provoked a reaction within her, eliciting a gentle scrunching of her nose. 

The house exuded an eerie aura of both familiarity and enigma.  She found herself standing in an expansive, open area cabin, devoid of hallways, which seemed to beckon her further inside. With each step, the immaculate cleanliness of the interior revealed itself, creating an almost surreal ambiance.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to the second floor, with its single set of stairs ascending like a mysterious gateway to another realm. On the ground floor, to her right, lay a quaint and compact kitchen, an intimate space that appeared to have witnessed the preparation of countless meals and conversations with its worn down appliances. 

To her left, the living room stretched before her like a tapestry of memories. A comfortable couch adorned the space, an inviting haven where the occupants must have spent many hours engrossed in captivating tales or deep contemplation. In front of the couch, the heart of the room resided—a grand fireplace. Its flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, seemingly whispering forgotten secrets.

Perched atop the fireplace, an old flat screen TV served as a window to the past, where characters from era that might have come alive came alive, momentarily escaping their scripted confines. The juxtaposition of the antiquated screen and the modernity it once represented painted a vivid portrait of the house's intriguing history.

Yet, despite all the intriguing elements that adorned the room, her gaze eventually shifted downward to the very foundation of the space. The wooden floor bore the weight of countless footsteps and stories, its grainy texture inviting her to feel the past as she walked upon it.

In the realm of her consciousness, she possessed an intimate knowledge of the house's history. In the era preceding her own, her beloved grandparents had entrusted its care to a man of enigmatic nature, one by the name of Willard Tucker. The townsfolk, adorned with tales and whispers, had deemed him a peculiar figure, cloaked in the shadows of perceived insanity. Yet, the precise details eluded her, veiled behind a shroud of uncertainty. All that remained were fragments of narratives whispered through the winds of time—stories suggesting that the man, his heart shattered by the loss of his wife, had departed for the fertile lands of West Virginia, seeking solace within the embrace of family ties, all while taking up farming.

She had guessed that Willard was the reason for the foul smell of cleaning products. Cleaning and scrubbing off residue so as to not leave it behind for the next tenant. That being her—a girl from small town Kansas in the depths of the west. However, she secretly cursed Willard for using so much of the cleaning product.

Upstairs and to the left, In the midst of simplicity, her bedroom exuded a quiet charm. Nestled against the wall, a regal queen-sized bed commanded the center stage, flanked by two modest nightstands. On the left, a generous window framed the wall, revealing a glimpse of the  wooden sanctuary beyond.

As she gazed through the window's translucent pane, a tingle of anticipation caressed her being. It was as if the wistful tendrils of nature, woven into the fabric of the scene, beckoned her. The sheer simplicity of the room was deceptive, for within its unassuming boundaries. A shiver traced its delicate fingers along her spine, electrifying the air with a gentle chill.

She shook it off as paranoia. 

As she ventured into the confines of the bathroom, her delicate fingers gently placed the small pills of respite into the trinity of mirrors ensconced within the cabinet. Ambien, a faithful companion in her torment against insomnia, found solace in this sanctuary. The affliction had haunted her since the early years of her high school debut when a merciless onslaught of ghastly nightmares infiltrated her slumber. Rarely, she could sleep without nightmares, rarely she could sleep at all. Not through a full night at least. In a valiant attempt to retain her grasp on reality, she adorned her abode with vibrant beacons of guidance, neon yellow sticky notes that served as simple reminders.

Before she placed the pills in their place, with meticulous care, she tenderly appraised the contents of each vial, her discerning gaze fixed upon the pills nested within. Twelve, she confirms. Retrieving a vibrant yellow sticky note from her pocket from her linen jacket, her blue pen danced across the note, etching the numbers upon the labels of both bottles with blue ink. 

Nestled gently beside the cabin lies a quaint garden, albeit a modest one, marred by a profusion of resilient weeds. Throughout her family’s lineage, they had cultivated a bounteous farm teeming with an abundance of blossoms, nourishing produce, and succulent fruits. This trio, her mother, father, and herself, helmed a "berry utopia"—an expanse of verdant fields, stretching across countless acres, brimming with an assortment of fruit:  blueberries, blackberries, vibrant raspberries, strawberries, and cranberries—each variety harvested with unyielding dedication.

As her gaze fell upon the  garden, now overrun and wild, a surge of nostalgia washed over her like a familiar melody from a song. The sight evoked memories of her home, where there were fields upon fields of saplings of fresh berries. Determination welled up within her, fueled by a profound sense of connection. With resolute certainty, she understood that this hallowed ground deserved to be restored to its former glory. And then this became her mission.

With a hum, she nestled into the plush embrace into the seat of her car, releasing a wearied sigh that spoke volumes about her exhaustion. The weight of countless sleepless nights seemed to settle beneath her eyes, casting shadowy hues that deepened with each passing moment. Her gaze drifted toward the console, where a vibrant neon yellow sticky note had found a temporary perch upon the sleek gear shift. Delicately scripted upon its surface were two simple yet poignant words: "Call Mom."

A flicker of recollection sparked within her. Reminding her of the promise she had made to her worry-laden mother. A call was expected, an assurance of her safe arrival. Jane, her mother, possessed a peculiar knack for turning fret into an art form, yet in her own idiosyncratic way, her daughter desired nothing more than the act of vanishing without a trace.

In the tender embrace of  Jane’s watchful care, her protective nature has forever been her daughters steadfast companion. Jane ardently desired for [Y/N] to remain by her side, nestled within the sanctuary of her love, tending to the bountiful fields of the farm until the end of days. Undoubtedly, affection for her only child knows no bounds, yet an undeniable sense of confinement subtly gnawed at her being. 

Since the untimely demise of [Y/N]’s beloved father, a transformative shift enveloped her mother's being. Like a shadow cast by the moon's gentle glow, she became an ever-watchful sentinel, closely monitoring her daughter's every step with unwavering dedication. Her love took on an armor of protection, shielding [Y/N] from the world's perils with an intensity that left her in awe. The mere notion of forging friendships seemed inconceivable, friends were near to few, yet she made it through. 

As she embarked on her journey to the store, a fleeting thought of reaching out to her beloved mother danced in her mind, promising to materialize into a heartfelt conversation once she fulfilled her immediate errands. Before delving into the realm of garden essentials, a trusty blue ballpoint pen found its place in her hand, etching a list: a delightful assortment of blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, and  blackberries. A sudden mishap tainted the pristine clarity of the yellow paper, as her thumb inadvertently collided with the wet ink, obfuscating the very last word with an smudge, rendering it a mere blur, without her noticing

The jingle reverberating through the air above the door was no delightful melody, but rather a haunting creak that sent shivers down one's spine. As the door swung shut, it unleashed a piercing screech, its brass hinges groaning under the weight of accumulated rust. In that moment, it seemed as though a flurry of white paint chips had erupted into the air, propelled by the force with which the door had slammed shut. She was consumed by a wave of embarrassment, cast her gaze around, desperately seeking an opportunity to offer a timid apology to the cashier. Regrettably, the name tag affixed to the cashier's uniform bore the name "Ranae Reeds," yet the older woman remained oblivious to the commotion, deeply engrossed in the captivating narrative of her newspaper, so captivated that she spared not even a passing glance.

The quaint little store exuded an ambiance both intimate and grundgy. Its petite dimensions were adorned with luminous streams of yellow light, gently cascading overhead, a mesmerizing sight that lured a vibrant array of insects, their presence immortalized by a delicate layer of expired life at the base of the ceiling fixtures. Amidst this glow, a second source of illumination emerged from the rear of the store, emanating from the flickering glow of the freezers, whose contents contained nothing but dairy products.

Four rows stood in perfect formation, each aisle beckoning with an irresistible allure. Yet, it was the initial 3rd island that caught her attention. Like echoes from her college days, these rows overflowed with an abundance of budget-friendly delights, an ensemble of delectable junk food.

On the 4th and final row, she found what she needed; seeds.  She picked up a variety of packets of seeds, holding the small packets between her fingers. Blueberry, Raspberries, and strawberries—She was missing one thing

She nestled her hands into the cozy refuge of her coat pocket, avidly searching for that elusive neon yellow sticky note. Days of inadequate slumber had exacted their toll, leaving her mental acuity adrift in a sea of drowsiness, a constant companion to her weary mind.

The yellow paper must have slipped out somewhere. 

As she turned to retrace her steps, her gaze fell upon a figure standing a few feet away. Dressed in a dark hoodie that seemed to swallow his form, he was an enigmatic presence amidst the mundane shopping atmosphere. His face was partially concealed by a dark yellow hood, casting intriguing shadows upon his features.

She hesitated for a moment, unsure if she should approach him. But something compelled her to step forward, her curiosity overpowering any apprehension she might have felt. With a nervous yet determined smile, she approached the figure.

"’scuse me," she began, her voice tentative but polite with a southern accent slipping through her lips. "I seem to have dropped something, and was wonderin if you happened to see a yellow sticky note?"

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting hers through the darkness of the hood. His gaze was intense, as if trying to unravel the secrets hidden behind her words. Without a word, he bent down and picked up the stray yellow sticky note from the floor, holding it out to her.

Relief washed over her as she accepted the note, feeling a strange connection form in that brief exchange. "Thank you lots," she said, her gratitude evident in her voice. "I wouldve been lost without this."

As she looked up to thank him, her eyes widened in surprise. The hood that had previously obscured his face had fallen back, revealing his features in full. His brown hair was unkempt, falling across his forehead in a disheveled manner, matching the roughness of his beard. There was a weariness etched into his face, as if he carried the weight of a world unseen.

His eyes, though tired, possessed an unmistakable glimmer of something deep and complex. They held a mix of vulnerability and strength, as if he had seen things that most could never comprehend. The lines around his eyes spoke of experiences that had left their mark, making him seem older than his years.

He was quite handsome, [Y/N] thought.

A ghost of a smile played upon his lips as he nodded in response to her thanks, acknowledging her gratitude. “Ain't no trouble.," he replied, his voice a low rumble that held a hint of grave and southern twang. "Happy to lend a hand."

Silence hung in the air for a moment, as if both of them were caught in a suspended moment, each waiting for the other to break the spell. It seemed like the man found himself unable to tear his gaze away. 

‘Dude, fucking break eye contact, this is getting weird’, She thought as an awkward frown formed on her face.

Her eyes flickered to the red gallon he held in his hand, the word gasoline emblazoned across it. Questions formed in her mind, but she hesitated, deciding against asking him directly. There was an unspoken understanding that some things were better left unsaid.

Instead, she mustered a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, thanks again," she said, her voice warm with sincerity. "It was nice of ya to help me out."

His lips curled into a slightly deeper smile, a tooth gap evident, a hint of something genuine breaking through his stoic demeanor. "No worries," he replied, his voice tinged with a quiet appreciation, before going back to looking at the seeds. 

The way his lips curled into a grin, sent shivers down the curve of her spine. Though his smile, expansive and brimming with teeth, held a peculiar detachment within the depths of his eyes, a dissonance that left her unsettled. His lips, etched into a smile, never reached his eyes. Like an emotionless facaque. He had something of a crooked grin, skewed in its authenticity, that just didn't seem right Deep within her core, an unsettling awareness resonated, silently cautioning her about the man before her. Still, an irresistible force tugged at her very being, pulling her closer to his presence.

She glanced down at her yellow sticky note for the last item, only for the blue writing to be smudged. 

“Fuck.”

The man couldn’t help but notice the frustration on her face as she stared at the yellow sticky note in her hand. The item she had written on it was smudged, rendering it illegible. He cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them in the garden aisle at the back of the store.

"Hey again,  uh... , 'scuse me for interrupting but aah couldn't help but notice yer frustration. Do you still need a hand?" The man had asked, his voice gentle and concerned.

Startled by his sudden address, she looked up, her eyes meeting his. She blinked a few times, trying to regain her composure. "Oh, hey. uh... i was just trying to remember what i needed to buy," she stammered, a hint of embarrassment displayed on her face. 

He nodded, understanding the struggle of forgetfulness. His gaze fell upon a rack of seed packets nearby. "Well, if yer open to suggestions, there's this type of berry seed that might do the trick.  They're strong and grow plenty. Might just be what ya searchin for.”

She hummed, her eyes widening as she turned her attention to the seed packets he indicated. She scanned them, reading the descriptions and imagining the bountiful berries that could grow from them. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

"Imma give em’ a try," [Y/N] replied, grateful for the suggestion,"Thank you."

He reached out, plucked a seed packet from the rack, and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed briefly, a fleeting connection that sent a shiver down her spine. She accepted the packet, feeling the weight of the possibilities it held.

"Yer welcome," He had said with a genuine smile that still didn't reach his eyes. "Aah sure hope they bring you a fruitful harvest." he laughs.

As she held the seed packet in her hand, she couldn't help but be struck by a sudden curiosity. "Do you gotta a garden?" [Y/N] laughed, “You sure seemed to know lots bout’ plants and whatnot.”

His smile faltered slightly, and he glanced away for a moment. "Well, I used to have one," he replied softly. "But things shifted ‘round, and aah had to leave it behind… but ah’m fixin’ to start a new’un.” He drawled out with a smile. 

Understanding flickered in her eyes, and she nodded in sympathy. Sometimes life forces people to leave behind things they hold dear. It reminded her of something, but she just couldnt put her finger on it. Before she could delve further into the subject, his phone buzzed loudly, interrupting their conversation.

He fished it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. A serious expression settled on his face as he answered the call. His voice was barely audible, and he moved away from her, creating a physical distance between them.

She watched him, a mixture of caution and curiosity mingling within her. His hushed conversation gave away little, leaving her to wonder about the nature of the call. 

As the call ended, He turned back to face her, his eyes filled with a mixture of apology and urgency. He didn't say a word but mouthed a goodbye, his hand waving gently in farewell. Without another word, he swiftly made his way out of the garden aisle, leaving her standing there, holding the seed packet in her hand.

“I wish i would’ve at least gotten his name.” [Y/N] hummed, rubbing the packet in her hand. She really hopes that the man was right about this seed packet.

She read the packet again, more carefully. The packet read Boysenberry. A cross between  a raspberry, blackberry, dewberry, and loganberry. She could make this work. The picture showed something like a blackberry , yet it was enlongated and a deep red, almost black color. The description read that when freshly picked, it tasted like a sweet blueberry with a tangy aftertaste. 

[Y/N] grabbed a few more more things: 2 bags of fertilizer, Top Soil, and Green gloves

She sighed, walking towards the front desk, flashing a soft smile towards the cashier, Ranae Reeds, she recalled. The woman’s name tag was worn around the edges, with her name partially faded. Much like the name tag, Ranae was a little worn around the edges. With her gray roots, her deep smile lines told tales of a younger, happier her.  

Ranae Reeds delicately placed her magazine, adorned with the captivating headline, "Infamous Serial Killer, Jeffery Woods caught," on the polished surface before her. [Y/N]’s eyes beheld the image of a man whose countenance bore the unmistakable evidence of two hauntingly deep gashes etched into his cheeks, and a profound sensation seized her being. The spectacle unfolded before her like an eerie tableau—an unsettling tableau that seemed to suspend the very breath in her throat. Its sheer grotesqueness sent tremors coursing through her, causing the hairs on the nape of her neck to rise in response.

Ranae cashier merely looked at the younger girl, almost with sympathy.

The cashier took the seed packets with a shaky hand, her golden bracelet jingling  as she scanned the packets of seeds with a ding of the scanner, “I ain’t neva seen ya round’ before.” Ranae spoke with assertiveness and confidence, surprisingly, as her stature was rather petite and she seemed to be soft-spoken. But that was in fact not the case.

[Y/N] was taken aback by her sudden curiosity, she blinked and said, “I just got ere’ this morning, moved in today.” She rocked back and forth on her toes and heels, eagerly wanting to leave already.

Ranae looked at her up and down with a bored expression on her face and asked, “Where yer from girl?” Her lips never moved from the straight line that almost seemed to be formed. Her freckled hands grabbed the fertilizer as she scraped the bag of pellets across the scanner, never taking her eyes off of  [Y/N].

DING. 

“Oh, aah’m from Kansas. Born n’ raised.” [Y/N] didn't have a Southern dialect—well, not anymore. It only slips out on occasion, particularly when talking to someone else with a southern twang. Her momma and daddy always had a thick southern voice, as they were both from Texas and moved to Kansas. 

Kansasans don’t exactly have an accent, besides not pronouncing the “R” in words. Yet, they got a way of speaking that you can clearly tell their from somewhere in the West.  If you went south, close to the Oklahoma border, the accent would get thicker as you went. 

Ranae hummed, almost like she had something to say, yet she bit her tongue. She scanned the items slowly, like she was purposely taking her time.

[Y/N] shook her leg rapidly, impatience growing within her as she watched Ranae struggle to bag the items in a brown paper bag. 

DING.

“My PawPaw and MawMaw died recently, so I inherited their cabin down by Grand Lake,” She said in attempt to fill the silence that annoyed her so much, in hope to pass the time. [Y/N] has always been rather extroverted, starting conversations with strangers she didn't mind, it was this silence that ate at her. The silence was bugs crawling underneath her skin, like roaches gnawing at her veins as they swam in her blood. 

Ranae merely hummed again, scanning an item, completely uninterested in the  conversation at hand, letting silence fall over the conversation once more. The silence was only broken by tapping of [Y/N]’s leather boots, which were worn out and needed replacement. 

“A man named Willard Tucker used to live there—“

DING.

“Ya best be careful round that house,” Ranae suddenly spoke up, her brown eyes boring into the girls, a serious expression took over her features,“There been rumors bout’ some folks down by those parts doing god knows what.” The woman's veiny hands wandered through the bag of fertilizer in search of the bar code.

[Y/N] stiffened at her sudden demeanor. “I see,” She watched intensively as Ranae scanned the last item before bagging it into a brown bag and pushing it towards [Y/N].  

Y/N smiles, “I’Il be sure to be careful—“

“And ya best be careful round that man that was in ere’ earlier. Aah’ve seen him do some suspicious things with those little friends of his.” Ranae cut her off once again, except her loud and apprehensive nature was no more; instead, it was quiet, and she was talking merely above a whisper. 

“He’s up to no good, girl.” Ranae’s eyes once again, bore into [Y/N]’s with a sense of urgency and protection. Ranae reminded [Y/N] of her mother, Jane. From the way, she spoke with a protectiveness of a mother to her veiny freckled hands that trembled constantly. 

DING.

[Y/N] hummed, taking the brown bags underneath her arms hastily, “I will don't worry.” She reassured Ranae with a tight-lipped smile, before pushing through the door that opened with a groan.

The smell of summer once again hit her, and she inhaled the sweet, tangy air. It was humid as well, the weather was hot and sticky. [Y/N] was used to it from being on a farm for all of her life, yet she never really enjoyed it. Her dad, Steve, enjoyed the heat, he loved it. He would always drag her out of the house when it was well into the 90’s.

She really misses her dad.

[Y/N] threw the brown bags in the tail bed of her 1995 Ford 150. She slid into the plush fabric of her seat, shutting the car door behind her as she slumped against the leather steering wheel. 

“Why in the hell is it so damn hot?” 

She peeled herself off of the steering wheel, her head heavy as drowsiness took over. partly from the lack of sleep, and the warm sun that scattered it’s light against her face.

She shoves the old, almost rusty, key into the ignition, turning it to start the car. The car sputtered, before failing to start. [Y/N] sighed, before trying again, turning the key in the ignition. Yet again, it groaned and sputtered with a metallic scratching noise that sounded like nails on a chalkboard. 

It was an old truck, a gift for her 16th birthday. Painted a dark red that rusted around its silver rims, the truck was a relic, almost like a family heirloom that her family passed down from one generation to the next. It was frequent that the truck wouldn't start, constantly breaking down from a plethora of problems. It wasn't just one problem with the truck, but everything. The engine, the ground cables, the filter, overheating-- the truck almost had every problem in the book.

“I swear to fucking god,” She turns it for the third time, Please, god, start.” She pleaded as the engine sputtered once more, before roaring to life with fever. 

[Y/N] slumped her head on her steering wheel once more and said, “Thank you,” She kissed the leather steering wheel, thankful that the universe had answered her pleas. 

With the roar of the engine [Y/N] peeled out of the small parking lot of the Grocery Store.

Within the forgotten garden, an eerie silence lingered, broken only by the faint rustle of weeds that thrived unchecked. Like rebellious tendrils, the vibrant greens stretched beyond the confines of the patch of tilled earth, entwining their wiry strands with the blades of grass and any unsuspecting object within reach. Mushrooms and fungi covered the garden like a blanket, growing in mass abundance. This unruly congregation of vegetation and fungi seemed to possess a will of its own, reclaiming its dominion over a forsaken realm. Amongst the overgrown foliage, unseen insects and arachnids sought refuge, their presence betrayed only by an occasional scuttle or a shimmer of silken threads. Camouflaged amidst the verdant chaos, they patiently awaited their next unsuspecting prey, ready to seize upon any who ventured too close. 

As the sun descended in the western sky, its golden rays extended through the dense foliage of towering oak trees, painting a mesmerizing tapestry of light and shadow. The ethereal dance of illumination and obscurity enveloped the scene, amplifying the eeriness that permeated the air. The songs of robins and mourning doves serenaded the somber landscape, their delicate melodies contrasting with the ominous backdrop. Amidst the rustling leaves and trilling birds, She heard the distant grunt of a white-tailed deer. And as the final rays of sunlight retreated beyond the horizon, they bathed the discovery in a soft, eerie glow, accentuating the unsettling sight before the witness's eyes.

[Y/N] glanced at her phone, which glowed an illuminating white. She looked at the white numbers that read: 6:00 PM.  

She stretched her limps as they  ached from hours of being hunched over digging to completely remove the wild grass and herbs that grew. Her arms gave a satisfying crack, just as her back did in response. She had napped for a satisfying 7 hours,only waking a few times. [Y/N] was suprised that she was able to nap in general. She was content and fully recharged. On the downside, she probably won’t be able to get any rest tonight. 

At least she'll be able to stay awake binging Netflix.

With a determined grip, she thrust her green gloves into the yielding earth, their fabric sinking into the damp soil as she uprooted the herbs with a swift, purposeful tug. As she pulled, the tips of her gloves absorbed the essence of the earth, their vibrant hue now tainted by the stubborn remnants of the earth's bounty. The once-pristine fingers of her gloves were adorned with a telltale shade of brown, evidence of their close association with the soil. And beneath the surface, her nails bore the weight of the garden's secrets, caked with a fine layer of dirt that clung tenaciously to the thin, porous material. 

[Y/N]’s mind wandered as she aimlessly dug through the soil, ripping the herbs from their roots like tendrils. Until her hands gripped something that squished beneath her fingers.

She gazed down, her eyes widening in pure horror, as a gut-wrenching sight unfolded before her. In her trembling hands, a writhing mass of maggots squirmed with repulsive vigor, their pale bodies contorting and intertwining in an unsettling dance. The pungent stench of decay wafted through the air, assaulting her senses and threatening to overpower her resolve. As her grip tightened involuntarily, the soft flesh of the larvae ruptured, smearing her trembling hands with a sickening mixture of viscera and fluids. The once-innocent soil beneath her feet became a graveyard for crushed worms, their slimy remnants mingling with her fingers, an unholy stain that marked her as both witness and participant in this grotesque scene. 

[Y/N] let out a blood churdling scream as she stumbled backwards from her squatting position, landing on her backside. She frantically swiped her hands together to get the maggots off as they fell into the grass beside her. 

The squirming maggots, now a grotesque spectacle in the dew-kissed grass, seemed to writhe in agony. Their once pale, plump bodies were now stained crimson, their delicate flesh bearing the gruesome evidence of their fallen brethren.  Each wriggling creature fought desperately, their tiny frames flayed violently as they were torn away from their decaying feast. The gore of destruction painted the once vibrant green blades of grass a haunting shade of red.

“What the actual fuck?” 

Laying where [Y/N]’s gloved hand dug, was a mound of dirt that maggots swarmed, their white skin hiding beneath the dirt.

[Y/N]’s curiosity peaked exponentially as she moved closer to the mound, dirt staining her knees brown. Her gloves dug through the maggots filled mound, her stomach filling with uneasiness as they glided through the soil.

Suddenly, her hands struck a soft, pudgy, material. [Y/N] dug through the dirt to fully uncover the mound, and as maggots crawled anxiously around her hands, she recoiled in disgust. She was sure it must be a dead animal, and the land must have grown around it, right? 

[Y/N] knew the stench of death, and didn't partially mind the sight of dead animals. Her father, Steve, was a frequent hunter of deer and other game, to which [Y/N] accompanied him. Steve had taught her from a young age how to field dress a deer. Hanging the deer up by its hooves to a tree, she remembers taking her father's hunting knife and running it down the belly of the animal-- very gently to not puncture the belly. Scooping the contents of the deer out, leaving the inside of the deer completely bare. That was the easy part. Now to field dress the deer, was a tedious and lengthy process, using the tip of her knife to slowly peel the hide off of the animal. Hours would pass in the blistering Kansas heat and wind. It was revolting, yet she grew accustomed to the sight.

For her 13th birthday, she was gifted an old 22. rifle from Steve—an old gun that needed to constantly be cleaned and scoped in. The bullets weren’t made for large game such as deer, but they did work on prairie dogs that plagued cow farmers' fields. Eventually, she got a .300 WIN MAG, which now sat below her bed.

She had guessed the rotting carcass of an anwinsle from the potent smell wafting through the air. An unmistakable and haunting odor tainted the air, suffusing every inhalation with a chilling foreboding. It was the stench of death, a macabre orchestra composed of decaying flesh and the ghostly remnants of blood.  

As she slowly uncovered the mound, it became more and more apparent what the mound was. Her hands swiped away the last layer of dirt and maggots to reveal the form underneath the soil. 

[Y/N]’s features contorted with sheer terror again, the lines of his face etched deep with despair. The pallor of her skin turned with goosebumps, a stark contrast to the clammy beads of perspiration that clung to her furrowed brow. Eyes wide, they became twin portals to the void, reflecting the depths of her fear—paralyzed.

A corpse, abandoned to the earth, lies in a state of advanced decomposition. Its once vibrant form is now a haunting testament to the inevitability of mortality. The body, stripped of life, is a pillar of grotesque transformations. The flesh has given way to a grotesque canvas, with patches of decomposed tissue revealing glimpses of bone beneath. The skin, mottled and discolored, hangs loosely, tattered and ravaged by relentless decay. Time etched deep crevices into the once-familiar countenance, obscuring any resemblance to the person it once was. Swarms of maggots and other scavengers feast upon the remains, their writhing presence further amplifying the scene's repulsive nature. 

 Bile crawled up through [Y/N]’s as she doubled over, vomiting into the grass next to her. Food chunks and liquid sprayed the green grass a vomit brown. A tremor coursed through her trembling frame, betraying her tenuous grasp on composure. It was in this harrowing moment that horror unfurled its chilling wings, casting an indelible veil upon her face—a blanket of anguish. The very air seemed to quiver in the presence of such raw, unadulterated fear, as if nature itself recoiled in silent reverence for the intensity of her terror. 

She had torn off her gloves as she scrambled across the grass, grabbing her phone, in an attempt to distance herself as much as possible from the corpse. Her surroundings seemed to spin as the drum of her heart overtook her hearing as well as the sound of the dial tone. When did she call 911?

“This is 911, what’s your emergency?” A woman's voice came from the other side of the phone. Calm, and tender, her voice was comforting. Yet her voice was almost muffled as [Y/N]'s heartbeat filled her eardrums.

“I," [Y/N]'s breath was shaky, quiet as she spoke with a sense of urgency, "Would like to report a dead body."

tag, @rat-briccs-trauma, @strawberrie-fluff, @spookyravioli @darkovergrownforestnymph, @urmomisaqt420 @yipeeesstuff

.@qupiikaaa @fynnwolff

[johnwickb1tsch]

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) Part 3

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1 PART 2 PART 4

PART 3

The rest of dinner is pleasant, but not terribly emotionally eventful, comparatively. You survive by telling stories about Helen from when you were children, which John listens to with a wistful look in his eye. Maybe it's the wine, and the excellent food, but that sharp edge in his obsidian eyes softens, somehow. It is endearing, and your heart aches more than it should.

You are so full you try to decline dessert, but the special is a chocolate mousse and John insists you should split one, even if you only have a bite. You are not sure if the waiter brings one spoon on purpose, but you watch with fascination as John takes the utensil between his long fingers and scoops up a delectable little nibble.

When he offers it to you from across the table you think you might die. You have had far too much wine to not do exactly what you want to now, which is to accept the sweet morsel between your lips while meeting his eyes, wishing it was something else.

Your panties are drenched by the time the meal is through. You know that you are the worst, living vicariously through your older, better, sister, but just in that beautiful moment, its hard to care.

You can always hate yourself properly tomorrow. 

John's hand finds a home at the small of your back as you are leaving. You know there are Feminist! reasons to hate when a man does that, but secretly it’s your kryptonite at the end of a long evening when there’s a crowd to navigate and you're tired and not really sure which way to go.

“Can I drive you home?” he asks, looking down that straight patrician nose at you. You could draw him from memory, you've studied his features so much tonight. You probably will, later, when you’re alone in your apartment with just the reminiscence of him.

“I live in Brooklyn,” you warn him.

He seems amused by this.

“I know.”

You pause for a moment at this. But then, it’s not so strange he knows. Helen could have mentioned it a hundred times.

“Okay.”

When the valet rumbles up in a sinister black American sports car, you lift an eyebrow. 

“This is yours?”

“Did you think I would drive a Mercedes like some kind of asshole?”

The next car in the valet line is a Mercedes, and the stodgy old dude behind you who just exudes Old Money looks like he's received an extra stick inserted in his ass. You huff, your lips twisting as you are fighting a grin.

“Usually I would make a crack about a midlife crisis, but it really does suit you.” You'd heard tell of The Car, but had never actually gotten to see it.

“Kind of you to say.” It’s so deadpan it takes a moment for you to realize he’s teasing you. 

He holds the door for you, and you can tell by the way he’s looking at you that he has not taken anything you've said seriously, or personally.

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

The car is kind of bare bones inside, but it is undeniably cool. The sound of the motor is a tactile experience—you feel it in your bones as you pull away and take off down the street. You feel it other places too, as you look over at John seamlessly working the gears. Perhaps you look at him longer than what is polite, thinking about how once Helen used to sit in this seat, and they would undoubtedly go on adventures upstate, her cameras in tow.

You close your eyes, because you are tired, and you are thinking, and for the umpteenth time you are fighting tears. As you go across the Brooklyn bridge you roll down the window. The cool air helps clear your head.

The lights of the city at night from up high are a treat. Usually you're taking the subway.

Only once you arrive at your building and John parks on the street do you realize you never really gave him any directions. But once again, you shrug it off. 

There is a long moment of silence after he turns off the engine. The intimacy of an enclosed car at night, the weak light of the street barely intruding. “Do...you want to come up for a drink?” you ask, before you can really stop yourself.

Another long moment passes, as he looks at you in the shadows of the car, undoubtedly weighing the merits of this suggestion. His dark eyes glitter in the night, and your heart is in your throat, hoping he'll say yes.

“Sure.”

He is watchful as a hawk of the street as you make your way to the security door of your walkup. He frowns when you simply pull the door open, no working lock. 

“How long has that been like that?”

“At least a year. Shall we say the landlord moves at his own pace?”

“Give me his number.”

You laugh. “Ok.”

“I’m serious.”

You pause to look at him, his face half in shadow. A chill runs down your spine, the hair lifting on your arms; he is so beautiful, but there is something dangerous about this man. Something only your deepest instincts left over from the days of life in caves picks up on. It is…intoxicating, because somehow you know you are not the one who needs fear him.

Your landlord, on the other hand…you might be getting that new lock sooner than later.

You start to climb the stairs. When your heel catches the edge of the old wooden runner he is there, steadying you with a hand on your waist. You lean into him without a thought. He's taken charge of you, for the evening at least, and you are more than happy with the arrangement.

For the evening, at least.

Your key sticks in the vintage lock, the way it always does. The more modern deadbolt goes quicker. And then you are inside your humble sanctuary, and you can tell John is a little shocked by the cacophony before him. Helen liked the ordered balance of modern design, but you are a maximalist at heart. The walls are covered in art, your own, and friends’, and collected pieces as well. There are little shelves filled with curios from your travels and thrift stores around the city. What isn't filled with art is taken up by plants, on the floor, and side tables you have rescued from the curb over the years, and hanging from the ceiling too.

“Come on,” you say, taking his arm to guide him through. It's not actually messy. Everything has its place, and is fairly clean. The space is just full. “Have a seat. What do you drink?”

He lowers himself onto your cerulean blue couch, still looking around. It’s almost as though he forces himself to look back up at you.

“Bourbon, if you've got it.”

“Sure.”

You slide off your coat, hanging it on a vintage brass coat rack from an old hotel long defunct. 

“Ice?”

“A little.” 

You make his drink, and a vodka tonic for yourself. You cross the room to join him. “Thanks,” he says as you hand him his glass. 

“Sure.”

He is still surveying the room, and you are content to sit in companionable silence while he takes it all in, used to this reaction from newcomers.

“Did you make these?” he asks, looking to a cluster of small but highly detailed portrait paintings on the wall closest to you.

“Yes.”

They had taken months with a tiny 20/0 brush. You can be…obsessive, when a project grips you.

“Impressive.”

“Thanks.”

“May I...” He pauses, taking a deep draught, nearly finishing his drink in one go. “I overheard, this morning. About the piece, with Helen's photographs. I know Helen said you don't like people in your studio, but I was wondering...if I could see it.”

It dawns on you that this is the reason he agreed to come up. Possibly the reason he took you to dinner too. You are relieved, in a way, even if your heart aches a little for it.

Even though it’s true that you usually hate letting anyone into your studio, the place where you think and dream and create, the resting place for the unborn and half-finished creations of your imagination, you do not hesitate in your answer.

“Yes. Of course you can see it.”

You stand from the couch and hold out your hand to him without thinking, and he takes it. It’s as though you both know you're going to need a little extra emotional bolstering for the task ahead. You take him to the second bedroom that is your art studio. The smell of linseed oil and paint is heavy on first entry, though you are used to it.

Helen’s piece is still on your easel, the most recent thing you’ve finished. Usually you like to work small, but this canvas was five feet on both sides. It took you months to go through the boxes of photos she’d left you, then to lay it all out, deciding which photo went where according to value and structure. You could have done it easier with photoshop, but the personal quality of this project demanded completion by hand, from start to finish.

To complicate things more, you used a transfer technique to affix them to the canvas, giving the images a hazy dream-like quality. In between it all you had painted with miniscule strokes, miniature scenes and tiny embellishments, adding color, pumping up contrast and value. There were words she had said to you, short one sentence stories from your childhoods, and miniature daisies sprouting through the cracks. It was a galaxy of image and memory, each square foot containing a multitude. Yet when you stood back and unfocused your eyes, it was unmistakably her face looking back at you, larger than life, beautiful and filled with warmth.   

The subject of the photos ranged from her arty pieces of architecture and landscapes from trips she’d taken, to more candid shots of family and friends. There were also several images of John, and it occurred to you that maybe you should have okayed that with him. You’d been working in the pitch of such a fever dream with the materials Helen had left you, it hadn’t even occurred to you at the time to reach out to ask. You’d made this piece in a damn near fugue state, swinging between working rapaciously and crying in a ball on the floor. There had been some catharsis in finally finishing it, but the process had damn near killed you.

“I hope it’s okay…that you’re in it,” you say as he stands before the canvas, his exacting gaze taking in every detail of every inch.

He has not let go of your hand; in fact, his grip has tightened almost painfully upon your fingers. You don’t think he realizes he’s even doing it, and you let him hurt you, the way you’re pretty sure you’re hurting him with this visceral reminder of the life of the woman he’d loved.

“I’m honored,” he says, his voice hoarse with emotion, his jaw clenched. “Such a full life she lived.”

“Only the good die young,” you answer, barely able to raise your volume above a whisper against the constriction in your throat. “It’s not fucking fair. All the horrible people in the world…and the fates took her.” Your voice cracks. Your eyes are burning, and you know you are on the brink of losing your shit again. He pulls you in against him, and there are no arguments this time about preserving his suit or your dignity. It’s too easy, to settle into the solid warmth of his chest. This man feels like he could be a bastion against all that is bad in the world; it is hard not to wish to just stay there beneath his chin forever.

“I would have traded, if given a choice,” you whisper into his collarbone. “In a heartbeat.”

“Me too,” he answers. “But she never would have allowed it. She loved you beyond measure.”

You give a tinny, sad little laugh—or maybe it’s a sob—for the tragedy of it all. You know that no one—no one—will ever love you the way Helen did. Will ever protect you, the way Helen did. You will wander the Earth for the rest of your days with a Helen-shaped hole in your heart that will never heal.

“I know she felt the same about you.” Minutely you lift your head to look up at him. “It’s easy to understand why.” You touch his face lightly, wiping away the tear that is hovering on the blade of his cheekbone with the side of your thumb. When you realize how casually you have invaded this man’s personal space, this man who has been so kind and tolerant of you, you try to draw away. But his hand covers yours on his cheek, the scruff of his beard surprisingly soft beneath your palm.

Your eyes meet, and you can see that John is drowning in the loneliness of so much loss. You reckon you look about the same; this day has left you feeling like you fed your heart through a meat grinder. Pushed to the brink, perhaps there is little wonder that when his face descends, you do nothing at all to fight it.

Yet he does not kiss you.

His lips hover above yours, and you think you might expire of longing, caught in the limbo of waiting. He brushes the tip of your nose with his. It is almost unbearably sweet. You feel like it’s a gesture between two people who have been in love for ages. A remembered gesture, a sweet habit left from a different relationship, a different woman you resemble, but can never really be. 

You should stop this. You should back away before you both get hurt. But then his lips touch yours, and any small amount of resolve you might have worked up to do the right thing shatters.

At first it is the simplest press of lips; light, and sweet. He is shaking; or maybe it’s you who is? He rests his forehead against yours, savoring the moment, or trying to talk himself out of whatever it is he is about to do.

It’s his choice, you know.

You no longer possess the willpower to stop him either way, and your wicked heart rejoices when he leans in to kiss you again. Still, he is gentle with you, as though you are a thing in his grasp that might break.

 He isn’t wrong about that, and yet as the kisses go on, you feel it in him when something snaps—the change is sudden, and visceral, and you cannot withstand the onslaught as he slants his mouth over yours. It is like being caught in a hurricane, grabbed up by his inexorable strength and the fury of his desire. You’re not really a small woman, but he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing at all, backing you into the wall.

You know it’s wrong, somewhere in the back of your head, but it feels so good. Or maybe, it could be right? Maybe it could be ok, to take comfort in this certain someone who also loved the person you lost. Doesn’t that balance, somehow?

You are full of shit, but you also don’t care.

All you know is that he’s hiked your leg over his hip as he’s kissing you, and you can feel the hard length of him pressing into your center, and you might collapse with the heady pleasure of it all.

You reach for his belt, but he catches your hands, panting as he presses his forehead against yours again. “Let me touch you?” His words are laced with such a mix of fragility and need that you know no matter what he asks you for tonight, you won’t say no.

A trembling sigh escapes you as you nod, and he kisses you again, hard and hungry and you’ve never surrendered so willingly to anyone before in your life. He’s running a hand up your thigh to the molten core of you, pushing your underwear aside to slide a single long finger inside your desire-slicked body, and you are lost.

Utterly wrecked, and irrevocably lost. 

He toys with your swollen little clit with his thumb while he finger fucks you, his mouth on your neck and you are so close, before he picks you up all together like you weigh fucking nothing, and walks you to the couch in the other room. A vague thought enters the cloud of your sex-addled brain, a small sense of relief that he has removed you from Helen’s watchful gaze on the easel.

Any guilt you might feel vanishes with the thrill of him dropping you on the soft cushions, which is only topped by him dropping to his knees before you in that beautiful suit, (that beautiful suit!), and hooking his fingers in your panties, practically tearing them down your thighs.

There is a moment of eye contact, that burning dark stare that bores a hole straight to your soul, before he falls on you like he means to devour you whole and lick the bones clean. You’ve never felt anything like his furious mouth on you, the hard licks and soft kisses, the circling of his tongue around your clit, the relentless pleasure he mercilessly bestows until your back is arching and you cannot stop and you cannot wait, you are cumming in his mouth.

It’s the most magnificent thing you’ve ever felt, this fierce and fiery pleasure that is like fireworks inside your cunt and across your skin, and he keeps licking you slowly through the tremors and the aftershocks until you beg for mercy.

There is a moment of reverent quiet, while he rests his cheek on your thigh, your hands stroking his long dark hair. But when you try to reach for him, “Come up here,”—you are suddenly in his arms again, and he is carrying you to your bedroom, laying you down. You expect him to climb in with you, but with a flourish he covers you with the sheet, effectively trapping you, pressing a hard but reverent kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest, y/n.”

“Wait!” you plead as he is walking to the door, dizzy from the whiplash of this change of direction. You hate the desperation in your voice but at the moment you’re unable to care. “Where are you going?” Even you can hear how pathetic you sound.

He stops in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. His profile is half in shadow. He looks like a masterpiece by Carravagio, beautiful and terrible to behold. You want to paint him in this moment, almost as badly as you want to fuck him.

“I’m going home.” You cannot tell if that is regret in his voice, or pure exhaustion?

“Why?” You know you sound wretched, like the lost little girl you are inside.

“Good night, y/n.”

Then he is gone like a shadow, like he’d never been there at all. You barely even hear the front door snick shut. If it was not for the glorious soreness between your legs, maybe you would have thought it was all just a magnificent dark dream your twisted little imagination thought up.

You weren’t usually prone to such dramatic thoughts, but it was possible that John Wick had just ruined you for all other men, and you didn’t even get to see him naked.

PART 4>>

Part 1 Part 2

[cyvonix]

Cyv Reads Homestuck - Act 3 Wrapup

where doing it man

where MAKING THIS HAPEN

Holy SHIT, where do I even begin? Act 1 was fun. I enjoyed it. Act 2 intrigued me. It kept me wanting more. Act 3, by all accounts, has latched its hooks all the way into me. I am IN, dude. While this act retains the quirky and random interactions that made the previous ones so casually enjoyable, the astonishing leap in the density and frequency of narratively interesting content here is undeniable. And now, at the end of it, I'm the most excited I've been to see the next turns these insane plot threads will take, and how these characters, who have fully endeared me by this point, will develop.

All of the characters have been left in a place that leaves the story ripe to explore so many things. Starting with John, who has now reached the first gate. I have no idea what that even means for him. I know that it was the goal, and that apparently each will be more difficult to reach, but we haven't been told in any way what the journey to those other gates will actually entail. The side story with his dad trapped in the dark kingdom has also been fun to witness, and I'm sure we'll be getting more of that soon enough.

With Rose, it leaves the most obvious cliffhanger. Now that she has also entered the Incipisphere, what happens? We've only seen one character in this environment thus far, so who's to say what adding another one to the mix will even look like? Dave has obviously been tasked with being Rose's server player (the ways he fucks with her game even in the face of imminent despair was absolutely hilarious) so that leaves me to wonder if he will also be transported into this world at some point, but also how Rose will be able to simultaneously manage John's game now that she has a client world of her own to take care of. The other interesting thing with Dave is his relationship to his brother, which clearly hints at the parental figures in their lives being absent in one way or another. With Dave also so clearly seeming to look up to his brother in an immense way, I think that could lead to some really great storytelling.

And then, there's Jade. Oh lord. What can I even say about Jade Harley, other than rambling off the many ways in which I was bewildered by her constant disregard of every "normal" aspect of the three other kids. My point being that she is a total and complete mystery. She seems extremely sweet, and almost aloof, but has by far the most compelling narrative implications of any of the cast. Not only does she not have surviving family at all, instead being cared for, or at least assumed to be, by some sort of magical dog creature of unknown origin named Becquerel, but she is also living on some sort of secluded island littered with ruins that seem to beg the reader to ask their purpose. As if that weren't enough, we now know that she is capable of using her dreams to see into both the past and future, to reasons that are unknown even to her. And as we've already seen how this can drastically affect the events of the story, including in the thread we've been following surrounding the odd denizens of the post-apocalyptic future, I have no doubt that this will play a large part in things going forward.

Finally, the mystery of Sburb continues to deepen, as several of the characters keep finding control rooms, symbols, and various other interfaces that so clearly resemble the iconography of Sburb. Just what the hell is this game? What is its true purpose? How does it tie in to the overall balance of light and dark in the world that has been proclaimed to us? I have a feeling that these questions will not truly be answered for a long time, but the breadcrumbs are enough to keep me fully engaged. Even the lore of this world itself, the idea of the Incipisphere, Skaia, and the two kingdoms in constant conflict for eternity, and all the things that this cosmology implicitly allows the exploration of, is so exciting to me.

Whew. So yeah, I guess that's about as condensed as I'm going to get my thoughts on this one. What a wild ride. I guess here are some other miscellaneous things to mention:

I read the entirety of Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff. What a horrid, crusty, amazing archive of media.

Of course I know that the trolls will eventually enter this story, but I have zero spoilers for the context or even who they are as character; just that they exist. Thus, I've kept track of which trolls have appeared in Pesterlogs so far, and those are: carcinoGeneticist, grimAuxiliatrix, and adiosToreador. So we'll see how that goes in the next act.

The concept of Jade's dreaming mind/dreambot and the golden city, including the sleeping John Egbert, is clearly important. And clearly has something to do with whatever species is roaming the deserted future. But I have such little idea of how to begin parsing that at this point that I don't have much to say about it. But I am absolutely keeping it in mind

If you actually read all of this: Damn. Thx for inexplicably caring what I have to say despite being an irrelevant poster and like a decade late on this shit :P More (much smaller) updates to come soon as I move forward with this story

[trulybetty]

dec' x 21 - wrapping paper

Prompt: wrapping paper Pairing: dieter x ofc!bryony Word Count: 993 Warnings: domestic fluff, tiny bit of French you can Google translate if you wish, it's also dieter - he has his own warnings Summary: Dieter and Bryony put up the tree - nothing much else to it. I was inspired heavily by one of @wildemaven's moodboards for this! AO3: Linked

x. masterlist

A/N: still not well, but have enough whereabouts to post what's already written over the next couple of days, so if you're following along at home - enjoy!

Dieter, with a flourish, finished draping the last strands of tinsel around a gold-framed black and white portrait of Dolly Parton, one of many that decorated the living room wall. It brought a touch of kitsch to the holiday decor that was already out and filling the living room.

“Dieter, there’s tinsel everywhere” Bryony laughed, plucking a stray piece from her hair.

“It’s Christmas Daff,” he offered up as if explanation enough, “If tinsel isn’t sticking to you by the end of it, have you even decorated?” he retorted.

Dieter, ever the enthusiast for the festive season, had already placed the giant nutcracker hippos on the driveway, much to Bryony’s chagrin. “Every time I see those monstrosities,” she had muttered more than once, “I have dreams of running them down with my car.” She knew she’d never actually do it – partly because of the security cameras, and partly because deep down, they were a bizarre but endearing part of their Christmas traditions now.

But mostly because of the security cameras.

The tree stood tall and grand in the corner of the room, its branches bare and awaiting adornment. Boxes of decorations lay open at their feet, a mishmash of colours and styles, each with its own story. No real theme present, just an eclectic mix of both of their tastes.

Bryony with her elegant and timeless decor complimented Dieter’s ostentatious rainbow of decorations ranging from vintage baubles to a rubber duck dressed as Elvis.

Bryony picked up a bauble, inspecting it with a smile. “Do you remember this one?” she asked, holding up the glittery ornament. “We got it at that Christmas market in Cardiff.”

Dieter raised a pointed eyebrow, “How could I forget? You spent twenty minutes deciding between that one and another one that looked exactly the same.”

Then, Dieter reached into a box and pulled out a series of hippo-themed decorations. “Ah, the pièce de résistance,” he declared, holding them up for Bryony to see.

She groaned playfully. “No not the hippos again, please? Can we have a reprieve this year?”

He gasped dramatically, “Bryony Morgan, it's tradition!" he said in a very rare instance of using her full name as she rolled her eyes.

“Fine.” she conceded, not that she’d have any real say as three hippos had already graced the tree in the time it’d taken her to object.

Finally, the tree was a riot of colours, lights, and memories—every ornament had its place, and every light twinkled in merriment. Dieter stepped back, a satisfied grin on his face.

“Now for the passementerie,” he declared.

The sound of rustling paper drew Bryony's attention. Dieter had disappeared for a moment, only to return with an armful of gifts, each wrapped in paper that was undeniably Dieter—bright, bold, and bordering on the obscene.

Bryony eyed the wrapping paper warily as Dieter began placing the gifts under the tree. “Dieter, what is on that wrapping paper?”

He looked up, an impish grin on his face. “Oh, you know, just some tasteful nudes. Quite artistic, really.”

Bryony squinted at the paper, “Artistic?” she asked as she got an eyeful of a black and white sketched erect penis with holly framing its balls. 

Dieter beamed with pride. “It's a festive little number I found online. Quite avant-garde, don't you think?”

“This is for my gifts?” she asked, wondering why she was even questioning it.

“Who else?” he chuckled, placing a particularly large gift front and center, two large breasts framed the centre of the gift above a bright pink bow. “Only the best for you, Daff,” Dieter replied, winking at her.

Before Bryony could formulate a response, something caught her eye. Hanging among the branches, nestled between the lights and tinsel, was a small Cartier box, its red hue unmistakable. She hadn’t noticed it when they were finishing up the tree, she was sure she wouldn’t have missed it.

“Dieter, what's this?” she asked, her voice suddenly soft.

He came up behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder. 

“Oh, that old thing?” Dieter feigned nonchalance, but the twinkle in his voice betrayed his excitement. “Just a little something for you.”

Bryony’s voice caught in the back of her throat, it was a box big enough to be any number of things. The whispers of the tinsel seemed to quieten as she unhooked the box, her mind racing with the possibilities of what lay inside.

Dieter's presence behind her was a solid reassurance, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, “Go on, open it.”

She glanced back at him, searching his eyes for a clue. “Dieter, this isn't…” Her voice trailed off, the unspoken question hanging between them.

He shook his head, a gentle smile softening his features. “Not yet,” he said with a quiet conviction that made her heart skip a beat. “But when the time comes, and it will, it's going to be everything you deserve and more.”

With deliberate care, Bryony opened the box, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Inside lay a delicate necklace, its simplicity and elegance a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of their Christmas tree. It was beautiful – a classic and understated piece. While the exact opposite of Dieter, much like Bryony herself, so very much him in its thoughtfulness.

“Wow–I don’t know what to say,” she managed to breathe out.

“Well that’s a first for you Daff.”

She fixed him with a look before tracing the outline of the solo square diamond that hung delicately on the white gold chain, “It’s beautiful Dieter, thank you.”

Dieter's hand lifted to cradle her jaw, his thumb tracing her cheek. “Just like you mon chéri.”

Bryony lifted her hair as she allowed him to clasp the necklace around her throat, the cool weight of it felt like a comfort as he adjusted it to sit just right.

Dieter leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. “Merry Christmas, Bryony,” he murmured.

[peiskos-and-apricity]

Fated to Fall ~ Sindri x Reader [Pt 1]

Tw: Dog Death

Summary: The hand of fate was a cruel thing. It followed everyone who traveled through the realms, from tragic beginnings to horrific ends. Some people sought to embrace it, while others tried to flee from it, but its permanence was undeniable.

Yet as you stood reflecting on a previous life that now seemed so far and a future that appeared all but definite, you couldn't help but wonder why fate had brought you here. In a home that was no longer home and in a place you found no more joy. Was this to be the end of your story?

Or had it only just begun

|Chapter Selection|

-

What brought you here?  To this house with its frigid walls and distant past that felt more like Hel than home.

Maybe everything was written the day your mother and Kratos first met in the Midguardian woods. Blood and bruises were replaced with tender kisses and endearing looks. Given the lives each of them had led up to that moment, such a thing seemed almost impossible. But it was just the right time in just the right place. Perhaps that was the beginning.

Perhaps it was the day you were born into this world. You were unfamiliar with its ways and were oblivious to the path it would lead you down. But when a mother's loving arms were around you, none of that mattered.

Or perhaps it happened gradually, like the memories of your youth. Warm was your mother's demeanor, a woman who was never anything but the sun in your universe. Cold was the avoided stare of your father, a man who you saw in passing moments and in staring shadows. Always silent, always out of reach.

Maybe the day you were finally old enough to leave, free and eager to see the world. Your mother was never far behind you as you took each step. You grew on your own, but her hands were always there to guide you, and her wisdom knew no bounds. The two of you grew closer than ever before, separated only by circumstance and duty.  She confided in you the secrets of her past, the stories of who she had been. A renowned warrior among her people. Though who those people were was never something imparted to you.

Or perhaps it was the birth of your brother. By then, you were much older. In fact, you were already well on your own. The second child of the two seemed to shake your father but for what reason you never knew. You wondered if that was how he was when you were born, or if his avoided eyes had always been there.

Or maybe...maybe it was the day you had returned home. After so long away spent exploring new worlds and meeting both friend and foe alike you had decided it was time. With excitement brimming at being able to see your mother again you made haste to that old home of yours. But when you returned you found no trace of the woman. Instead you found your brother, older by a few years now and predictably not recognizing you. After that you found your father who, upon seeing you, dawned an even more serious look than normal. He told you of your mother's death along with a letter she had left behind for you.

It had been so sudden to you. Your day had been so full of anticipation and excitement but all of it drained from your body as those words processed. Yet the reality of it could never be denied. Your father would never lie about such a thing. 

He told you of the coming long winters and the now unsafe lands along with your mother's wish for you to stay upon your return.

Yes, that must have been it. That was how you ended up here. You learned that not only had your mother been sick for months and never sent someone to seek you out in that time, but that she had been rather keen on avoiding seeing you all together. Your father and brother had been able to hold and care for the last remnants of her dying spirit and she had left you nothing more than a note. A note you would never dare to open.

Upon being faced with this you sought out the peak of Jotunheim yourself. You followed in the footsteps of their journey through icy cold and reminisced in familiar stories of your mother's past. You had learned by the end that the journey had been planned for your father and brother from the start. Each road and each step known by her. She had left a path for them to follow, a way forward to carry them through a life without her.

But you found no prophecy held on the walls that mentioned you. No mention of your very existence could be found on them. You found no picture, no name, no symbol or sign that would allude to you.

And it was then that a dark, irreparable scar had been slashed over your soul. Because you had found no spot for you on the walls of her people, but the continued etchings of your brother. And you found no guidance left for you, as your father gained in many paintings. It was as if you had been forgotten.

Upon returning home, unable to deny the last wish of your mother even as this deep scar formed, you chose to stay. And in the few years you had returned you saw your father, a man once so cold and distant, start to show a side of him to your brother that you had never seen on his best days. It was then you realized that your fear came to be solidified and your suspicions were seen true.

You truly had been forgotten.

You were overwhelmed by a new form of grief as you watched your brother gain something you never had after you had lost the only thing you did. You felt the absence of your mother burn a hole through your very being. 

You had nothing else besides her. No painting, no shared memory, no growing care, not even the etching of a name. And now she is gone, leaving nothing behind that could guide you through this horrible fate.

Despite how deeply this grief settled and how it spread through every fiber of your being in waves of constant numbing pain, you pushed it down. You buried it deeper, you ignored even the heavy waves of it. And every time it slipped, every time it seeped out for even just a moment, you would quickly push it down even further until it was nothing more than background noise in your mind. Always buzzing, always there, but only ever heard when it was quiet. When you were alone.

So that was how you ended up here. Sitting in front of the fire sharpening an ax not too dissimilar from your mother's. You had modeled it after hers after all. It only lacked its more magical capabilities of returning when called, but you could hardly complain. 

You settled in the silence of Mimir as he read from a book in the other room, but the silence didn't last long as you heard the familiar barks of the wolves and the distant voices of your two remaining family. You didn't move from your spot, the voices fading slightly but only for a few more moments as they were likely checking on Fenrir. It was a few minutes later that your father opened the cabin door. He walked in alone and after so many years of knowing him you could easily read the frustration on his face. The lack of Atreus following behind gave away the reason.

"Well. I'd recognize that dour expression anywhere" Mimir commented. Kratos went to hang his weapon, not looking at Mimir for more than a glance.

"Another fight?" You asked, not looking up from your sharpening. You got an annoyed grumble from him to which you only shook your head slightly. You were all but surprised. 

"The wolf is gone" he finally spoke. You stopped what you were doing almost immediately upon hearing his words, soon turning to look at him. 

"Oh no…not Fenrir…" Mimir spoke with a tone soft and hurt. The tense air in the room quickly thickened at the sound, the seriousness of the situation hitting all of you.

"I assume he isn't taking it well?" You asked, placing your weapon down for the moment. Your father's eyes glanced over to you but soon turned to look anywhere else. His silence was answer enough.

"He goes to bury him" he spoke as he walked towards the candles, snuffing a few of them out.

"Do you think he's going to need any help?" you proposed as you stood, moving to put away the tools you had been using. Your question sounded simple enough, though the implications were that the boy might need company right now.

"No. That is not necessary." he quickly stopped you. You gave a hum of acknowledgment in response, assuming that Atreus might have asked for space. You moved to put away your weapon beside his as well as before continuing with a few other miscellaneous tasks you needed done before bed.

Kratos soon sat in his bed. You had thought he meant to sleep but you were all too aware of the eyes that stared into you instead. If the lack of movement didn't give it away the heat of his eyes on your back always did.

"Something you need to say?" You asked, not turning to him as you spoke. There was a long silence before you heard another grumble and he finally turned to head to sleep. It was then that you realized you weren't that tired. In fact you could hardly think of sleeping right now. No. No, you couldn't sleep. 

"You worried about the boy?" Mimir spoke. You wondered why he would think that for a moment before you looked to realize your hands had been shaking. You quickly steadied them with a deep breath, soon occupying yourself with a knife and a small piece of wood by the minimal amount of candlelight. You began to carve at it.

"No. He can handle himself fine" you answered, still never looking at him. 

"Then what's gone and got ya so on edge?" He asked with his unending curiousness. You gave him a few seconds of silence in response before finding something to tell him

"...nothing in particular" you answered, though it was clear that you were all but honest. Even worse was Mimir’s ability to sniff out a lie faster than a boar looking for a truffle.

"Y'know you can talk ta me. My lips're sealed even ta Kratos if need be" he pushed a little bit, his words finally catching your eyes. You once again mauled over your words for a moment before finally speaking what was on your mind. If for no other reason than to shut him up.

"It's-...It's really not that big of a deal or anything I just-" you got lost in your words for a moment before stopping. You took only a few seconds to pull them together again.

"I don't think I can do this for much longer" you admitted. Mimir remained silent, but his face told you to keep going. So, having already opened the floodgates, you continued.

"There's just so much...death here. Everywhere I look in this place all I see is death. The forest is so quiet now, everything's quiet. There's no life here anymore" you finally admitted. Mimir looked rather taken aback by your words. It wasn't often you let the words of your mind slip out, let alone speak them so plainly. He didn't take long to recover though, quickly pushing past the surprise.

"Well I uh…I can't say I disagree with ya" he gave a reply and, though he meant well, his words did very little to calm you. 

You knew that whatever similarity he might have felt wasn't the same. He couldn't have known the significance of these walls or how each familiar smell sent daggers through you day in and day out. He couldn't have known how strange it was for you to return here without remembering everything about her. He couldn't have known how much all of this hurt. 

So you remained silent, hoping to avoid another slip of the tongue around someone your father confided in. The last thing you needed was to give him another chore to deal with. Atreus was enough.

You went back to whittling down the small piece of wood in hopes that it would take your attention away from everything. 

It rarely ever did.

-

Hours passed quickly and as they did you began to wonder what was taking Atreus so long. Slowly you began to grow more and more concerned, especially as it only continued to get darker. You left the cabin briefly to see if he had decided to be somewhere else for the moment, but when he wasn't anywhere around a deep dread began to build. Returning to your home you quietly spoke to Mimir.

"He isn't anywhere around. I saw footprints leading out to where he buried Fenrir, but there's no sign of him after" you explained, clear confusion and worry written on your features. 

"Well it's best we go look for the boy. Couldn't have gone too far" he suggested, to which you gave a nod in return. Your eyes quickly fell onto the sleeping body of Kratos though, a hesitation passing for a moment too swift for even Mimir to notice before you spoke again.

"We should wake him" The words left even with them being entirely rhetorical, your feet already approaching him before Mimir could say a word.

Your movement paused a good distance away before you called.

"Kratos" your voice carried just a bit louder than normal. He shifted a moment but remained still.

"Kratos!" You yelled a little louder, causing even more of a stir. Yet, to your dismay, he remained asleep.

"BROTHER!" Mimir yelled with all he had in him which caused Kratos, as you had expected, to jump awake screaming as he called his ax to him. His eyes were already fully awake as they searched for the closest sign of danger. With heavy breaths the amber color quickly landed on you, his face wrapped in confusion as he was clearly distraught. You quickly looked over his state as it was all but rare for him to have nightmares. That's why you had kept your distance after all. You only needed to learn the hard way once.

"Atreus hasn't returned. He's been gone for much longer than needed and he isn't near" you quickly explained as you watched him move from whatever had been troubling him before into what he needed to do now. With a couple more ragged breaths he stood. Quickly walking passed you he grabbed Mimir and headed out the door. You grabbed your ax and followed without hesitation.

"The footprints lead down to the Frozen river. I got a little bit further before they stopped" you explained. He nodded along, showing he was listening. A few steps later he came to a sudden stop before turning to you.

"Stay. In case he returns" he asked, or more so demanded of you, before walking away.

And for that moment, that small enclosed space in time, a deep hurt exploded within you. And you almost denied the reasonable request like a child who didn't want to complete a chore. You almost reached out to him; a plea to follow on the tip of your tongue.

But you caught yourself just as quickly, nothing more than the slight raise of your open hand showing that moment of pure reaction to being told to stay. You swallowed your plea and, with nothing more than a nod, returned to the cabin. 

You waited a long while in silence. A silence that burned in this place you saw only great loss in. This place was no home to you, no. It felt as if each day things grew worse. But nothing, nothing, hurt worse than the severe isolation that grew. Because each day you looked on as your brother and father grew so close. Each day you watched as Mimir and him grew to be friends. And each day you were reminded of how he could barely look at you.

How proud he seemed of his youngest child. No matter how many arguments or how tense the frustration made their conversations, you could see it every time he looked at him. That glint of something special, that shine of warmth you'd never seen on him besides when he'd look at Faye. It was the look you remembered only ever receiving from her. And now you watched from a distance as he did the same for Atreus, but could hardly say more than a few words to you. 

You felt alone, your only semblance of care found in the boy who was far too focused on his future and father to pay you much mind. And even then that care grew not from a strong root, but from a similar frustration found in the ways of your father. You two hardly ever talked of anything else.

Time passed as you once again found a knife in your palm and wood in your hands. You carved away, the wood slowly coming into the shape of a bird. A crow to be exact. You had seen more of them around recently hiding in tall branches. You had wondered when you saw them if perhaps they saw the four of you and believed you would all be dead soon. You almost laughed at the time the thought had arrived in your mind, knowing your family to be persistent enough to outlast death itself. You weren't sure if that thought comforted you anymore though. 

After a time you could hardly think to keep track of, the voices arose again, gaining your attention immediately. They were through the door before you even stood.

"As evenings go, that was entirely too eventful. Though I admit it was a bit like old times there. For a moment" the sound of Mimir's voice carried in the cabin. Kratos walked in before setting him down on the table with Atreus followed in quickly after, relieving you immediately.

"Care to tell me about it?" You asked, your eyes shifting to the head once more with a short glance to the other two who moved to get situated for the night. Mimir hesitated a moment before speaking again.

"It's a bit of a story. Might be better ta explain it in the morning" he answered. You nodded as you quickly noticed the hastiness of the two to get to bed. You quieted yourself, allowing for them to do so without any further disruption. A bit of small conversation followed between Atreus and Mimir but you had largely zoned out by then. You were instead more focused on that bird you were making. Anything to occupy your mind. 

A few moments passed and quiet began to slowly fall. Atreus and Kratos wasted no time in getting to sleep. It was just before it got too quiet to speak when you heard Mimir once more.

"Still not tired?" Mimir asked, gaining your eyes for a moment. His expression was hidden from the other two by the slight wall, but sitting just across the room from him allowed you to see it just fine. His eyes shined with worry, the intention of his words clear. Just as quickly as you met his eyes did you turn back to the wood in your hands.

"No..." You answered back as you miscalculated a movement, ever so slightly slicing your hand. However it was enough for you to quietly wince, pulling the knife away. A small drip of crimson fell from the tiny wound as an overwhelming and burning sense of irritation overtook you. It was hardly noticeable from any onlooker, but you were nearly about to explode with built-up frustration.

With a quiet huff you stood, placing the knife down on a nearby table as you went to put on your boots and jacket.

"And where are you headin' off to?" Mimir asked, his words gaining the attention of Atreus who you saw just out of the corner of your eye as he perked up. You ignored his stare though, continuing to put on your winter clothes.

"To check on the wolves" you answered, though it was clear the moment the words left your lips that you were all but believable. Thankfully Mimir wasn't about to ask you twice. Atreus on the other hand-

"It's storming out there though" he called in a semi-loud whisper that let you know your father must already be asleep.

"Which is why I'm going to check on the wolves" you reiterated, your tone a slight bit harsher this time. He quickly backed off after that. You grabbed your bow and ax, placing them on yourself just in case.

And into the bitter cold you went.

|Next Chapter|

[vampiremacncheese]

Carmilla and Laura

By S.D. Simper

"Sleep, my love." she whispered. "This world was not made for lovers such as us. But do not fear; instead, we shall build our own."

Laura is a shy, secluded girl living in a schloss by the forest in the late 19th century Styria. Everything changes by a twist of fate when she meets Carmilla. Carmilla’s allure is undeniable and her touch seems to draw a spark in Laura, a desire burning deeper than the fire of hell. But Carmilla’s reluctance about disclosing her past draws a line between them and when young women start disappearing, Laura is forced to reconcile with a hard truth about her.

While the original Carmilla deserved its place in the hall of fame, this retelling is not often talked about. Carmilla and Laura fills the gaps that its predecessor never did, so its refreshing for those who had read the original one.

Surprisingly, it is Laura who I think has the more intriguing arc of the two. She is in a constant battle between her faith and desire. Carmilla, on the other hand, is bold, unafraid, and the only time her persona is vulnerable is when she's with Laura. Their relationship is deep and endearing, and the gothic atmosphere of the whole book just adds to the vibes. I mean…a castle by the forest in an abandoned countryside with a vampire on the lose? Where do I sign up?

Filled with rich prose and captivating writing, this is a short read for anyone looking for Castlevania-esque eerie atmosphere, a timeless romance and an unforgettable ending. I cannot recommend this book enough!

[gingerteaonthetardis]

Apple cider, and any variant of Tucker and Rose you’d like (I know you have a couple lol)

thinky! thank you so much for this prompt. i once again just sort of started another au with it, because i have no self control. i just love putting these two in Situations. or three, rather. wilf showed up in this one, for some reason. hope you enjoy (when you get your internet back, lol)!

read on ao3 here. or send me a prompt here!

-

something for nothing

-

"Hot," Rose asked, thrusting out her hands, "or cold?"

In each was a paper cup, the left one gently steaming while the older man glanced back and forth between them with his usual consideration.

"That depends. Is it chocolate?"

"Nope."

"Coffee, then?"

"No." She failed to stifle a grin. "Sylvia would have my head and you know it."

An extremely unnatural-looking scowl made its way across his face. "It's not one of those fancy 'steamer' things, is it? Those always end up tasting like plain old spoiled milk."

Rose shook her head in fond impatience. "Just pick one, will you? Or they'll both be cold."

His eyes narrowed beneath his bright yellow bobble hat. "Fine, then. Hot," Wilf finally declared. "But this had better not be like the time you put chewy stuff in my tea."

"Boba," she corrected. "And don't worry, only liquid in there. And some spices, of course."

At this, Wilf took a long inhale, his nose hovering just above the thread of steam. It was endlessly endearing, how dubious he was about the whole exercise.

Then again, she had just been a stranger who walked up and offered him eggnog, that first time.

It had been nearly a year ago, around the holidays, and she'd been leaving after another long, tedious shift at the café across the way. Her manager had given rare permission to close up early after Rose pulled a double, but she'd not taken advantage: instead, she'd satisfied an intense exhaustion-fueled craving for eggnog by whipping it up right there in the shop.

But she'd made a bit too much, and with no one to share it with, she'd spied the old man at his newspaper stall—such a merry figure, like Father Christmas himself in a heavy red-and-white striped scarf, packing up his stacks of paper like gifts bundled in twine. He'd looked so cheerful and so cold, with his red nose and fingerless gloves, that she went out and offered him a cup of still-warm eggnog. He'd kindly offered a copy of Radio Times in trade, and suddenly they were talking like old friends.

That had been the beginning of a ritual which she held to after nearly every shift she worked. She never emerged without two cups of something to share, and he always held aside a paper or magazine he thought she'd like. They didn't always chat, but they did undeniably enjoy one another's company.

Rose thought of him almost like an adopted grandfather.

She watched with amusement as he put his eye to the narrow hole in the lid like it was the lens of a telescope, trying to see the colour of the substance within. She bit down hard on her lip. "What can you see?"

"Not much," Wilf admitted.

"Drink it! I promise there's nothing odd in there—well, too odd, I mean."

He shook his head at her, but he was smiling as he went to take a sip. She waited, holding her breath—and was delighted when his eyes lit up.

"Oh, that's not bad," he proclaimed, "not bad at all!" As he took another sip, Rose finally lifted her own cup to her lips.

Ripe apple, cinnamon, nutmeg—a faint hint of smoke—even cold, it all burst over her tongue, evoking a sense memory disconnected from anything she'd ever personally experienced. It reminded her of campfire nights after crisp autumn days, falling leaves and waning grey skies. Days so perfect they could really only exist in films, or books, or daydreams.

"It's cider, but with a little—something! Very good, Rose," Wilf added warmly. "So, what's the secret?"

"An infusion of lapsang souchong while the cider's warming up." She was a little proud of that one. "And all the usual suspects—clove, cinnamon, a tiny bit of anise… I have more," she said, patting her thermos where it stuck out of her messenger bag. She'd planned to take it home and sip it with her feet up in front of the telly, but seeing how eagerly Wilf drank from his cup made her want to share more instead. "Want a refill?"

"Let me see to what I've got first," he said, after another savoring sip. "It's good stuff! Is it going on the menu?"

She scoffed. "Of course not. Nobody around here wants fussy cider. They just want tea, or else coffee, black, no sugar—god, if you only knew how many red eyes I make in a day…"

"Well, it is Westminster," Wilf reasoned, looking around at the street which, while presently quiet, was crowded with buildings still fully lit up at long past six. "There's always some crisis they're perverting."

Rose hesitated. "You mean averting?"

"I meant what I said," he replied with a chuckle. "Takes a lot of energy to play at running the world."

"Yes, well, I just wish they'd get a bit more creative with their drink orders while they do it. Civilisation won't end if one of them branches out and adds a shot of vanilla to their latte! And," she went on, voice hushing dramatically, "then there's the peacoats. They all wear the same bloody shapeless things. What is with that?"

"Speaking of peacoats…" Wilf coughed, clearly covering a laugh. "Evening, Mr. Tucker!"

Rose tripped over her own feet whirling around to see who he was talking to, and then nearly stumbled up again when she saw who it was.

Malcolm Tucker.

The Malcolm Tucker.

The scariest man in British politics, and possibly in Great Britain generally, stood about a foot away from her.

She recognised his face from Wilf's newspapers and the occasional clip on telly: fair eyes, humped nose, harsh lines bracketing a restless mouth, head crowned with tarnished silver hair. Under the flat, unforgiving light of the street lamps, he looked hyperreal. But even someone who didn't know his face would see evidence of his hand everywhere. He ruled the media with it. He puppeted the ministry with it.

And he was shaking Wilf's hand with it.

"Wilf, how the fuck's business?" he greeted, breezing right past her, smiling with the kind of familiarity that couldn't be faked. It even looked sincere. He brushed close enough that she could smell the wool of his coat, and she winced.

"Better, now that your mug's back out of the papers, sir!" Wilf laughed, and strangely, so did Tucker. "What'll it be today? We've got the New Statesman, fresh out this morning. There's an interview with your man, that baldy economist—"

But the other man brushed him off carelessly. "Oh, please, none of that, I'm off the clock."

"What brings you round, then?" For a second, Wilf's eyes darted sheepishly her way, and she could only goggle back in confusion. It was like he didn’t want to give something away, something secret. To Tucker, he said, voice low, "Celebrity Skin?"

Rose's jaw dropped. "Wilf!"

"Now, now, Rose, you can hardly fault the man! Just because he's in government doesn't mean he's made of metal."

"It's not him scandalizing me," she shot back with a laugh. "Wilfred Mott, I learn something new about you every day."

“Got to keep you interested, don't I?” Teasing though his tone was, there was also a glint of genuine pride as he added, “Or else I'll stop getting the best hot drinks in London hand-delivered to me!”

They were so busy sharing smiles that it took her a moment to remember they had audience. A rather intimidating audience. One of his iron-dark eyebrows was arched in something like humour. “That so?” Tucker said, eyeing her up and down.

“She’s more than just a pretty face, she is,” Wilf replied, and she felt herself flush. Whether it was from Wilf’s blunt, overenthusiastic praise or the assessing look she was receiving from the Prime Minister’s media enforcer, she couldn’t tell. “You should—oi, Rose, why don't you give him a little of that cider stuff? Mr. Tucker looks cold. Or maybe that’s just his personality.”

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, amused by the blatant ribbing. He’d accompanied it with a wink, and Tucker didn’t seem offended. In fact, his smile was back, spreading slowly, like it was foreign to his mouth.

“Not sure that's a good idea, actually,” she said.

“Why not?” asked Tucker, locking eyes with her for the first time. There was just something about his face; she knew she ought to be intimidated by him—and maybe she was, a little—but she was at least equally fascinated. He looked just like a man, ordinary.

Except not.

His gaze was too intense for that. Like it was used to cutting right through people. All day, people with glazed-over eyes muttered orders at her—barely seemed to even notice her. It was a startling change, to feel so… observed.

She blinked. “Do you usually risk drinks from strangers?”

“You're saying you wouldn't, if you were me?”

“If I were you—there’s an idea,” she dared with a breathless laugh. “If I were you, we probably wouldn't have quite so many bald, boring blokes in office. And things would probably get a bit more West Wing. But I wouldn't risk poisoning, no.”

“You're clever, then.” The smile that played around his mouth was a shade off the one he’d offered Wilf, but she liked it all the same. “Cleverer than me.” Her eyebrows jumped, and the corners of his lips only ticked higher. “I'd love a warm drink, if you can spare one. It's been a… very long day.”

And she didn’t know quite how, or why, or anything at all, but her hands just started moving on their own, sliding down the strap of her bag to the pouch with her thermos. She was actually going to share her drink with the Hitman of Downing Street, the thing that lurked under the beds of the ministers she saw on television.

You couldn’t make this stuff up.

“Easy, now,” Tucker drily warned. “No sudden moves. I might get clever.”

She chuffed a laugh. “Not likely.” But she slowed anyway, attention bouncing momentarily to Wilf—who was watching their exchange with a rapt and wildly amused expression—before she turned back to Tucker.

His eyes were more reflective of the colour of the sky than she’d ever imagined eyes could be. So blue and grey that it was like looking through the clearest water at the river stones beneath.

She couldn't quite shake off the observation—couldn't manage an appropriate amount of detachment as she withdrew the thermos and twisted it open. Concentrated steam burst free, smelling sweet and enticingly sharp, and she extended the mug out to him.

He took it. And when their fingers brushed over the warm metal, it hit her.

Attraction.

What she was feeling was attraction.

Her first thought was oh, Mum’s going to brick herself if I tell her. Which, of course, Rose wouldn’t. After Jimmy Stone and the complete fiasco he’d created in her life as a teenager, she knew better. But what would Jackie Tyler say about Malcolm bloody Tucker? He'd been working in politics for practically half Rose’s lifetime.

She could just imagine her mum's face, the repulsion and horror, and the picture was incongruous enough that it successfully pulled Rose out of her stupor. She withdrew her hand, feeling the cold snap of air instantly, more fiercely than she might have.

With a tense eye, she watched him lift the thermos to his lips. Watched him drink, slow and contemplative. He didn't seem particularly slow or contemplative by nature, so it must have been for her benefit. Her fingers made fists, which she wedged into her coat pockets.

He took another sip. Then proclaimed, “That's very good. Is that tea I taste?”

Her smile bloomed without thought or permission. “Secret recipe,” she said. “Now you owe me four pounds fifty.”

Those eyebrows leapt again before resettling even lower than before. He looked very intent. “You charge our mutual friend,” and here, he glanced at Wilf, “for cider, too, or is it just me who pays for the privilege?”

“Well, you know what your sort say—no such thing as a free lunch. Or cider,” she added, realising exactly what was about to come out of her mouth and doing nothing at all to stop it. “Wilf pays me back in magazines and good conversation. So what'll you give me, Malcolm Tucker?”

And god, she was actually doing it. She was flirting with him.

Beside her, Wilf was laughing into his fist. Part of her was embarrassed—or would be later—that she was making a fool of herself in front of the old man. He’d certainly rub her nose in it the next time she popped out with a drink. That was just what family did.

But there was another part of her, a much deeper and more untameable part, which insisted on saying, What the hell? Why not?

After all, this would probably be her only chance to tease one of the most powerful men in England. The prospect of pushing him, even a little, felt dangerous, rebellious. Deliciously improbable. And if there was a little extortion involved, well—he was hardly a man with clean hands.

One of those hands, she noted, slid into the pocket of that ridiculous peacoat—which was, she could admit, beginning to grow on her a little; it contrasted sharply against his skin and hair, so pale and severe—and he withdrew something small and white and rectangular. He extended it to her, but before she could take it, his hand snapped back. He seemed on the verge of smiling again.

Then, tipping back his head, he took another long drink from the thermos. A long, long drink.

She grinned, watching his throat bob. The bastard was draining the mug. Getting his money’s worth, she supposed.

She found she didn't mind. Her evening was shaping up to be substantially different than she’d expected.

Only when he'd finished with a faint hum of appreciation and returned the thermos did he give over the proffered card. It was simple, unremarkable white cardstock with crisp black text.

Malcolm Tucker

Director of Communications for the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom

10 Downing Street, Westminster, London

Below were two phone numbers. One was crossed out, the smudged ink suggesting he’d done so recently. The second number was indicated as his personal line, and her breath caught. Was he mad, handing out this information to a veritable stranger? Did he know the trouble she could make for him if she started, say, making copies and handing them out with every cup of coffee she sold to his more politically repellant enemies? Of which there were many?

“Don't get clever,” he warned her, and there was a trace of real threat there. She felt it. It made her spine straighten and something senselessly warm unfurl in her belly. Then he said, mildly, “Call it an IOU.”

She looked up at the man before her and wondered if he was mad—or perhaps just fearless—or possibly, she guessed with a tilt of her head, he was lonely.

But whatever he was—and however much she needed to get her head checked for being so intrigued by it—there was only one way to find out.

Rose slipped the card into the back pocket of her denims, meeting his unwavering eyes the whole time, smiling to herself. She bit down on the tip of her tongue to prevent it spreading.

“Well,” she said, trying to sound tough, “it’s not exactly four pounds fifty. But it’ll do.”

Tucker smirked. And—oh, yeah, she thought. Mum’s definitely gonna lose it.

[soob1nn]

MAIN FRIEND GROUP - HOGWARTS DR

THE ENCHANTED UNITY

This special group of friends can be best described as the heart of my social world. They were the ones I spent the most time with, sharing countless moments of laughter, support, and unforgettable experiences. In the tapestry of my life, they held a prominent place, like stars that brighten the darkest of nights, casting a warm and comforting glow over the landscape of my cherished memories.

FREDERICK AUSTING DAFT

Let me introduce you to my best friend, a Gryffindor guy who’s an ace Quidditch chaser in his fifth year at Hogwarts. He’s like a brother to Oliver Wood and the Weasley twins, and the four of them are pretty much inseparable.

What’s incredible about this guy is his boundless passion for Quidditch. Seriously, it’s like he’s got a never-ending stash of Felix Felicis somewhere because his energy levels are off the charts.

And here’s the real kicker: he’s a huge foodie. Seriously, I’ve seen him devour so much junk food you’d think he’d be as round as a Bludger by now, but somehow, he manages to keep it off. It’s a bit of a Hogwarts mystery how he pulls it off.

Beyond all the Quidditch and food madness, he’s just a regular, down-to-earth dude who brings so much positivity into our magical world. Sometimes I want to punch him in the face for all the stupid stuff he does, but we’re lucky to have him around; whether we’re watching a nail-biting Quidditch match or just hanging out, sipping Butterbeer and enjoying a good laugh.

JASMINE SLORA

Jasmine Slora, a proud Slytherin, might not be a big fan of school, but she sure knows how to bring the magic to parties. In her fifth year, she's making a name for herself as a Quidditch chaser, showing her fierce competitive spirit on the pitch.

When she's not chasing Quaffles, you can find her indulging in her creative passions. Jasmine's a talented artist, with a knack for painting and drawing. Whether she's wielding a broomstick or a paintbrush, her dedication to her hobbies shines through.

Jasmine is an open-hearted individual and proudly identifies as bisexual, celebrating love in all its forms. Her unique blend of party spirit and artistic flair adds a touch of enchantment to the Slytherin common room, making her a cherished member of the house.

FELICITY DANKWORTH

Felicity Dankworth, our friendly Ravenclaw scholar in the fifth grade at Hogwarts, is an intellectual powerhouse. She's perpetually engrossed in her books, a dedicated reader with a passion for uncovering the secrets and stories hidden within.

Coffee remains her beloved companion, and you'll often find her sipping it while poring over her studies. It's the fuel that keeps her curiosity alive, even during the longest library sessions.

Felicity's heart is equally captivated by her feline friend, a black cat named Annabeth. This mysterious and affectionate companion has a special place in her life, providing comfort and companionship as she navigates the magical world of Hogwarts.

PENNY HAYWOOD

Penny Haywood and I have been inseparable dorm mates ever since we entered Hogwarts. Not only is she my best friend, but her presence radiates an aura of undeniable cuteness and sheer adorableness that brightens the gloomiest days.

What's unique about Penny is her delightful penchant for sipping on tea while she takes a moment to relax with a cigarette. It's an odd yet oddly charming combination, and it's just one of the many intriguing facets of her personality.

Penny's heart is deeply entwined with the natural world, and her love for both nature and animals is a source of inspiration. She'll often spend her free time in the company of furry and feathered friends, immersing herself in the tranquil beauty of the outdoors.

In the grand tapestry of life, Penny Haywood is like a colorful thread, weaving her passion for tea, her endearing quirks, and her unwavering love for the natural world into a unique and enchanting mosaic that I'm privileged to call my best friend.