#candy paint II

[temeyes]

skeleton shades for a skeleton man

[bunny584]

For I Have Sinned ୨୧ Chapter II

“Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave.” Songs of Solomon 8:6-7.

As newly appointed Duchess-To-Be, you have much to learn. Etiquette, conduct and eventual motherhood are the pillars you are expected to live by. Because who cares about your choosing?

The Chapel, tended to by a mercurial Priest, is the perfect refuge.

…right?

Pairing: Geto x female reader

A/N: The is dedicated to the artist ( @captainsalsaa ) I mean look at our fallen Angel. His tears. His frustration. Dear GOD.

To the artist: I stared at your piece, then heard a specific song on my writing playlist then wrote the entire last scene in one sitting. To date, it’s my favorite scene in my author’s portfolio. I hope I did our fallen Angel justice. Thank you for creating this 🤍

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CHAPTER II: Hello, Father.

“Awake early, little dove.” 

Warm hands caress your shoulders. A welcome contrast to the chilly nautical dawn. The sun still has a ways to go, but songbirds have begun their wake up call. 

“As are you, Arella.” 

Your eyes float to your favorite maiden standing above you. No more than a handful of years older, but with a heart for you as if she raised you from birth. 

“It’s my duty to tend to you, is it not?” 

Soft laughter harmonizes with the nightingales. A quick kiss on your forehead before her warmth disappears off the balcony —  undoubtedly to go retrieve a treat of some kind. 

She’s not wrong. 

Technically it is her duty. 

But Arella is your blessing. 

Matting and kneading your surroundings to fit your needs. Eager to dampen the growing pains of settling in a new home. 

Constant hellos. 

Permanent smiles.

Not too wide, like a promiscuous woman. But not too tight, like a cold prude. 

Rooms to tour. Hands to shake. Garments to pin and tie and lace around your lungs as if your God-given ribcage was a frivolous extra not needed for life. Not needed to breathe. 

Breathe.

Your lids screw shut. Pulling in as much of the balmy, saltwater breeze gliding up the steep rock face along the overhang. 

Much like he did. 

The Chaplain. 

His hair cascading down his back in the same way poets monologue when inspired. His eyes a mural of what the Gods paint when they want to show off. 

The way earth acquiesces to his touch as if he is the Creator. The birds choose to perform for him every morning. And the ocean exists to bathe him. 

You cannot decide if the sorbet sunsets are created by the Chaplain. Or if the Gods fight over who gets the honor of painting him a new one each evening. 

“Sleep still escapes you, precious girl.” 

It does, but not for the reason she thinks. 

“You worry too much, Arella. I’ll adjust soon.” The tea she brought you is delicious.

The both of you cross back into your quarters. The stagnant, perfumed air suddenly suffocating.

“I would like to go to the chapel garden.” 

A quiet declaration that stills your handmaiden in her tracks. Then a small grin blossoms on her beautiful face. Fussing with your bedding. Wiping away evidence of your sleepless night. 

“For the flowers that bloom, little dove? Or for the God that tends to them?”

The blood in your veins runs subzero. 

“Arella! I am engaged to be marri—“

“Of course you are. But eyesight isn’t a sin.”

Another moment of feigned irritation before you burst into a fit of childish giggles. The both of you no better than school girls, covering your mouths, stifling your laughter. 

“I just wanted to see you smile.” Arella gestures to your extravagant dresser across the room. 

“In the second drawer you can find a casual garment. Come back with at least one hour to prepare for Mass.”

     · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · 

A hummingbird chaperones your walk to the church estate. Dulcet hums drown out the rattling heartbeat between your ears. 

This is harmless.

It is not a sin to take in Earth’s natural candy. To appreciate God’s gift to humanity.

In all of his majestic glory. 

Your eyes dart around as if your thoughts are a tangible scroll. Written in ink for the world to see.

Don’t be ridiculous, there’s no one around. 

Just you. Your fluttering companions (both heart and bird). The waking sun. God above and his plants swaying in the gentle gusts of wind. You’re safe in your mind. 

Until he decimates all logical and reasonable train of thought, that is. 

You should be angry. Infuriated. That no one adequately prepared you for seeing the demigod for the first time. Even now, you question whether he’s flesh and blood. 

Maybe an illusion? 

The Lord playing tricks from his throne? 

The mirage before you halts your paces. You can’t help but question your level consciousness. 

Because this must be a dream. 

“Oh, don’t be cruel.” 

Words slip out of your mouth, currently ajar. It’s not your place to chastise the One above, but come on. 

Your eyes taste the Chaplain for a second time and this course is even more decadent than the first. 

There he stands. 

A raven waterfall down his broad, muscular back. Half of it tied away from his face. Olive skin so rich the surrounding plants pale in comparison. Russet brown working pants hang loose around his tapered waist, but snug around his thighs. Various tools hooked in the belt loops. Heavy mahogany work boots match the worn leather gardening gloves fitted to his hands. 

His hands. 

Reaching for thorny vines plaguing his hydrangeas. Even at your distance you could detail each muscle fiber in his arm tense and release with every pull and toss.

Pull and toss.

Pull and toss. 

You would have gotten lost in his rhythmic trance, if it weren’t for the symbol branded in charcoal sprawling his back. The emblem peeks through his thick hair, every now and again. 

A spear? 

No.

A trident. With waves snaking up its stalk along his spine. 

His gravitational pull is overwhelming. Your feet move with more stealth than the King’s Guard.

“Working on the Day of Rest, Father?” Casual, measured. 

“Duchess,” Saliva pools in your mouth. His smile teases your ears before he graces you with it. 

“I have to start being more careful about my clothing.” A playful glint in his eyes. 

“Especially now that I’ve been blessed with a fellow greenskeeper.” 

He is a man of God.

And would never insinuate anything impure. 

But that doesn’t stop your cunt from clenching around his words steeped in a baritone potent enough to rumble the ground beneath you.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve sent word that I was coming.” 

“This palace belongs to you, Duchess. You are welcome here at any hour.” His hand captures a vine and tosses it into the pile without his eyes ever leaving yours. 

You are weak.

And greedy. 

The way your gaze drops to his arm. Desperately etching its contours into memory. Seconds, maybe minutes pass before you realize you were gawking. And the Chaplain just let you. 

Head cocked to the side. Soft smile ghosting his full lips. 

“Would you like to finish the tour of your new playground?” 

“Y-yes. Of course, please.” Stumbling over the uneven cobblestone in your voice, you turn away to begin the coordinated stroll. The Priest slides his arms into a linen button up. Lazily fastening two center buttons only. 

He informs you of the work that has already been done, what’s left. Where the soil is richest, where it is the most acidic. How the sun hits certain flowers at each hour of the day.

Brilliant. 

With complete command over God’s bouquet. The sun following him wherever he steps.

“Did you enjoy your swim today, Father?” Both you and the Priest come to a slow stop. One of his angular eyebrows raised.

“I’m dry, Duchess.” He responds with a low, hypnotic chuckle. 

Heat floods your cheeks. How could you be so presumptuous?

“What gave me away?” 

Your knees nearly betray you. The razor sharp grin on his face could cut glass. 

“You were born for the ocean. Or rather, the ocean was born for you.”

Your statement is greeted with blaring silence. 

Lava in his gaze. Singeing every part of your face it touches. His expression is like a foreign language. 

“I—I’ve overstepped, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Clearly I have much to learn about social graces.” A meek apology bubbles out of your lips. Desperate to fill the space between your bodies. 

The mercurial man shakes his head slightly. Thawed out from your statement, he reaches over and plucks a stray lilac petal resting on your crown.

“My father used to say the same.” He muses, looking away for the first time. 

“Your father! Is he—“

“He was called home some time ago.” This smile is soft. Reminiscent. Polite, but his mind clearly elsewhere. 

“Oh Father Geto, I’m so sorry.” 

A foot in your mouth is not enough punishment for your indecency. Why would you go prodding like this?

“Don’t be, I’ll see him again. Soon enough.”

“Not too soon, I hope.” The statement draws a stunned gaze from the Chaplain. Eyes dancing between yours. 

“Time to prepare for mass, little dove!” Arella’s melodic call tethers you back down from outer space. 

You flicker over to her with a ruby dusting over your nose and cheeks. Like a child caught with her hand in a cookie jar before supper. 

“Happy Sunday, Father!” Arella calls out, cheshire grin on her face deepening your crude blush. 

“Indeed, Arella.” He returns the greeting while keeping his eyes on you. 

“Send my regards to the Duke.” His voice lowers, for your ears only. With a nearly imperceptible edge to his tone. 

“Happy Sunday, Duchess. We have a counseling session scheduled late afternoon, yes?” 

A statement of pure black and white fact. And yet it travels down your spine and settles between your legs. Wet heat dampening your thin negligee.

“Yes, Father. Happy Sunday.”

     · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · 

Mass was miserable. 

Your corset laced tight enough to meld your two lungs and beating heart into one entity. To say the neckline strangled you is putting it mildly. Cold, uninviting pews dug into your skin at every turn. 

Wretched. 

But the worst of it wasn’t the thin, oxygen-deficient air. Or the shards of glass that slid down your throat with every swallow. Even the jaw pain from tensing your lips in a well-mannered smile for two hours straight was tolerable. 

The worst part of it was him. 

The Priest mesmerized an entire congregation to an ear-splitting hush. 

His first Sunday mass since appointment and nearly everyone in the country and every surrounding province stuffed into the chapel. 

So desperate for blessings from Father Geto. 

Could you blame them?

His voice danced in and out of the pews listlessly. 

Soothing fussy children. Adolescent girls and their mother’s alike — utterly smitten. Adolescent boys experienced their first “I want to be like him” with their fathers sitting right next to them. Husbands glanced feverishly at the women in their lives. 

He had to have noticed it. And yet, he floated above it all the entire service.

Above you. 

Refusing to gift you those eyes that put Vincent Van Gogh to shame. No matter how much you shifted in your seat and straightened your spine.

The Priest spoke to everyone in the room but you. 

Did you read him wrong? 

Did you misinterpret your budding friendship? 

Does it…should it even matter?

Your irritation is palpable. Innocent bystanders are caught in your friendly fire. Including Arella, who changed you out of that horrid costume. And sweet Noel, who ushered you into the seating area — just outside of the good Father’s office.

You make a mental note to send treats to the tender-hearted alter boy. And to apologize profusely to your handmaiden. 

“You are a million miles away, darling.” The sound of your betrothed tows you out of the storm clouds. 

You flicker over to the Duke. Emerald green eyes, high cheek bones — handsome in a way that is characteristic of everyone native to your new home.

“I’m right here, Ezra.” 

“Are you, sweetheart?” The back of his hand caresses your cheek. 

“Mmhm.” You offer your future husband a weak smile and kiss on his cheek. His eyes  faltering slightly, undoubtedly hopeful for lips instead. 

“Good afternoon, Duke and Duchess Ahriman.” 

Father Geto’s velvet greeting encases you both. If Ezra’s arm didn’t guide you to stand you would have been paralyzed in your seat. 

“Father Geto, a pleasure. Thank you for seeing us.” Ezra offers a genuine smile and handshake. Buying you a few extra seconds in your mind’s safe haven.

The Chaplain is tight lipped. Professional. He returns the handshake firmly. 

“Pleasure is mine.” 

Ezra shifts slightly on his feet. Straightening his spine and dropping his shoulders. Your eyes bounce between the Chaplain and your fiancé.

“I must say, Father. You are even more handsome up close. I speak for the men in this country, thank you for taking the vow of celibacy!” The words spill out of the Duke. Unknowingly thinning the air. 

The Priest chuckles quietly, dropping his eyes briefly before landing them on you. And it feels like you could double over.  Your core temperature skyrockets under his smoldering gaze. 

He, the archer. You, the bullseye. 

“Let’s get started, shall we?” 

Ezra laces his fingers in yours, taking the two seats directly in front of the oak desk. A leather bound notebook and pheasant feather pen are neatly arranged — with your names on the first page.

Blue flame rises from your toes to hairline. You might as well have been sitting naked. With how exposed, how vulnerable you feel already.

“What will we be covering first, Father? Something about how wives should obey their husbands, right?” Ezra is light-hearted. Meant to be said in jest.

But he finds himself being the only party in the room laughing. 

The Priest rolls the ink pen between his fingers. Allowing a deafening silence to coat the walls. His expression is neutral, but eyes ablaze. 

“If the man in question is worthy of submission.” He starts. A low, ominous rumble. 

“Uh, yes. Of course.” Ezra responds, shifting in his seat. 

But the Chaplain does not stop. Intent on making a point, he leans in. Pen whirling lightning fast between his long, deft fingers. Enough tailwind to launch across the room, if he desired.  

“If the man in question would give his life for his wife.” Volcanic eyes linger on you, then back to your fiancé. Ezra’s palm finds your thigh. You gnaw on your inner cheek to avoid flinching away. 

“If he would love her like Christ loves all of his creations unconditionally. Unselfishly. Irrationally.” 

“Yes, Father. I understand.” 

“Only then, should she submit.” His serrated tone could split chromium with ease. 

“Of course, of course.” Ezra wisely accepts defeat. 

He presses a short kiss on your cheek as an apology that you didn’t ask for, nor do you want. 

“Mmm.” A forced acknowledgment of the Duke’s affection through your pinched lips. Barely able to move under the Father’s microscopic gaze. 

“Now then,” Father Geto clears the boulders in his throat. 

“Tell me about your love.” 

The question stuns both you and the Duke. Looking to each other sheepishly because neither of you chose this.

War is young men dying and old men talking. And your life path is no different. Dictated by conversations between the powers that be. 

“We’ve only met a week ago, Father.” Your honesty drives both of his eyebrows upward. 

“A week ago?”

“But we are hoping you can teach us.” The Duke, overeager and excitable. 

“Teach you…?” Father Geto muses. You can’t quite interpret his tone, or minimal response. But your heart flutters all the same. 

He is thinking something. And what you would give to get a glance. To be let in. 

“Perhaps guide us?” Ezra gives an unintentionally painful squeeze on your thigh. You fail to muffle the tiny whimper. 

The Priest’s eyes laser down to where your fiancé’s hand lays. Chest rising and falling dangerously slow. 

“Right.”

Your eyes trail upwards as he stands. Closer to God than to you from this point of view.

“Duke, Duchess. You’ll have to accept my sincerest apologies.” 

His fingers dip the unused pen back into the ink cup. The edges of his leather bound notebook coming together. Seemingly without any notes, but an entire script from this session swirling in his mind. 

“My schedule is incorrect. I have another commitment. We will reschedule, yes?” Said with a finality that sends chills crawling down your spine. 

The two of you stand. Another handshake between the men. A restrained nod for you.

Just as quickly as you were let in, Father Geto shuts you out of his office and his mind. 

     · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · 

Suguru presses his forehead against the shower tile. Warm water raining down his loose mane. Soothing his sore, overworked limbs. 

Today was maddening. 

He nearly destroyed his vestment the minute that God-forsaken counseling session ended. Seeking refuge, he took to the coast. 

And the sea provided anything but peace. 

She was angry with him, tonight. 

Curt. With unpredictable currents. Rip tides at nearly every turn. She tested his adaptation without mercy.

Just like that night.

“I’m going to stay on board, brother!”

Suguru flickered over to the silver-haired deckhand. An unfamiliar reservation opacifying his nearly translucent, iridescent eyes. 

Brother in name, technically. 

Their bloodlines were oil and water. He was a high born. Suguru was born unworthy of a beggar’s pity. 

But, bloodlines were inconsequential when their souls were instep as one. Both handed to humanity on the same night. During a thunderstorm already inscribed in history books.

‘The Tide of Eternal Requiem.’ 

It brought complete devastation. Crops destroyed. Families torn apart by tragic accidents inland and at sea. 

Then fate struck. 

Within the same hour, a voltaic boy, with a halo that put the clouds to shame and diamond eyes that could draw truth from murderers was born into the loving embrace of his parents. 

And Suguru was born with a crown so dark that the raging midnight appeared bright. 

With eyes as ominous as the sky above. 

Gunmetal grey, accented by an eerie violet swarm. Dormant volcanoes, threatening eruption. His birth mother abandoned him in an alley. Driven by fear that he was a bad omen from the Gods. 

“Ahhh, Satoru come on. Since when do you shy away from a few waves?”

Suguru teased. Already well into the process of shedding his work gear. 

“Zeus is the one rumored to be my father.” His counterpart flashed a knowing smile. 

“Poseidon doesn’t watch over me like he does you, Suguru.”

A tsunami couldn’t keep Suguru from his home. Much less a little rain. 

They were 3 miles away from the shoreline. Using his God-given ability, Suguru regularly acted as their scout. Performing his own reconnaissance then alerting the incoming ship of safe or turbulent terrain. 

“Almost ready to go, son?” 

His chosen father came up behind him. Suguru knew there were tears lining his meek eyes before turning to face him. 

“Dad.” Suguru sighed, fully disrobed now. Just his muscular frame and a compression suit. 

He met his father’s concerned gaze. Always like this during sea storms. Quiet prayers written all over his gentle features. 

Despite the worry, he never once attempted to convince his oceanic boy to stay on board. It would have been too cruel.

“I’ll be fine, I’ve traversed angrier swells.”

“Suguru, take care of yourself when I’m gone.” 

Elder, worn hands landed on his shoulders. Nearly too high for his reach. Suguru cocked his head to the side. 

This goodbye was different. 

“Stay on this path. For me. Albeit straight and narrow, there is a wonderful view. This is all for you, son.” 

Both men glanced to the Persian gulf. She thrashed against their vessel. Swaying their catch left and right with the intention of taking her creatures back. 

“Where is this coming from?” A genuine question from his younger self. Unable to read between the lines. 

“Can’t a man just speak from the heart?”

The melancholy smile didn’t meet the wrinkles of time decorating his eyes, but they shared a laugh anyway.  Suguru turned away but was promptly drawn back. 

“My beautiful boy.” 

The fisherman cradled his son’s face. Swimming in the eyes that Suguru once hated. The eyes that convinced his birth mother to abandon him. 

“Make it to shore, son.” Suguru rested his head against his father’s neck. Taking a slow, sweet drag of his scent.

Oak. 

He always smelled like oak. It was one of Suguru’s favorite things about him.

“If Poseidon calls—“

“I’ll tell him to fuck off.” Mischievous grin plastered on Suguru’s face. His father planted a kiss on his cheek, pushing him towards the end of the boat. As he always did.

Then the Gulf wrapped him in her hostile embrace. 

She was irate. 

Vicious tidal waves. Rapidly shifting currents. Even her creatures knew to settle below their usual depth. Suguru cursed the fact that he was born with useless, human lungs. Unable to withstand the pressure of the Midnight Zone. 

Within minutes his long, lean frame was riding her whims without a shred of control. Tossed around like a rag doll. At her complete mercy — or lack thereof. 

This was the first time he struggled to tame his element. A muffled groan bubbled around him. Serrated edges of long coral stalks dug into his back. Stark white foam whirled around him. 

Aerated waters. 

Suguru could barely maneuver against the waves pummeling his core. Searing heat traveling up his spine. His lungs demanded oxygen. 

The boat. 

The boat would never make it to shore. 

Desperate, furious strokes of his arms meant nothing against her unrelenting grasp. Effectively pinning Suguru to his underwater cross. 

A piece of chewed plank wood whizzed by his face. 

Followed by another. 

Then another. 

And Suguru watched his nightmare materialize before his eyes. Mustering his last oxygen reserve, he bellowed against his closed lips.

As if she hadn’t already ignored the cries of his fellow fisherman. 

Even still, he screamed so loud his ribcage should have vaporized. But ushering him to a watery grave at that time would have been too merciful. 

Suguru blinks out of the harrowing memory. The steeping tea takes at least two layers of epithelium off his esophagus.

Fucking, hell. 

He can’t seem to escape pain today.

The swim was excruciating.

Mass was dreadful.

Watching that boy’s hand lay on your lap was grating. 

Suguru’s mind drifts back to you. Your thought washes over him like baptizing waters purifying that which is impure.

The gleam in your eyes when you asked about his morning plunge. Barely a week and your pulse on him is already this precise.

Do not covet, Suguru. 

He scoffs to himself. Shaking free of your tempting spiral. 

This ‘straight and narrow’ path is proving to be more challenging than he let on. 

“Would you be proud, Father?” 

A whisper of accusation at the end of his inquiry. Suguru would give his arms, his eyes…his life to hear his father’s voice on the other end of his questions, once again. 

“Did He tell you?” 

Roaring silence. Of course. He knows that. He expects it. 

But it angers him all the same. 

“Did He come to you in a dream??” Suguru echos louder. More frantic. Punched out in a way he can barely recognize. 

“Was the reaper at His left, my heart on the right?!” A weak sob slips through the crack in his baritone. 

Yet another pain. But this one is tart and blurring his vision. 

“Did you KNOW? D—did you know that day was your last?!” He hisses through a salty stream.  Storming out to the garden to escape the walls collapsing in on him. 

Suguru’s eyes laser to the remaining thorny vines along his bed of hydrangeas. Without a second thought he wraps them around his bare arms. Staining the plant and his freshly bathed skin with crystalline tears. Once its thorns sufficiently bury into his skin he rips it away from the soil with all his might. 

“Bastard. I’m your SON.”

Warm metallic drips down the hills and ridges of his arms. Collecting in the flower bed. 

Is he cursing his earthly father? 

His Heavenly One? 

Or the Deity that brought this grief on him in the first place?

It hurts. 

An unforgiving pain. 

Much like the thorns in those rapids. Much like the inconceivable burn from his lungs begging for expanse. The time limit, even for him, ran lethally low. 

Well exceeding his father’s time limit. 

Poseidon stole from him that day.  

A callous trade for Suguru’s continued existence. 

“Why didn’t you…I—I should’ve been there.” 

Guilt eviscerates Suguru’s remaining resolve. Tilting his head up, he lets the salty crystals rain down his cheeks freely. 

The full moon cradles his face with the same warmth, the same adoration his father’s hands used to. 

Suguru accepts its celestial kisses for a moment before burying his face into his bloodied palms. His damp locks curtain his flushed face. Protecting the world from his unruly sobs.

“I’m here.” Barely audible words escape through desperate grabs for air. 

“I made it to shore, Dad.”

E/N: Oh hello, don’t mind me just sobbing. Also, guest appearance by our glorious Blue Eyed Babygirl King™️ If you need me, I will be in witness protection before Gege finds this since it’s a crime to be a S*toru lover. 

taglist: @blkkizzat @rotteneyess

[vilhelios]

— A LOVER'S OATH.

(no matter how much time passes, zayne's voice remains unchanging with you — low, pleasing to the ear, and always heartbreakingly gentle.) ; to kick off the follower event ! for c, 🐈‍⬛️🎬, my beloved cat lady, who has always fed my delusions : ZAYNE + 💌 13. "they have never raised their voice around you, always talks softly.”

cw: small text + all lowercase + not beta read ; fluff fluff fluff ; slight angst at the very end ; may be slightly ooc (it's my first time writing for zayne) ; caleb makes a very brief appearance ; slight foreseer!zayne spoilers

I.

you and ZAYNE are ten.

he's been your best friend for as long as you can remember, always at your side. he gives you candies whenever you feel lightheaded, and fishes out a bandaid from his bag whenever you fall and scrape off the skin of your knee on concrete, and walks you home in the evenings whenever caleb had after-school basketball club. when grandma gives you pocket money to buy new crayons, or a new drawing book, she leaves just enough extra to buy those candies he loves so much from the roadside stall; and when zayne's mother gives him money intended for school materials, he can't help but spend it on the popsicles you said you liked.

zayne is your dearest best friend, just as you are his. he's never said it, but you know; you know it because he sits on the table nearest to yours, and doesn't care when your other classmates tease him for holding your hand during recess, and follows in your little footsteps as you drag him through the school's playground.

("i'm gonna be a hunter when i'm older!" you grin, limbs tangled in the bars of the climbing dome-tower. your hands smell slightly of metal, there's paint peeling off the bars and sticking to your skin, and you are young and fearless.

zayne stares up at you, from where he sits in the eye of the tower, eyes peeling away from the book he's reading: the snow queen. "why?" he asks, voice as soft as always. you're upside down on the top of the dome when you look back to answer him, and a young zayne doesn't know if his heart is beating so fast because he's scared you'll fall, or because of something else.

"because," the sound of your hand against the metal bar as you swing around reverberates in the cage, in your chest, and in zayne's mind. you hoist yourself out of the grid spaces, sitting on the bars now, "i want to take care of everyone!")

zayne is your sweetest friend. he knows when you're tired and hungry, even when you insist you're aren't, and proceeds to hand you a little sweet. he knows when the sun gets far too bright and the day far too hot, and places his little hands over your forehead to cool you down, evol swirling at his fingertips. he muffles the sound of the school bell with his palms over your ears, just as he does when your classmates get too rowdy, or when caleb yells for you from across the room.

("don't be so loud." he says, voice even and face as calm as ever, and you watch him gently whack caleb on the shoulder. "it's not nice." zayne does not say that it's because your ears are more sensitive than most.)

(the years pass, and not much changes between the two of you from the days of your childhood, besides the cavity fillings and growth spurts and skills with your evols. zayne still offers you those little candies, still dreams odd dreams, and still talks in the softest voice he can muster when he speaks to you. but eventually, zayne moves away, and your family in bloomshore district becomes you, caleb, and grandma once again.)

…

II.

ZAYNE is a sweet, gentle lover.

as sweet as the macarons and cakes and pastries he lets you buy, and the extra ones he buys to leave on your wanting plate. as gentle as the way he says your name, or the way he calls you darling, or my love, or the less common my snowflake when he spots you plodding over to the kitchen in the early morning. he’s already dressed as smart as always, with hands stained with the juice of the fruit he skillfully cuts. unbreaking strands of crimson apple skin twine around his fingers—neat, perfect, and then finally cut away by a decisive flick of the knife.

“good morning, my love.” zayne looks up from the peeled apple. his voice is a soft, low hum in your ears—it always is, always has been for as long as you could remember. “eat up. you need your energy for today.”

( not like today is anything different, or anything special… but he just wants you hale and healthy everyday. )

lucky mornings go like this, when zayne does not have to rush to akso: he gently slides the plate of breakfast he’d prepared over in front of you (always with a bowl of cut up fruit). then, he takes his own plate, and sits beside you at the kitchen island, shoulders brushing against each other’s as he settles on the barstool. the early morning sunlight bathes his apartment in rose-gold hues, slowly warming you from the chill of the night.

“did you sleep well?” zayne asks—as he always does, monitoring your health in these small ways too—and his voice mixes with the faraway sound of linkon city rousing from slumber. telltale sounds of traffic buzzes in the streets of the concrete and beton jungle below. birdsong flits through the air, church sparrows flying past the window. conversation too, bounces from topic to topic—today’s duties, an invitation for lunch at a cafe near akso, predicted times that you two will return home.

it’s a string of little murmurs, on these mornings with zayne. and this thread of domesticity ends at the doorway, with a final soft, “i love you. take care of yourself today,” as he presses a lingering kiss to your lips and another peck to your forehead. then, the click of the door closing as he pulls away.

( it’s the hardest part of his day. the easiest is the return — an always a too-warm embrace that seeps into his very bones, a peppering of kisses to your cheeks, and a sweet “i missed you, my snowflake. how was your day?” )

…

III.

who are you?

the FORESEER does not feel. he cannot afford to. he is not allowed to. the foreseer is as cold as the ice that he is both ruler and slave to, unrelenting, unforgiving. merciless. a tool for astra—a cruel god, crafting an even crueler tool. a hand meant to be made, tormented, and dealt.

and yet, when he sees you, a poor thief masquerading as an envoy... well, he cannot, for whatever reason, find it in himself to be a weapon. not when he sees visions of lives he has and hasn’t lived flicker into view like distorted deja vu, all centering around this false messenger he has ensnared in ice.

“you forget yourself, testing the limits of my benevolence.”

and even though the words are harsh (oh, and a small part of his inner self recoils at his words), the foreseer's voice is a gentle murmur. soft yet stern, a hint of confounding warmth in his cold tone; second nature.

( “don’t cry.” zayne says, at the end of it all. the jasmine flowers bloom, a gentle, silent symphony. )

cross posted on ao3 -- read it here!

creative notes: the iron dome in the playground represents the tower of thorns (?) in foreseer myth! zayne sits at the bottom (foreseer is always trapped) and reads h. c. anderson's "the snow queen" (which i think is quite fitting for astra-foreseer-mc), while mc/you is actively trying to escape the tower/defy fate.

a/n: went on hiatus for a bit due to uni work, but am back! will be working on the requests i got 🫶💕 i hope everyone enjoyed the new update for l&ds!!! i personally love sylus already, so he might make an appearance on my page eventually.... anyway, thank you as always for reading my stuff!!! i've never been this invested in an otome's lore until l&ds, so i'm just!!! i want to write more for them!!!

[wanderingsimsfinds]

WanderingSims Fave CC - Kids/Nursery Pt. 2 List

1-3, 38-39 - johziii - Nursery Prints Set (Animalia Paintings V1, Animalia Paintings V2, Minimalist Animals Painting, Wildlife Painting)

4 - SimsDeoGloria - 4t3 Charly Pancakes SMOL Framed Animal Paintings

5-6, 15 - MainlyJustTheSims - 4t3 Syboulette Candy Nursery Set (Books, Cat Plushie, Diapers Box)

7-8 - MainlyJustTheSims - 4t3 Syboulette Charles Set (Nightstand & Potty Chair)

9, 13, 17 - MainlyJustTheSims - 4t3 Syboulette Helios Set (Crib, Folded Towels, Nursery Table)

10, 14 - SincerelyASimmer - Baby Wipes & Pack of Diapers

11 - Metisse - 4t3 Babyganics Cream Wash

12 - Metisse - 4t3 Johnson Baby Lotion

16 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Soloriya Darina Deco Toy

18 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Leosims Star Wall Lamp

19-20, 22-24 - MainlyJustTheSims - 4t3 Cowbuild Rattan Nursery Set (Protective Diaper Rash Cream, Hydrating Baby Lotion, Brush & Comb in Ceramic Glass, Soothing Baby Face Cream, Baby Shampoo & Body Wash)

21, 25 - studio-papillon - 4t3 Pinkbox Anye Diaper Bag & Diapers

26 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Cozy Nursery Extras Baby Bottle Deco

27, 29 - Martassimsbook - 4t3 Cowbuild My Home Set (Rainbow Plush & Soft Bear Mini Chairs)

28 - johziii - Critters Reading Nook

30 - helen-sims - Ladder with Garland

31 - WanderingSims - Rugs 3 Collection

32-35, 41, 44-45 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Cozy Nursery Set (Changing Table, Toddler Swing, Cute Fox Baby Mobile, Retro High Chair, Baby Clothing, Sweet Home Crib, Baby Bear Bath Seat Deco)

36-37 - MainlyJustTheSims - Kids Jungle Room (Bed Base & Shelf)

40, 42-43, 46 - HydrangeaChainsaw - Cozy Nursery II Set (Rocking Horse, Activity Table, Deer Slide, Cute Cow Potty)

[sonichedgeblog]

'Sonic 2' was part of a Mega Booster Pak in Australia along with 'Street Fighter II'. You'd get both games in a special paint tin, that was also filled with candy, and a special random reward, like a watch. Support us on Patreon

[sugar-crash]

🍬King Candy (Wreck-It Ralph) x (gn) Reader👑

(Love Language Edition Pt. II!)

(Man the more I think about this song the more it just SCREAMS🔑 King Candy, “I’m that perspective you cannot doubt, see how I look! :D”. THAT’S LITERALLY SOMETHING HE’D SAY)

His love language: Quality Time, Gift Receiving, and Words of Affection

Gift Receiving:

- Yeah so, same gist of how it is when he is Turbo, but with some key differences that make the two really contrast.

- More willing to actually give you things for one, and his gifts are nowhere near as subtle as they used to be.

- It’s like he wants his love to be more apparent, have a kind of flair to it that radiates that goofy aura he’s keen to display for Sugar Rush and you especially.

- As mentioned in a previous post, almost everything he gives you is edible… Mostly because Sugar Rush itself is edible, kind of comes with the territory I guess.

- But he also gives you every opportunity to wander Sugar Rush with him if he isn’t too busy being a king, basically almost full access pass with him gently leading you away from places he deems not important enough to see or simply too dangerous.

- Whenever you give him something in private he practically swoons, overwhelming with his reaction to what you give him, especially when it’s from outside of Sugar Rush entirely— Gives him a small glimpse of what’s out there still.

- In private it’s more personal and accurate, thanking you happily before starting up where you left off last night with your shared conversation.

- He’s very good at keeping what you give him out on display for others to see, always ready to brag about how you care about him so much to the point where you consider his likes and interests when you get him something… And it’s like a little red racing kart keychain or something.

- With how defensive he is over the color of the castle walls, claiming they’re salmon and such, I feel he most certainly shared his distaste for the color to you in private—- Meaning if by some miracle (probably Fix-It Felix if y’all are pals) you get him wall paint to fix it… He’s over the fucking moon for it.

- And maybe you guys can make an activity out of it, painting over it bit by bit, getting rid of all that pinkness— Further cementing his place as king in Sugar Rush.

(Tda qnltifbdt rsk lkiy el ql jurd)

[twodogs-twocats]

Sleep Token as Roomates

For whatever reason, my Sleep Token fixation has chosen to lodge itself in my brain in the form of a New Girl-esque scenario…

Translation: You and all four band members are roommates. Annnd there is definitely romantic tension with every one of them.

Content Warning: very little justification for any of this. Just my 🌈imagination🌈

POV: fem reader

Vessel:

- the one everyone thinks is in charge.

- the most fun one to do chores with. he will get them done, but have a good time along the way. car karaoke on the way to get groceries, dance parties in the kitchen while cooking, playing the floor is lava while vacuuming. he will always try to make you smile even during the most boring of tasks

- workout gear everywhere. he’s got a pull up bar installed above his door, where he does shirtless pull-ups every morning. you only watch sometimes…

- honestly, probably always shirtless in general

- the best smelling of the bunch. lights incense and candles on the reg

- always doing little things to impress you. like as soon as you come home, he starts playing piano, or doing pushups. and then will pretend he didn’t know you were home when he catches you watching

- likes to come up behind you. if you are standing at the kitchen counter, he will reach around you to grab something, with his chest pressed up against you. he uses his size to his advantage, and he gets the sense you like how big he is

- paints your nails sometimes. and sometimes wants you to paint his. black polish only

- a very good cook. often cooks family dinners

- a bit unhinged, but I could see vessel borrowing your clothes and jewelry. like going to bed in your tshirt or stealing some of your rings for his shows

- honestly, I just picture roommate vessel as a generally soft goof

II

- the one who’s actually in charge

- very clean and organized. keeps everyone else in line (if you know the show new girl, to me, II is a quieter, scarier Schmidt lol)

- he’s the best listener. when you have had a rough day, he will listen to you vent for hours. or if you need help making a decision, he will help talk you through it. he gives 100% attention to everything you say

- he will surprise you with finishing little chores for you. you’ll come home to a freshly washed car, or your laundry already folded

- a plant guy. always brings home plants and takes very good care of them. runs your little family garden

- morning person. this man is up at the crack of dawn and has already accomplished about a dozen things before anyone else is even up

- enjoys learning about your hobbies. if you are a reader, he wants to know what you’re reading. if you’re trying to learn something new, he will help you practice

- toxic trait is that he would be the most jealous if you ever brought someone home. like very openly hostile

- light touches. like he tries so hard to keep it platonic, but you’ll feel his hand on your back when he walks around you, or his fingers will linger on yours just too long if he hands you something

III

- the messiest of the bunch. like he will help out with cleaning, but if anyone is leaving laundry or dirty dishes around, it’s this man (often causes little spats with II)

- loud and fun. he is always singing, dancing, playing music. when you get home he will greet you with a big hug. his goal in life is to make you laugh

- likes to braid your hair. and you help him with his space buns

- takes the longest in the bathroom for sure. He enjoys regular bubble baths, and often teases you that you are welcome to join him

- when III’s energy has come down a bit, he is a master at chilling. Im talking movie nights with popcorn and candy, building blanket forts with lots of pillows. (he will sometimes try to sneak an arm around your shoulder. Not unusual for you two to end up *platonically* cuddling on the couch)

- the best dancer. You always bring him when you go out dancing or to a concert.

- the most openly flirty. will always compliment your outfits and tell you how beautiful you look.

- he will also find any way possible to touch you, even when it’s completely unnecessary — hugs when you come home, putting his hand on your knees when he’s talking to you, and occasionally even kissing you on the cheek. he especially loves to see you blushing and flustered

- tinkers with his guitar into the late hours of the night. the sound often puts you to sleep

IV

- the most “bro”-y of the roomates

- like the only one of you who will ever put sports on tv (and you all complain and tell him to put on something else)

- the house barista. makes great coffee and is very particular about his process.

- you like to take naps with IV. You both will pile on the couch and fall asleep watching some stupid comedy. you often end up with your head in his lap and his hand resting on your waist.

- has a bit of a staring problem. he is the most obvious one about checking you out, and he does not seem to care if you notice. when you get dressed up, he will give you a full head to toe scan, and then proceed to stare at you like he wants to eat you (and he probably does, of course)

- enjoys going on walks with you. might not say much, but he always has a good time

- adds lots of artistic touches to the home. buying art or cool knickknacks to add around the house. this man has excellent taste

- the most protective of you. makes sure he knows where you are at and who you’re with. installed a lock on your bedroom door so you could have some privacy. (but he kept a key for himself, you know, just in case)

Etc.

- you definitely have a black house cat, and II is definitely the cat’s favorite

- your living room has been taken over by musical instruments. there is always, always music playing in the house

- all the boys are great at comforting you when you are sad. I could see any one of them holding you while you cry

- big family movie nights. all the boys love movies, so you will all regularly get together to watch something

[gretavanlace]

Sugar II (part 7)

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, language, angst, cheating, choking (barely, and only if you squint) fingering, etc

Hello lovelies! I hope everyone has had a wonderful holiday season and a very merry Christmas (if you celebrate). So sorry for the wait, but I trust you’ll understand…things get so crazy this time of year! Please excuse any mistakes you find, I did some under the weather editing. Xoxo love you all ❤️

True to his word, he was knocking at your metaphorical door the second their brief intermission allowed, and now you find yourself trudging along beside him through a nearly deserted parking lot outside the town cinema that is conveniently attached to the mall.

The mall sees little action these days as it is - throw in the fact that it’s early afternoon smack dab in the middle of the week and you’ve got yourself a recipe for isolation.

Which was exactly the plan all along. It’s a small town, and questions are the last thing you need.

When he’d pulled up in his rental, some luxury sedan with sleek black paint and deeply tinted windows, you couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled out of you. How out of place he looked…he would’ve seemed more at home on a tricycle.

Now, after a hug that felt too intimate in the unforgiving glare of the sun, he holds the door open for you, ushering you inside, ever the gentleman, when his phone begins to hum in his pocket.

“Here,” a credit card, black and heavier than standard plastic, slips into your palm as he nods towards the popcorn and candy, “Go wear it out.”

“Trying to get rid of me, Kiszka?” You tease, leaning in conspiratorially, “Am I your dirty little secret?”

With a roll of his eyes, he shuts you down. “Dirty? Yes. Secret? Not so much.”

He tilts his phone to display Josh’s name trilling across the screen. “You’re welcome to say hello, if you’d like. But I honestly detest the thought of sharing you right now. Sounds torturous.”

Your eyes travel over him like he’s a fucking meal. Linen pants cuffed lazily at the ankles to display scuffed and worn boots. Light blue button up, barely buttoned and hardly hiding the softness of his stomach, which you long to gnash your teeth into. Coins and medallions clink about against his chest, locks curling like ribbons along the shoulders of his midnight onyx blazer…no, on this you two can agree, you’d rather not share him either.

“Don’t let him talk so long that I have to miss you.” You smile with a wink that sizzles the blood in his veins as he watches you make your way over to the concession stand.

In keeping with yet another promise, he stands beside you before the popcorn has even been buttered, ready to follow you into whichever darkened room you’ll be inhabiting together for the next couple of hours.

When you fold into your seats, you find yourselves utterly alone.

A half an hour in, and you’re deeply regretting your choice. Something more PG would have been a lifesaver. You should have opted for something animated, for christ’s sake.

Watching them twist through the sheets, his hands dipped into her waist as she rocks above him in the gorgeous, cinematic lighting would normally have no more than a minute effect on you…especially given how little you’ve paid attention to the actual plot.

But he’s so near. You can feel the warmth of his body heat. You can smell that woodsy hint that lilts through his aura, paired with the ghostly remnants of a cigarette he’d swear he never smoked. If you leaned in just a fraction of an inch, your lips could play against the corner of his jaw. And again, you’re alone, so alone, in the cool darkness of this deserted theater.

Watching them this way with him so close has your heart banging about in the cage of your chest like a bird, stunned and frightened. Intense. Inescapable.

It’s the middle of the afternoon. The sun is beating down upon smoldering asphalt just outside these walls, bathing this town, in which you’ve built a life, in blinding light. Outside, it’s just another Wednesday…but here, with him next to you, quiet and concentrating on the two strangers making love on screen, you could be a thousand miles away. An alternate reality where in which only you walk the earth - Jake’s hand in yours as he strolls along beside you.

“Care to share what you’re thinking so hard about?” His question hushes out, though there is no one else around to hear it, but his eyes remain fixed ahead.

“I’m not thinking about anything.” You bristle gently…he knows you far too well for it to ever feel fair.

“I am.” His head tilts towards yours, but still he watches on. “Would you like it if I shared, instead?”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to talk at the movies?” You tease, simply to avoid whatever you know to be coming, “You really are spending too much time with Josh.”

A thought seems to suddenly occur to him, flickering a nearly visible lightbulb above his head. “Do you ever miss the way it used to be? With Josh? Before I came along and fucked everything up?”

His hand, which has been linked loosely with yours since the lights went down, offers a tiny squeeze. A reassurance that whatever the truth is, it will be alright to say it.

“Never.” And that really is the honesty of it all. “I miss the way things were when it was the three of us sometimes…but I think that’s really only because I miss you. I miss him too. But so differently. And I miss Sam and Danny. I miss…” you fall silent, searching for words that won’t come, and finally settle upon, “everything.”

“You don’t have to.” He is still refusing to look at you, though your eyes are heating his cheek with the intensity of your gaze in the dark. “You don’t have to miss anything, anymore. You can come home, baby. You should come home. I want you to come home. I need you to—” his throat catches, and you watch his lips fold in against the vulnerability.

“I am home.” You argue, wishing you could take it back the second you’ve whispered it into existence.

“Why?” Finally, finally, he turns to catch your eye. “Because of him? I’m so sick of hearing about him it isn’t even funny. And not just because I’m jealous - which I most certainly fucking am - but because it’s such bullshit.”

Trying your hardest, you muster a bit of astonished annoyance, though you feel none of it “My life is bullshit?”

His response is matter of fact as he turns his attention back to the couple still feigning ecstasy before you “Yes, it is.”

“That’s real nice, Jake.” Now your irritation feels a bit more concrete. How dare he so nonchalantly sit here in the dark and try to poke holes in what you’ve cultivated in his absence? “What isn’t bullshit, then? Our pretend life that you choose to live inside? Or the one from years ago that you can’t let go of?”

Another squeeze of your hand comes tender and comforting, “I’ll let that slide because I know you don’t mean to be hurtful…and because I know you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” you pull away and begin to miss his touch instantly. “I just…I have a fucking life, Jacob. And you seem hell bent on ruining it.”

“Okay,” he nods, turning in to nudge your nose with his own. “Take me home then, Sugar. Parade me through your life. Introduce me to Mr. Wonderful. Show me where you sleep. Where you watch TV with him at night. Where you take your baths, floating in the bubbles until you’re pruny and half-drunk on wine. Show me your backyard. Show me the walls he fucks you up against while you don’t think of me. Show me where you hide away from him at night to whisper sweet things to me…and not so sweet things. Let me meet your cat.”

His mouth is so close to yours you can faintly taste his minty toothpaste, “I don’t have a cat.”

“Alright,” he grins, sly as a snake, cheeks sweeping against yours as they perk with his smile, warm and soft “then just take me home and show me your pussy.”

It’s crass and ridiculous, and you know he’s said it simply to make you laugh…it works.

~

“So this is it, huh?” He leans forward, peering at your house through the windshield as you coast into the driveway. “No porch. No garden. But I’m going to wager there’s a welcome mat.”

His eyes cut over to you, a wickedly adorable gleam dancing about in them, “There is, isn’t there? How fucking quaint.”

How does he remember that you hate welcome mats? That you find them to be untruthful somehow, because certainly not everyone is welcome…some who find themselves at your doorstep should just go away. And how has he guessed that you do, in fact, have one? That he brought one home not long after you moved in and you hadn’t had the heart to tell him to throw it out?

Once more, you’re reminded of Jake’s uncanny ability to peer inside your head, but you refuse to stoke the fires of his ego. “You promised to behave, Jacob.”

He pops his door open and climbs out with a lazy stretch, “Oh, c’mon pretty girl, don’t tell me you believed that.”

Hand slipping from the steering wheel, you steel yourself with a steadying breath. This was a bad idea. A horrible choice. A disaster gearing up to wreak havoc…but here you are, leading the way with Jake strolling along behind you, taking in the suburban elements of your neighborhood with his hands buried casually in his pockets.

He always looks as though he has nowhere to be and all day to get there. It’s calming. Soothing. Like the invisible hand of a beloved caretaker reminding you that there is time enough to breathe. No reason to rush, it says…that gentle air about him. I don’t mind waiting. Take your time.

As you fit your key into the deadbolt, he resumes his antics, “When will Mr. Wonderful return from sea? Is there a widow’s walk where we might watch for him together on this dreadful day of pining?”

Voice warbling and pitched low, he reaches up and tugs a lock of your hair, goading you like a drunken, English pirate.

“Shut up, Oliver, or I’ll go inside and lock the door behind me.” The hinges squeak open…no turning back now.

“No, you won’t.” He scoffs, laughing lightly at his own nonsense. “Seriously, do I get to size up the competition today?”

You welcome him in, slightly dizzy at the sight of him sauntering inside…you’ve imagined him here so many times. Longed for his penchant for filling up space, fat and full, with his greater than life presence.

He makes you feel small in the most wonderful way; you are bird cupped safe and sound in his palms as he holds you close to his chest, protecting you from the world.

And maybe you should tell him these things…the way he makes you feel. His eyes would turn soft, he might touch your face with his tender fingertips and sigh your name into the room like a wisp of a breeze.

But a glance at the mantel, and the framed picture perched there, sends a tiny rush of guilt surging through your veins and you shake the moment off and instead opt for a stern…

“No, you won’t be sizing anything up today, Jake,” you move about the room to keep his eyes on you rather than in the direction of the mantel. “I’m not sadistic enough to subject him to your gleeful nastiness.”

He laughs like he’s never loved anything more, tipping his head back to expose his gorgeous throat…you yearn to bite it. “Gleeful nastiness? Sugar, you wound me.”

Rather than stride across the room to sink your teeth into him, you cross your arms, disgruntled and annoyed. “You’d have way too much fun being an asshole, and he’d be far too nice to put you in your place.”

That darkens his eyes, and you almost regret it. Almost. “Put me in my place? Are you choosing sides, sweetheart? Because it sounds an awful lot like you are.”

“Maybe I am.”

He’s moving toward you now, and you should back away, you know you should. Instead, your feet shuffle forward.

“Pretend your heart lies with him all you want,” he sweeps his lips over the apple of your cheek, “but I know better, and so do you.”

“Kiss me.” You bite your lip against the plea a second too late.

Those warm eyes of his, like coffee stirred with a splash of cream, flick down at your mouth and back to meet your gaze, and then his answer comes simply and with finality, “No.”

“No?” You’re incredulous, and admittedly stung by his rejection.

“No.” He reiterates, stepping away from you as your hands drop uselessly from his shoulders to your sides. “Take me on the tour, pretty girl. Show me this wonderful life of yours. I simply cannot wait.”

~

The “tour” he was so eager for is winding down as you steer him down the hall hurriedly, hoping he’ll ignore the door that is cracked and streaming light into the hallway.

Of course, he doesn’t. “What’s the rush, baby?” He smiles, feigning confusion, “What prize hides behind this one? Is this your bedroom?”

Suddenly, there is no space left between your bodies, and his is radiating a possessive heat as he backs you up into the room, guiding you along with a sure and steady arm wrapped around your waist.

“Is this where Mr. Wonderful fucks my girl?”

“Jake,” you’re protesting, but your fingers have curled into his shirt, thumb toying with one of the buttons that has likely never known what it’s like to be fastened. “Stop talking about it.”

He tilts his head in mock confusion, “Why? You like sex, I like sex, let’s talk about it, yeah? Oh, this is it right here, isn’t it? Look at this great big beautiful bed. Did you make it yourself this morning? Are the sheets clean?”

His mouth is at your throat now, licking and sucking between his terrible taunting questions. “If I laid you down right now, would I smell you on them? Would I smell him?”

“Jake, shut up,” you snap, but you’re pulling his lips in closer, hands fisting loosely in his hair.

You expect him to toss you down on the bed. To crawl on top of you. To grab you. To fuck you. To own you on the bed in some misguided show of territorial dominance.

And you expect to let him.

You expect to fight to be on top so that his hair will rest upon your pillow…so tonight you might drift away into a peaceful slumber gifted by the scent of him blurring your senses.

Instead, you find yourself pressed up against the wall, “I won’t have you in that fucking bed, even though I could, if I felt so inclined. I can tell you want it.” He sizes you up while grinding his cock into you with a delicious rhythm that’s got your breath panting out in tiny puffs already. “You do, don’t you, baby? You want me to fuck you in that bed. You want me all over the sheets he sleeps in.”

You’re ashamed, so fucking ashamed…but it’s true.

He’ll go, and you’ll miss him so terribly, and in some sick and horrifically twisted way you want him to spill on to the sheets, to leave his fingerprints on every surface. To lick across the bathroom mirror. To use your hairbrush so that there might be a strand or two of his silken waves left behind. You want him to drink from the milk carton and lounge about on the furniture. To lose the remote between the couch cushions. To tilt all the pictures uneven with his careless touch. You want him everywhere…to leave behind tiny remnants of himself once he’s gone, little pieces to ease your aching heart.

“Tell me, sugar.” He fucks himself against you with quick rolls of his hips until you’re praying his name. “Tell me the truth, baby. Tell me where you want me to give you my cock. I’m so hard for you, sweetheart.”

“In our bed,” it’s a rush of desperation as you clutch at him, dragging him closer to you…but it still isn’t enough, you wish you could crawl inside him. “Fuck me in our bed. Make me cum in our bad. Make me say your name in our bed. Please, jakey, please,”

Ignoring your disgraceful display, he continues to rock into you, gasping into the crook of your neck while his breathless moans tickle their way into your ear, “Does he make you cum in that bed? Does he take care of your pretty cunt the way I do? Does he make you shake and beg for terrible things? Hmm? Are you a good girl for him in that bed? Look at it.”

You shake your head back and forth against the wall, thrusting wildly to meet him. He’s right, he’s so fucking hard.

His palm wraps around your throat, squeezing at the sides, directing your line of sight. “I said fucking look at it. I want your eyes on that bed when I make you cum. I’m gonna make it mine without laying a goddamn finger on it. My bed, and my girl with her pretty wet pussy that belongs to me.”

“Inside,” it’s a rasping, shaking plea, and it should embarrass you and cast your eyes downward in shame…but it doesn’t. You’ve always wanted him this badly, and he knows it as inherently as he remembers the walls of his childhood home. “I need you inside, need your cock.”

“That’s it, fuck doll…” there is a filthy smirk evident in his tone, though his face is once again buried against your neck, “Beg for my cock. Tell me how badly you need it. Ask real sweet, sugar…be my very good girl.”

Your bodies writhe together feverishly until you feel like you might catch fire and burn away into ashes that will singe against his tongue like scorching want “Please, Jakey…please. I think about you all the time. I can’t clear my head, it’s always so full of you. Fuck me, fuck me, please please please…”

A painfully ragged groan rumbles out of him as his mouth, eager and starved, sucks against your throat, “Not gonna fuck you here. Not in this room where you let him touch you, not in this house where you let him love you.”

“Outside,” your teeth clench around the word until your jaw is screaming as loudly as the ache between your legs. “Take me out back, fuck me there…”

At last, his face, so beautifully flushed and dew-kissed, emerges from the crook of your neck, “You want me to take you outside and slide you onto my cock all wet and pretty? Want to let your neighbors hear what a whore you are for me? Let them hear how wet I make your gorgeous cunt? Hmm? Let them hear you whine my fucking name?”

“I don’t care what they hear…” you’re nearly mewling with need, clawing at his shoulders, clutching at his shirt, nearing your end, but so desperate to run from it because you want so much more. You don’t want this to be over without him slipped inside you, hard and hot.

“Look at me.” The insistence in his tone leaves no room for argument and your eyes flutter open to lock in on his.

A breathy, “You’re so beautiful,” trips off your tongue - a reflex that couldn’t be helped if you tried. He’s an evil, diabolical doctor banging a tiny hammer just below your knee cap.

A slow, languid blink is the only indication he gives that he’s even heard you. “You know my face, sugar?”

It’s the most absurd question that has ever been asked of you. Of course you know his face. Sometimes, it seems like you know nothing but his face.

Those sleepy eyes, that seem to see more than anyone has ever seen, down the deep and winding halls within you. His plush lips, full and pink, cruelly perfect, with a Cupid’s bow to rival the angel’s even if you stacked them all together. Rounded tip of his nose, different now, but still constantly luring your kiss. His jaw, so strong at times, so soft at others, but always begging for your tongue to trail along its path…his brow, his eyelashes, the way locks of hair display it all like a gilded edged frame adorning a wall in some ancient, European museum.

Yes, you know his face. You will always know his face. He is true north on your compass. He is the only direction in which your heart will ever willingly travel.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak even as your hips rock against him.

“Good girl,” he presses the softest kiss to your mouth, “I want your eyes on that bed when you cum, but I want my face in your heart, and my name on your pretty pink tongue. We’re gonna fucking erase him, aren’t we?”

Suddenly, you wonder who he means? Does he mean this new rival, who really isn’t his rival at all? Or does he mean Josh, even after all this time? Does he even know which? Do you?

“No, baby…” your voice is but a whimper, and it tugs a growl out of his lungs that makes you weaker still, “I don’t want to cum like this. I need you inside of me. Make me feel good, Jakey…make me whole.”

“Not here,” he shakes his head sternly and you shrink away from his scolding, head resting against the cool wall. “Never here. Not in this house. I hate this fucking house. I want to burn it down and salt the goddamn earth.”

“Give me more,” your fingers are tearing and pulling at him frantically. You need so much from him always, you need his everything.

“I’ll give you more,” his voice sounds feral, grinding and growling like sandpaper…like he is lost and stumbling along far away from himself, as he jerks you away from the wall and slams you up onto your vanity.

Tiny bottles and tubes tumble and spill to the floor, but rather than care, you reach back and blindly sweep the rest away to make room for whatever is about to happen.

“I’ll give you fucking more,” he bites into your throat as though he wants to swallow you down and carry you around inside him. “I’ll give you fucking anything if you’ll just let me. Let me, sugar…fuck, please baby.”

“Just…” you can’t finish your thought…can’t find your mental footing while vibrating with such desperation, so you don’t even try. Instead, you begin fumbling with his belt, but he shoves your hands away.

“I told you,” he grabs hold of your face, a firm yet shaking hand tight around your chin, “Not here. Stop.”

On your fingers march, fighting with leather and metal until his voice, soft and mournful now, guides you out of the haze, “Not here, sugar. Not here.”

Everything slows in a blink, as if fate has adjusted the playback speed, and you find yourself watching with bated, yet quieting breaths as he pops the button on your jeans and lowers the zipper, eyes on your face all the while.

He slips his fingers in slowly, carefully…you are precious and deserving of his care, and he wants you to have it.

“Lean back,” he soothes, the heel of his palm grinding softly against your clit, “Let me take care of my girl.”

You’re prepared to whine and barter, but he shakes his head the moment your lips part.

“Shh, settle down, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” free hand now petting at your face, he offers you the gentlest smile. “You’re so wet, sugar. So warm.”

“Jake,” you’re rocking up to meet him now, slipping into the breathtaking haze of bliss he saves just for you.

“What, pretty girl?” God, the way he’s speaking to you…each word dripping with adoration and awe. Drenched in lust. Positively soaked in love. “Does it feel good?”

“So good,” your eyes are drifting closed now as you wade deeper into the tepid pool of your Jakey. You want to stay forever, to sink into his swirling blue waters until you’re forced to suck him into your lungs and drown.

“Eyes open.” The demand is soft and delicate, like lace drawn across your flushed skin.

You recall his earlier instruction and cast your heated stare at the bed you share with a man you could never exist for the way you live and breathe for Jake, but he shakes his head, “I was wrong…I don’t want that. Look at me, sugar. Right here, look at me.”

How could you ever want to look at anything else? Your gaze locks with his, and in reward, he curls his searching fingers and drags a high pitched moan off the tip of your tongue.

“Good girl, baby…” he nods, dropping his forehead to meet yours “So pretty. Silky little pussy wrapped up snug and tight around me like she never wants me to leave.”

“Don’t,” you’re writhing and grabbing at him now, crawling closer and closer to the edge, “Don’t leave me, Jake.”

His hand trails down from your face to cover your heart, “Is that coming from here, too?”

Watching him like this, your chest feels like it could easily cave in…like it could crumple in on itself - a balled up scrap of cheap aluminum foil crushed inside a fist. He is a sonnet come to life. A haunting song, living and breathing, watching you like you are love incarnate.

Of course it’s coming from your heart. It’s coming from your soul…or perhaps from the soul the two of you sometimes seem to share.

“I don’t know why I keep fighting this,” strangely, tears are burning in your eyes as the white hot band of pleasure stretches tighter still in your belly, “You’re all I want. You’re all I’ve ever fucking wanted,”

Satisfied, the air sighs out of his lungs as his fingers crook just perfectly and unravel you with a jolt. It is such a lazy, undulating ribbon of pleasure, unwinding through your veins like slow heat as you gasp and hush his name.

“Just like that, baby,” he coaxes, sounding far away. “Nice and slow…just like that. Shh, I’m right here. I’ve got you, sugar, I’ve got you.”

Your eyes never stray from his, even when the intensity you find in them threatens to crack your chest wide open, and when you finally come down, that’s how you both stay for so long you can almost believe the rest of the world has fallen away.

When his fingers twitch and you shiver with overstimulation, it breaks the spell and he pulls back… reluctantly sliding slowly from the cashmere grip of your cunt, only to suck those two fingers into his mouth with a muted groan of content.

“Pack a bag, sugar…” his hands cup your cheeks, fingers slick against your face as his nose tips up to meet yours, “Or don’t. We’ll go shopping and I’ll buy you anything and everything you’ve ever needed. Whatever you want, pretty girl…it’s yours.”

“I—“ you can’t seem to think straight.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he’s teasing now, with a barely there smirk taunting his lips, “Let me steal you away and take you home where you belong. I’ll write pretty songs for you, and make love to you every morning until the sun is so envious of us it resents having to rise. Let me build you a house. Let me till a garden for my girl.”

At last, you find your voice, “I have to do this the right way, Jake. His heart deserves care. I don’t want to hurt him any more than I have to. I’m the bad guy, here.”

“No,” that soft, hidden away smile of his clutches at your heart. “I think I’m the bad guy here. I just can’t find a shit to give.”

~

You’ve righted your disheveled selves and are now attempting to right all the other wrongs, with you stretched out on the rug watching as Jake picks up the tiny bottles and jars that litter the floor, asking after each one…

“Highlighter? What the hell does this do? Are you a book report?” And “How many lip glosses do you even need, sugar? You only have two lips.”

…before carefully placing said product back on the vanity - when, way ahead of schedule, the garage door rumbles to life.

Your heart lurches painfully in your chest, but on his end, Jake’s eyes light up with menacing delight, “Well, what do you know, babe? It seems our dear captain has returned.”

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @gretasmokerising @thelvnternskeeper @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @paintmyhouse @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @jordie-gvf-admin @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake @gretavangroupie

[heauxvibez]

Born Again Virgin: II

Part 2 to Born Again Virgin

Amaia confidently strode through the entrance of her clothing store, the very one she owned, heading straight for her office. Today was special, she was about to meet a new client. Being a rising star in the world of celebrity styling, Amaia was in high demand, just like the famous Kim Kimble.

A call had come in from a manager, pleading for her assistance in styling his client, a WWE Star who had been making waves in the industry for years – Roman Reigns. Known as one of the top wrestlers around, Roman needed a new stylist urgently, especially with the Espy Awards looming just a day away.

Initially, Amaia hesitated, her schedule already packed for the day. But when the manager mentioned the price, she couldn't refuse. Without a second thought, she accepted the job, knowing it would be a whirlwind of fittings and designs.

As she flicked on the lights, Amaia prepared for the arrival of her employees. Her frequent travels meant she wasn't often at the shop, leading her to hire more staff than initially intended.

Turning the sign to 'Open' and another warning against photos and autographs, Amaia reflected on the growing attention her shop received from fans eager to catch a glimpse of celebrity clientele. What started as a minor inconvenience had escalated, prompting the need for clear boundaries.

Unlocking her office door, Amaia breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to be back in her sanctuary after weeks of traveling with other clients. Her office wasn't just any ordinary workspace; it was grand, almost as large as her own apartment. Walls painted in a soothing violet hue, complemented by sleek black and marble flooring, created an air of sophistication. A delicate chandelier hung from above, casting a gentle glow, while a colossal closet dominated the room's rear. Overflowing with garments ranging from petite children's sizes to the sizes of Rick Ross, it was a treasure trove of fashion possibilities.

Every item of clothing was organized by color and style. From elegant dresses to sharp suits, the racks carried a plethora of options, some already worn by clients, while others awaited their red carpet debut at upcoming events and award shows.

Adjacent to the expansive closet were two discreet changing rooms, providing privacy for those hesitant to undress in front of Amaia. She recalled with a chuckle the boldness of certain clients, like Rihanna, who did not care about undressing in her presence. Amaia couldn't help but be thankful that she wore a bra that particular day, given Rihanna's notorious aversion to them.

She busied herself fluffing the plush pillows on her couches. Nestled between them was a sleek glass table, topped with a bowl of yummy fruit candies and a stack of glossy fashion magazines, inviting guests to indulge in both sweets and style.

Reserved exclusively for her esteemed clients, Amaia's office was off-limits without her explicit permission.

Taking her place behind the desk, Amaia sorted through the scattered papers, her schedule filled to the brim. With appointments shuffled to accommodate her newest client, she made a mental note to reschedule today's and tomorrow's clients for Monday.

The lively chatter of her employees filled the air, bringing a smile to Amaia's lips. Each member of her team held a special place in her heart, and she always felt a bit sad when separated from them during her travels. She wanted to wait a bit before going out to speak to them, she focused on returning calls to clients, informing them of the scheduling changes prompted by her latest styling venture.

Mid-task, the ring of her office phone interrupted her concentration.

"Hey Amaia, you got 2 men here saying that they have an appointment with you today,"

"Names?"

"Paul Heyman and Roman Reigns.."

"Okay, send them in, thanks Makayla."

"No problem, boss."

With a soft click, Amaia hung up the phone, tidying a few papers into the drawer of her desk. Just as she finished, three gentle knocks echoed through the room, she rose from her seat and made her way towards the door.

As she swung it open, her gaze was met with the towering figure of a man clad in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweats. Her eyes traveled slowly upwards, taking in the breadth of his frame before meeting his face.

Damn, she thought.

He was undoubtedly the most handsome wrestler she had ever laid eyes on, and she'd seen her fair share. His features were chiseled and defined, sharp enough to cut like a knife. Dark, almost obsidian eyes poured into hers, set against smooth, pretty brown skin. His lips, full and inviting, drew her attention like a magnet.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Roman but you can call me Joe.." His voice, deep and seductive, snapped her out of her trance, though it sent a shiver down her spine, her knees trembling slightly.

A faint smile played at the corners of his lips, noting her reaction. The way she couldn't tear her gaze from his lips gave away more than she realized.

Roman wasn't one to brag, but he knew his charm. He was well aware of his good looks and the effect they had on others, especially women. Seeing Amaia's response wasn't new to him.

Purposefully, he licked his lips, revealing a set of perfect teeth in a charming grin.

"And I'm Paul, his manager."

She tore her gaze away from the striking sight of Roman, turning her attention to the burly man beside him. He sported a black and white suit, a touch of gray in his tie, his balding head lending him a seasoned air. With a weak smile, she extended her hand to shake theirs, introducing herself.

"Sorry we're a little late, I just moved into a new place an-.." Roman began to explain.

"No, it's totally fine. No need to explain.." Amaia interrupted, ushering them into the room and gesturing for them to take a seat on one of the plush couches.

As she opened the door to her closet, she headed towards the section reserved for men's clothing, selecting a few suits to present to Roman. Laying them out on the adjacent couch, she turned back to face him.

"Okay, so I'm styling you for the Espy's correct?"

Roman nodded, "Correct.."

"So, explain to me your style. Like what do you like to wear, favorite colors, so on and so forth..",

"I'm not too big on name brands and stuff like that. I dress casually for the most part. Colors..hmm..I like dark, sometimes with a pop of somethin' bright..you get me?"

She chuckled, pulling out a few dark suits and colorful button-ups and ties.

"I definitely understand,"

Roman glanced at his manager, who seemed preoccupied with his phone.

"What?"

Paul glanced up briefly, "Nothing, don't worry about it. I'll be right back." he smiled, nodding towards Amaia.

"Take good care of him while I'm gone." he requested.

"I'm not a child, I can take care of myself," Roman said, rolling his eyes.

Amaia giggled, "It's fine, I got him."

"Thank you."

She held up a black suit, "Come here for a minute.."

As he approached, she felt a flutter of nerves. His presence was intense, his cologne intoxicating.

Turning to face him, she held up the suit, "How about these black slacks with a black button-up and a deep blood orange or red tie? Or you can wear the black slacks with a red button-up and a black tie..no suit jacket, though.."

Roman considered the options, his presence sending her thoughts into a tailspin.

"I like the all black with the red tie, that would be pretty dope. What do you think?" he asked. His eyes stared deeply into hers, almost as if he were searching for something. If you ask Amaia, she could've sworn he was trying to find her g-spot by staring into her soul.

"I..I think you will look great in that." she stammered.

"Yeah?" he leaned in closer, his breath grazing her cheek.

"Yes.." she breathed out softly, feeling a flutter in her chest. Gripping the clothes tightly, she fought to steady herself. If his intention was to make her lose her mind, he was certainly achieving it.

The door swung open, causing both of them to jump.

"Joe, we got to go. You have a meeting in 30 minutes. If we don't go now, you'll be late, and that's not a good first impression." Paul said, fingers tapping away at his phone.

"What about the outfit for the Espys tomorrow? She doesn't know my sizes.." Roman's concern was evident.

"Text her your sizes and we'll deal with the rest tomorrow morning. Amaia, will you be able to be here at 6:00 am tomorrow?"

She nodded, "Great, problem solved. Let's goooo!" Paul exclaimed, ushering Roman out of the room.

Roman groaned, rubbing his temples.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow.."

"Yeah, tomorrow.." she murmured, glancing down.

"Reigns!"

"I'm coming!"

"See you later, beautiful.." his smirk lingered in her mind.

As the door closed behind them, she sank to the floor, her knees finally giving out.

"My God, what am I going to do with this man?" she lamented, her box braids threatening to fall out of her bun.

This born again virgin thing is going to be harder than she thought.

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

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade @empressdede @alichesmi @msbigredmachine @theninthwonder @blacst4r @sassginamillls @wrestlingprincess80 @saintmagx @headoftheetable

[gumnut-logic]

Gordon sipped at his recently constructed Tracy Sunrise mocktail, complete with a slice of candied lemon and mandatory umbrella, as he climbed the stairs into the comms room.

He and Virg were back from a successful rescue in England. Part of an ancient, like really ancient, two story cottage had half collapsed on its tenants.

Virgil had muttered something about stressors and mortar and age, most of which had gone over Gordon’s head as engineer technobabble, but John had agreed and thrown them all the numbers.

They had been in the area after pulling a sub out from under the ice in what was left of the Arctic ice sheet, so a quick drop in on the way home was easy.

The elderly couple had been saved. Their dog had gone missing for a moment or two, but Rover had gotten himself found by Gordon and all family members had reunited at the local ambulance with little more than a scratch or two each.

Couldn’t ask for a better result.

John sent them home and into the darkness of night time and what was likely to be a quick debrief when Scott got back from Australia.

Gordon had been tempted to drop in on Penny along the way, but apparently she was in Russia.

He didn’t ask why.

So home, a quick sandwich in the kitchen, and a tropical mocktail to shake the cooler climates out of his soul.

“Virg, you gotta try this.”

There was no answer from the lounge.

Gordon frowned. His big brother was nowhere in sight. He coulda sworn…“Virg?”

The familiar clink of a paintbrush being rinsed in a water glass just as Gordon approached the lounge…and there he was.

Virgil sat on the floor in his pyjamas, painting. It was hit or miss as to whether there was more paint on him or the canvas sheet he had spread on the floor.

Grandma was not going to be happy about that.

But…”How on Earth have you managed to get into such a mess so quickly? We only got home half a hour ago, and most of that was shower.”

Virgil grunted and didn’t even bother to look up at him.

Okay, immersed in what he was doing. Don’t prod the bear when focussed.

Instead Gordon sat himself down on the couch beside his brother and sipped quietly on his drink.

Gordon had to admit that he quite enjoyed watching his brother work. Brotherly ribbing aside, Gordon was quite proud of what his brothers were capable of and Virgil was great spectator sport.

Paint came out of tubes and was dabbed onto the canvas to create all kinds of interesting things.

Today it appeared Virgil was painting a flower of some kind. There was pink and green…a rose?

Virgil was known for painting flowers, after all, they had plenty on the Island to play with, but roses weren’t the typical.

“A rose?”

Virgil didn’t even look up at him. “Has thorns.” It was muttered absent-mindedly, and as Gordon peered closer he realised he had been a little mistaken.

The figure on the canvas sheet had its origins in a pink rose, but as his brother laid down more colour, it morphed into something closer to Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors. What the-?

His brother sketched in teeth and the painting snarled despite its pinks and soft greens.

Gordon frowned. “You okay?”

Another grunt from his brother only had Gordon frowning harder. Virgil obviously had a bee in his bonnet.

But then the lighting caught a particular shade of pink that screamed cloudy day reflecting off scattered petals amongst fallen brickwork.

Thorns.

There had been a climbing rose on that cottage. Virgil had said something about accumulated growth and the weakening of ancient mortar…

“We saved them, Virg, no one was hurt.” He reached out and placed his hand on tight shoulder muscles.

His brother sighed and sat back, just touching Gordon’s knee. “I know.” He rolled his shoulder, brush still in hand, and the joint cracked.

Gordon winced. “Maybe we should skip debrief-“

“No, no.” Another sigh. “Gotta get it out.” The last word faded as Virgil returned to painting his devilish floral creation.

Gordon just sat and watched his brother. Gordon could see desperate swim strokes in Virgil actions, that need to work it out of the system. He could understand.

Scott wasn’t going to be happy. But then Scott was never happy when a brother wasn’t one hundred percent. But they all had their coping mechanisms, both the gym and the Tracy Island trails could vouch for that when Scott needed to do the same.

Virgil’s method was just a little different-

(The plant monster now had dripping fangs)

-if a little terrifying.

-o-o-o-

[morbus-mlm]

Gravity Falls Headcanons/Things I Think About Often (1,2)

⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋ ⍋

- Blubs & Durland got married on the 2nd anniversary of Weirdmageddon. They picked that day specifically so instead of tragedy, it's their love that's focused on.

- the Manotaurs find the Several Timez boys and raise them, make sure they get proper care (look i really don't want them to do some weird genetic freak shit)

- after being on the Stan O' War II, Stan starts drawing again. He & Ford try to learn from each other and draw in each other’s styles.

- Stan is a canonical erotic fiction writer. He has self published work and sold it on amazon. He also uses Ao3,

- Mabel and Dipper would try & help Ford catch up on new music like they try to do with Stan, it goes about as well as you would expect

- Fiddleford & Tate have father-son bonding, Fidd finally teaches his son the banjo like he said he would when he was younger

- You know how McGucket reads at the library to kids. I feel like he works there, doing something like archival while working on his inventions on the side

- When the grunkles get back home from their adventuring on the Stan O’ War II, Ford asks about the Axolotl. Stan says that it just appears sometimes, & has been doing so since he's lived in the house.

- Ford thinks that it's Frilliam (he's right).

- in Lost Legends Dipper recives a new journal with his pine tree hat mark on it. it functions like his own diary rather than a super scientific, documentation thing like the journals did

- the twins do a lot of research & work to make sure Waddles gets properly taken care of in suburban California, he lives the good life

- Mabel learns boxing with Stan, Dipper learns forensics from Ford

- Giffany develops romantic feelings for Hatsune Miku

— Bill is an unreliable narrator. I feel like some aspects of his story are either made up or half-truths. He isn't exactly a master manipulator for example. Bill's just a being that utilized Ford's pride and insecurity to get what he wanted.

— Tambry feels like a creepypasta girlie. She wrote her own in the 2010s & she's actually pretty good with horror writing.

— Manly Dan and Mayor Tyler are at the very least besties. these guys hang out, watch wrestling, drink at bars together, they are each other's hypeman.

— Soos got McGucket into anime, Ford hears what anime is like through him and is honestly a bit confused

— the Pines family during one summer went to disneyland for a week. within 2 days they have killed walt disney's disembodied cryogenically frozen head, stolen some of the pyrotechnics, pet all of the stray cats, and ate the strange pickledog

— Mabel would introduce her family to it, Dipper would be confused and curious but not want it. Stan would buy it for Mabel but not eat any himself, and Ford would be just as curious Mabel and eat one.

— Robbie starts working hospitality at his parent's mortuary. He still has his attitude but overall, hes more mellowed out than before.

— in their elder teens Mabel, Candy, and Grenda become kpop fans. I say this because oh my god would they all love doing the dances, toploader decor, the lightsticks

— Stan's exes will sometimes visit the shack. In Eda's case it's to catch up, in Rick's case it's to either do karaoke or to get something from him. In the case of his biker ex Stan will just run him off the property because that man sucks.

— Mabel learns how to paint on leather to create a new design on stans old biker jacket. She does it because she notices that it makes him sad when he looks at it

— Once Mabel shows him what she did Stan just starts bawling in joy and pride. He wears it whenever he and Ford go on adventures.

— When Fidd visits the Mystery Shack, he will always gravitate towards Frilliam. Fidd and Ford can usually be found feeding him, changing the water in Frilliam's tank together, talking in front of him.

— Gideon has a twitter

— Soos is pretty business savy. He's really good at appealing to people online, he knows the trends but doesn't stick to them religiously, he maintains that work-life balance. He is the perfect man.

— Toby Determined x Tad Strange ???

— Multibear and Dipper do karaoke in front of the family, it doesn't matter how, I need them to do this

— Mabel, though she doesn't get visibly like, buff, does get super strong due to her practicing boxing and carrying waddles as he grows

— McGucket doesn’t really live in the mansion. He just really isn’t comfortable in there, + he prefers smaller spaces regardless. He has like, a trailer he lives in that actually serves as his home.

— all the windows of the shack get changed to circular ones or normal, square windows.

— Manly Dan is willing to do the work because he's wanted to punch that triangle ever since he saw it in Weirdmageddon

— Soos suggests full on question mark windows, the next best thing they would do is create question mark designs within rectangular/circular windows

— Ford and Stan sometimes donate what they find to museums. It's usually stuff neither would want in the house anyways

— like old ass art that isn't cursed, anything related to taxadermied heads (they can make their own, thanks), all false gold/money, wax figures

— neither Stan or Ford use hard labels for their sexualities, i feel like labels dont really connect with them specifically,

— Stan would go with unlabeled (he’s fine living life not knowing exactly what he is, he cares more about how he feels)

— Ford would use the word queer (reclaiming how he’s been labeled as odd as a good thing)

— aromantic Mabel, i feel like she would experiment a lot with labels before settling on it (girl likes the idea of love, just like me)

— trans Dipper. doesn't matter, they could be transmasc, transfem, genderqueer, agender, dipper is trans

— lumberjack lesbian Wendy, self explanatory

[genderfluid-pirhana-plant]

mario & luigi headcanons #2

mario has several nicknames for luigi! including: lou, weegee, weegie, and weeg. luigi, after the mr. L fiasco, continues to call mario “mr. jumpsallthetime” as an inside joke.

back home in brooklyn, there’s an alley full of cats near the bros’ apartment complex. as kids, they visited the cats often to bring them food and company, and still visit them when they can as adults.

they match socks just for the sillies! for example, luigi’s candy cane socks match mario’s green polka dot socks. they also have several matching outfits. if the outfit lacks their lucky caps, they instead wear something else to indicate who’s who. for example, mario wears a red bandana and luigi wears a green one (hint hint for an upcoming post >:]])

one day, luigi wanted to go for a walk with mario, but it was storming outside. mario said it wouldn’t be a good idea, since one of them could slip and get hurt. luigi, wanting to prove there’s no danger, goes outside into the front yard and stands firm. “see!? itsa fine—“ BAM! lightning strikes luigi. don’t worry, he was fine! but after that, he could conduct electricity and create small tornadoes. that’s where he got his weather powers from. mario, however, just keeps a fire flower under his hat.

mario likes little trinkets! he collects hair clips, backpack charms, pins, jewelry, earrings, stuff like that. he also recycles stuff to make trinkets, like turning bottle caps into pins for his toolbox. he doesn’t like things going undecorated. “it lacks the owner’s touch,” he says. he also makes pins for his overalls, and makes pins for luigi on request. for overalls, mario usually makes pronoun pins, since his pronouns change often (genderfluid).

mario has a walkman he carries with him, just in case sounds get too overwhelming. it’s in his toolbox, the one luigi carries in the movie. after the events of the movie, the walkman was lost! but eventually, some toads found it and returned it to the bros. the walkman is also decorated of course! he painted it yellow. he didn’t get one in yellow, he wanted to decorate it entirely on his own.

luigi, like mario, is also an artist! he likes photography, and has a big board above his bed for all his favorite photos. he also enjoys gardening, and tending to the pirhana plant he named audrey II. he’s a theater kid, so he loves being on stage and building set pieces. he only got a lead role once, but he nailed it!

[chocmarss]

Lionheart (2/4)

Chapter Summary:

“The Kaminoans were convinced that it was for bad behaviour.”

Skirata’s been standing there for ten minutes. The chips, all intact and looking just like the one Cody picked out of his own skull, mock him from where they sit on the slide.

“Independence,” Cody continues. “Anger issues, individualism. Whatever it is that wouldn’t fit the docile group of specimens they wanted from us. They’d lose out on the money if more than a bunch of us deviated. Hence, the hidden organic inhibitor chips infused into our brains.”

tcw. repcomm meet. cody-centric. post tcw. fulcrum!cody. rated T. 4.5k+ words.

@codyday2224

21:14, Negotiator II, 21 BBY

“Now, it’s easy,” Waxer says, back on the wall, legs stretched leisurely in front of him, his feet hooked at the ankles. He has a packet of those sour candies in hand, and lets out a sucking noise when he rearranges the pallet to the other side of his mouth. “You beat up the Commander, you win, you get his paint. Even if you didn’t win, you’d still get his paint.”

Wooley looks as if Waxer just told him to kick a puppy, wide eyes snapping to Cody before quickly looking back at his soon-to-be lieutenant, horrified. “I don’t think I wanna beat up the Commander.”

Cody watches Waxer smile widely, wickedly. Boil, who stands beside him, shoots him a look of warning. “Don’t worry, you won’t hurt him. He’s made of bricks under all that, so he won’t feel a thing. Aren’t you, Commander?”

“You won’t hurt me,” Cody tells Wooley reassuringly.

Waxer gestures at him. “There you go, bud. Straight out of the eopie’s mouth. So, just gear in and start punching the man.”

It’s Ghost Squad’s turn to use the training room, and it doesn’t stop the rest of them from being pulled into its direction when they hear that one of the not-so-Shinies is trying to earn the Commander’s paint. Excited murmurs linger at the edges of the room, those who aren’t on duty have already stripped off their armour into halves, with every bench and crate now bearing the weight of troopers as they clamber for a seat.

Perhaps having an audience is daunting; they’re about to be witnessed after all, to put on a show for the men around them, and the Two-Twelfth are more than happy to watch just who their Commander will give his full attention to in the first place.

READ MORE ON AO3

[gaylordscooter]

what art program do you use?

If you use ibislaint can you show the brushes you draw with? 🙏

also thank you feeeding me killerdust ii love ur killerdust art im gobbling it up like candy i love killerdust i love killerdust i love killerdust i love killerdust i love killerdust i love killerdust

i do not use ibispaint, i use clip studio paint primarily but i also use mspaint for doodles frequently

when i do draw on my ipad i use procreate

[autotopic]

1991 Callaway Super Speedster LM

Offered from the original owner’s collection, this 1991 Chevrolet Corvette Callaway Super Speedster LM is the second of only two so-called Series II Super Speedsters based on the ZR1 model.

The offspring of collaboration between Corvette performance guru Reeves Callaway and designer Paul Deutschman, the Super Speedster LM is an astonishing step up on the original Speedster, taking full advantage of the ZR1’s Lotus-engineered, all-aluminum DOHC engine and 6-speed manual transmission. One of only three twin turbocharged and intercooled LT5 engines built by Callaway, it delivers a pavement-shredding 766 HP, making the car the most powerful of all the twelve Speedsters produced by the company.

More than “just” an incredibly well-engineered engine swap, the Callaway possesses engineering modifications to the suspension and driveline that fully complement its massive power output. The Le Mans body is the only one used on a Speedster. Designed by Paul Deutschman, the Super Speedster LM is a unique combination of his brilliant Callaway Speedster and the dramatic and aerodynamically efficient Le Mans GT2 pole-winning Callaway LM racer. Luxurious appointments abound in the LM’s interior, which features the consummate craftsmanship of Johann Merkhofer.

Lavishly finished in leather and suede with specially embroidered seats, it is fully equipped with comfort and convenience features that include air conditioning and Delco Bose stereo with CD. Unique among Callaway Speedsters is the car’s removable double-bubble hard top, which shares the car’s gorgeous Candy Wine Red paint and evokes the closed-cockpit C7R racers.

[lxnababy]

II. THE ESCAPE

read part one HERE

wc: 5.4k

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

II. THE ESCAPE.

Charlotte chewed on her bottom lip as she stared at two dresses sprawled out on her bed. One was bright red—a shade Charlotte would never choose for herself, the bold color matching how short and low-cut it was. It didn’t have many embellishments, just a tightening fabric she knew would be extremely difficult to breathe in.

The other was her choice, a navy blue mini dress that had the tiniest slit in a khaki material. It was strapless with a zipper running up her back she knew would be nearly impossible to zip herself, the material stiff and unforgiving. It matched perfectly with the diamonds she bought herself (retail therapy after Harry rejected her) and she knew it would anger her manager.

With a soft smirk, she slipped the material over her body, reaching her arm around to tug the zipper up and huffing in frustration. Has she gained weight? She’d worn this dress before with no issue.

Her eyes widened at the horrifying thought—her manager would check her weight over the weekend, and certainly a glutinous meal with her stuck-up date wouldn’t help her. Charlotte’s hands began to shake; she did eat the candy Harry gave her, not bothering to check the calories before she did.

She pushed off the dress, walking over to her closet. Tears were forming in her eyes, though she refused to let them fall and ruin the black smokey eyeliner she painted on just minutes before. “Fuck!” She yelled angrily, ripping through every dress she had in her possession. She knew nothing would look good on her tonight—should she cancel?

Of course, this date was complete bullshit. Her manager thought she had stepped from the limelight for a bit too long and set up a date with a well-known actor, though the stories she’d heard about him were unsavory at best.

Standing in her cotton undies, her hair tumbling down her back, she crossed her arms and surveyed her closet. Nothing. Letting out a strangled grunt, she picked up the pretty navy dress she’d been thinking of all day and threw it at the wall, knocking over a lamp by her nightstand in the process.

Almost immediately, she heard her door whip open. Charlotte squealed at the intrusion, throwing her arms over her exposed breasts before Harry could look at her. “Shit, sorry, I thought you were getting mauled or something.” Harry threw his hands over his eyes.

She frowned softly, not bothering to grab a sweater to cover herself up—it’s nothing he hadn’t seen before. “No, I just… can’t find something to wear. I gained weight, I don’t fit in anything,” Charlotte sounded genuinely distraught, eyes watering once more as she stared at the navy dress in betrayal.

Harry sighed. She was far more complicated than any tabloid could possibly process, he swore only he understood her fully. And it was useless; he couldn’t have her. “Char, let me help zip you up. I’m positive you haven’t gained weight,” he discreetly tucked his gun back in his waistband—he heard a crash, it could’ve been Charlotte in trouble.

Charlotte nodded pathetically. “I don’t even wanna go, Harry,” she whined, almost hoping Harry would help her disappear. She knew he wouldn’t, though. His loyalty is with her manager. 

Harry gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to go, either. He’d have to sit alone at a table nearby, watching Charlotte schmooze with a random asshole who didn’t understand how lucky he was. He’d fucking kill to be in that actor’s place tonight. “It’ll be quick,” he offered softly, walking over to her dress and picking it up. “Here, step into it.”

Charlotte complied, her cheek grazing his shoulder as she bent down to step into the dress Harry was holding open for her. He was so close she could smell his cologne—it smelled like that lazy morning she dreamt about every night. She squeezed her eyes shut. He rejected her, she needed to move on. She was moving on.

“Please don’t tell me it won’t zip,” Charlotte gathered her hair in her hands as Harry squeezed her dress together. Every drag of his fingertips against her bare back was pure torture; she jumped every time only to melt into the sinful touch.

He was equally as tortured, every inch of zipper that slid up making his stomach twist. When he pulled it all the way up and tugged it for good measure, he stepped back. “No need to worry, princess. It’s all good now,” he offered, rubbing her shoulders.

Charlotte nodded, slightly embarrassed at her outburst. “Thanks, Harry,” she said quietly, her eyes darting around the room to focus on anything but him. On anything but the way his muscles strained against his halfway-buttoned dress shirt, or how the curls on the nape of his neck curled into the collar of his shirt, or how the bottom had become untucked and showed a sliver of exposed tattoos just above his hips.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, Charlotte. You know I only want the best for you,” Harry confessed quietly, trying desperately to meet her gaze despite Charlotte being so unwilling. “You know that, Char,” he repeated.

Charlotte blinked back tears—she seemed to do that often. “I know,” she agreed. “This isn’t the best for me, though. I’m miserable,”

Harry rolled his neck. “You’re safe, though,” he argued. “I can only keep you safe like this.”

She nodded curtly. “There’s other options, Harry. You’re making excuses. And it’s fine, but don’t act like you’re only doing this for my betterment.” Her tone was cutting, her eyes finally meeting him. There was a rage there he’d never seen before—heartbreak. “I have to finish getting ready,”

Her gaze flickered to the door. Harry nodded.

—

Harry was going to kill him. Harry was going to take the steak knife off the ridiculously expensive marble table and slice his throat open if he touched Charlotte one more time. She was laughing far too loudly at his jokes, her fingers brushing the hem of his shirt sleeve far too often.

And Harry could admit, the man was beautiful. Harry truly didn’t stand a chance. He sat there, wallowing in pity, remembering every moment Charlotte looked at him like that. He could count those times on his fingers, and it made him sick. He wanted her to only look at him like that—instead she gave him a cold, lifeless stare.

But when the man offered Charlotte over to his place for a nightcap, Harry lost all semblance of control. He stood up abruptly, his chair squeaking loudly against the hardwood at the disruption, and marched over to Charlotte’s table. “Ready to go?” Harry asked, his tone demanding and barely a question.

Her eyes flashed dangerously. “No, I’m having fun,” she snapped, tilting her chin.

He knew it was bullshit. He knew she’d rather be anywhere else than on this date with paparazzi exploiting their every move, but apparently ‘anywhere else’ meant anywhere that didn’t include Harry.

“Charlotte, it’s time to go,” Harry glared at her, his fingers curling around the back of Charlotte’s chair with a white-knuckled grip. “C’mon,” he nodded at the actor across the table, though the man didn’t budge.

Charlotte looked up at Harry, her hands falling into her lap in defeat. She was faced with two options—pretend she liked the shitty actor and move on, or fall back in her wallowing state of Harry obsession. And neither would bring her happiness, she knew that. “You seriously let him control you like that?” The actor nodded to Harry, who was looming above her.

She chewed on her pouty lip, her head spinning. “Control? You think I’m controlling, Char?” Harry asked, crossing his arms and tugging at the sleeves of his black dress shirt.

“I’m gonna go,” Charlotte finally decided, pushing the chair back and letting it screech loudly across the hardwood. “It was lovely to meet you, though.”

She saw the pride inflate Harry’s chest as she stepped back into his space, leaning close to him. “I’m sure the tabloids will love this,” the man smirked from the table. Charlotte stiffened, but refused to turn back and face him. Tabloids. He’d spill. He’d spill every inch of their date to the highest bidder—how her bodyguard was staring at them with jealous rage, how Charlotte stayed silent, barely asking questions, how he whisked her away. Her manager would kill her. Kill them.

It was a quiet walk to the car, though midway through Charlotte began to tear up, mascara falling in fat drops down her cheeks. Harry didn’t say anything—she prayed he’d never speak to her again. He opened the front door for her, picking her up to drop her into the seat, not daring to look in her eyes.

Charlotte sighed softly, pressing her fingers into the navy skirt of her dress. He climbed into the driver’s seat, staying silent as he started to drive. The tension was heavy and Charlotte was trying to calm herself down; she couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop thinking of how screwed up her life has become.

A loud ringing from Charlotte’s phone interrupted her, and she furrowed her eyebrows, seeing her manager’s name across the screen. “Hi, Eric,” she said, her voice a slight squeak, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

Harry peeked over at her, watching her face change. “Charlotte, why am I getting nasty calls from the most famous young CEO in Los Angeles saying you were unladylike and rude?”

Silent tears fell harder. “I’m unsure. I thought it went well,” Charlotte lied, looking out the window and covering her mouth with her hand so Eric couldn’t hear her cry. “Plus, aren’t I meeting a prince or something?”

She could hear Eric huff in annoyance, and blinked hard. “If your reputation is ruined from this, we will have to rethink your future. See you later,” Eric hung up before Charlotte could protest.

She crumpled into the seat, making herself small as she stared out the window. Harry was quiet, but she was happy he wasn’t speaking to her. She didn’t want to hear how he was only trying to help her, how he just wanted her safe. She’d rather feel free than safe, why couldn’t Harry understand that?

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quietly. “I’m so sorry, princess.”

Charlotte glared at him, shaking her head. “Yeah,” she said quietly, brushing him off.

He cleared his throat, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “Did you ever really want this life?” Harry was curious, and Charlotte wiped her eyes as she shrugged, watching as the streets became familiar and the garage Harry always parked in sat at the edge of two streets.

“I love modeling,” she said quietly. “I love showing off new clothes and being ahead of trends, I love seeing behind the scenes. This just got so out of hand,” she shook her head, then looked up and met Harry’s eyes.

It was the most they spoke since that fateful night, but she didn’t get her hopes up. Harry’s loyalties lied with Eric, she had to keep reminding herself. “What would you do if you never met Eric?” He asked, but Charlotte didn’t want to answer.

She waited until he put the car in park before replying. “Why would I think of that if I can’t change where I am now?” Charlotte asked, her honey blonde hair falling into her face as she pushed open the door. She didn’t want to talk to him anymore—this wasn’t the Harry that gave her a care basket or held onto her all morning. This was her reserved, curious bodyguard.

Charlotte climbed into bed barely an hour later, her hair tied into a braid, her pajamas barely covering her body as she spent the night looking at pictures of other models. She showed up in almost every group photo, but she refused to look at herself—she’d only make herself sick.

What would have happened if she never met Eric?

She couldn’t sleep. It kept her up, tossing and turning. She wouldn’t have the financial stability or the exciting, party girl life. She wouldn’t be able to live her dream dressing in frilly dresses and meeting the most creative minds in the world, but she also wouldn’t be under constant surveillance. Maybe she would be able to keep a boyfriend, maybe she would be one of those simple girls who were happy with a freshly brewed cup of coffee and stable job.

Maybe she wouldn’t hate herself so much.

—

Harry noticed her decline. Charlotte would trudge out of bed, ate much less and became extremely thin; it didn’t help that every tabloid enjoyed her body now, only feeding into Charlotte’s mental health decline. She would only speak to Harry if it was business-related, and only seemed happy when someone was recording.

Eric was excited to introduce her to the royal family overseas, though had informed Harry he was still working out the details and couldn’t let anyone else know. It made Harry sick, thinking he wouldn’t be able to live in the same apartment as her, the same city as her. He wouldn’t be able to keep her safe or feel her presence even if their relationship was hostile. It was like Harry was living in a never-ending hell.

This morning was no different than the rest, other than the fact Charlotte’s morning was oddly empty from obligations. “Hi,” she said softly, and Harry nodded at her. She was more quiet than the rest of the mornings, which made his eyebrows furrow. Her shaking hands were clanging around the kitchen loudly, which made Harry speak up.

“What’s wrong, princess?” He asked. His voice made her whip around and huff loudly.

“Have you seen the news this morning?” Charlotte shot back, crossing her arms as her voice wavered loudly. Harry shook his head, going to grab his phone. “They released the photos,” her voice was barely louder than a whisper as she admitted her horror. “My breasts are everywhere.”

Harry immediately stood up and opened his arms. Without thinking or hesitation, Charlotte rushed into them, squeezing him as her head buried in his chest, his shirt becoming wet from her tears. “I am so, so sorry, Char,” he rubbed the back of her neck, his other arm holding her tight against him.

“I just want to run away,” she whispered, looking up from his chest and meeting Harry’s eyes. “I can’t live here anymore. With Eric,”

Harry took a deep breath, his mind going blank as his mouth began to move. “I’ll run away with you,” he said gently, his finger caressing the underside of her chin. “If that’s what you really want.”

“I really want that, Harry,” she said strongly. “Living in the countryside away from everyone. Please?” Charlotte tugged on the hem of his shirt in nervous excitement. “At least long enough to get Eric off our back,”

Harry threw his head back. He’d have a massive target on his back if he helped Charlotte escape. But Charlotte. The girl who haunted his dreams, the girl who engulfed every one of his waking moments. “It doesn’t have to be forever. But I want you with me,” she looked up at him, her eyes filled with heartbreak and soft pleading. He would do anything for her, truly, she didn’t even know the extent of his feelings.

“Let’s start packing, then,” Harry squeezed her hips, trying not to think of the reckless decision they were making.

—

Charlotte began to shiver the farther from Los Angeles they got. They were now in northern California, wildlife surrounding the long strip of road ahead of them. Harry was quiet, and they were listening to soft music in silence. She already had five missed calls from Eric, but Harry didn’t seem bothered.

She looked over her bodyguard, frowning. He didn’t seem happy to take her, but Charlotte never forced him to join her. “How far out are we, H?” She asked, turning in her seat to face him. He was wearing sunglasses, one of his hands playing with his lips, the other on the wheel, dressed in his usual all black. He looked so handsome and he wasn’t even trying.

“Not too much longer,” he said softly. “Are you feeling alright?” He turned to her for a second, and Charlotte nodded. She reached for his hand, upset he hadn’t touched her once since they got in the car.

He immediately let her pull it into her lap—he didn’t have to stifle his feelings now, right? They were in the middle of nowhere; romance didn’t matter, right? He was sure Charlotte was thinking similar things, but he knew he broke her heart beyond repair. He would have to fix this, he knows. “I hope the house has a garden,” Charlotte blurted out randomly. “I’ve always wanted a garden.”

Harry couldn’t stop a soft smile from blooming on his face. Of course he knows she wants a garden. Of course he got a house with a quaint but well-kept garden out front. “I hope so, too,” he lied, squeezing the fleece material of her sweatpants as he kept driving.

Charlotte squealed when she saw the garden, spilling out of the car and rushing to the blooming flowers. Harry was following with their bags in his hands, grinning at her happily. “I want to stay here forever,” Charlotte grinned. “And we’re near the beach! Harry, this is lovely,”

Harry didn’t respond, but started placing her bags in her bedroom. “Thank you for coming with me,” she stopped Harry from working for a moment, placing her hand on his arm and furrowing her eyebrows. “You know I can’t do anything without you.”

He shivered when he touched her, placing his hands on her waist. “You know I will do anything to keep you safe, Char. I didn’t… mean for my mission to get so complicated.” He looked deep into her eyes, hoping she’d see the sincerity in his.

Charlotte nodded quietly, looking away from his intense eye contact for a moment. He didn’t like that she was looking away, and moved her chin back to him. “This whole situation is so complicated,” he said softly.

“But it’s not, though,” Charlotte argued weakly, meeting his gaze as hers became fiery. He loved that about her; she fought for him. “I just need to know how you feel, and I’ll leave you alone.” She crossed her arms, though she was so close to him every part of her body was pressed against his and had her almost fainting. But she stood her ground anyway.

Harry frowned. “You know how I feel about you—”

“Clearly I don’t, Harry! I think about that night every second of every day because it was the only time I’ve ever been with someone who treated me well. I hate living with you because I can’t escape you, and you don’t seem to care about me or that night.” Charlotte started to cry, angry tears spilling over her bright eyes, though she stood her ground. She didn’t step away from his intoxicating presence—she couldn’t.

“I love you so much I had to choose your safety over my feelings, Charlotte.” His confession made her step back, her head spinning. “Do you think it’s easy for me to watch you go on dates with shitty men knowing I can treat you better? I live down the fucking hall from you and can’t have you!”

“Who says you can’t have me?”

They both went quiet, breathing heavily. Night had fallen, but neither of them bothered to turn on the light. The windows were open, the curtains billowing and projecting pale moonlight into the bedroom Harry was unpacking her belongings into. Charlotte couldn’t say anything; she couldn’t absorb his words fast enough.

“I think you should go to bed,” his voice was venomous, and Charlotte backed up, tears falling more freely now that she was soaked in his final rejection. “I just… I can’t see you—”

“How can you say you love me, then?” Charlotte asked, voice breaking. He shook his head, bidding her a curt goodnight before closing the door and leaving her alone.

She stared at where he once was for a long time, crying. She would let him break her heart as many times as he wanted—she would always want him, she realized. She was pathetic, letting him ruin her over and over.

Charlotte couldn’t sleep, and started to get angry once more. She wanted to hurt Harry right back. Shrouded by heartbreak, she slipped on a pair of slippers and opened the door to her bedroom, slipping outside and looking at the ajar door of Harry’s bedroom, where she assumed he was sleeping lightly, and walked by it to get to the kitchen, opening the back door as quietly as possible.

She climbed through the wilderness to find a sandy beach not far from the house they were staying at, and sat down in the sand. The night was clear and a bit cool—she thanked herself for putting on a thick sweater before leaving—the tide high and the waves crashing just a few feet from where she was sitting. It was the definition of peaceful, and she was able to forget everything about her complicated relationship and the foreign town she now resides in.

She laid in the sand, staring at the stars as she lost track of time. Her honey hair was fanned around her in a crown, her fingers tucked underneath the hem of her wool sweater to keep them warm.

“Charlotte, Jesus fucking Christ!” Harry yelled angrily, sprinting towards the beach. “Why did you do that?”

Charlotte whipped around, furrowing her eyebrows. “Do what?” She faked innocence.

He glared at her, stopping to sit in the sand beside her. He was in a similar sweater to her, his hair a mess like he had just woken up. “You did this on purpose. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw your bed empty,”

She looked back at the water, her eyes distant. “Just needed some fresh air,” she said simply, and he huffed out a hard sigh.

“You’re going to kill me,” he mumbled, his shoulder brushing hers. She could feel his eyes on her, but she didn’t look at him. She refused to look up at him, she didn’t want to feel her heart break again. “Princess, look at me,” he said gently, his voice breaking.

Charlotte complied, her eyes watering. “I don’t think we’d ever work, anyway,” she reasoned, watching his eyes widen and his mouth fall ajar. She cringed at her own words; she wished they would. She wished she didn’t have to date by wealth or be followed by a manager who loved to shove her in dangerous situations. She wished she could just be with Harry, she wished she could walk around the grocery store or eat dinner at a shitty diner. She wanted to do normal people things, especially with him.

“I want to make it work,” Harry was quiet, digging his feet in the sand and staring at the tattoos littering his thighs as his shorts were bunched up high on his legs.

Charlotte sighed. “I think we either… make it work or never see each other again.” She said, her tone laced with finality. They both looked at each other, Charlotte twisting her lips into her mouth while Harry played with the sand, both nervous.

“I can’t not see you,” Harry said, eyes hardening. Charlotte blushed, shaking her head. “I’m serious, Charlotte.”

“What changed?” She asked. “A few hours ago you made it seem like you didn’t want me.”

“I realized I can’t live without you,” he said simply.

She can’t remember kissing him or who leaned in first, but her lips were on his. It was gentle and heavenly, the moon bright on their bodies, illuminating them. He pushed her back down onto the sand, pinning her hands above her head as the tide tickled their feet. They were both covered in sand, though neither of them seemed to notice or care.

Charlotte gasped as he nipped at her throat, sucking at the skin and groaning as her back arched into his body. She let him bunch her thick sweater around her chest, exposing her to the cool night sky, her nipples pebbling against the breeze.

Harry seemed to pause, the breath knocked out of him as he stared at his girl, open and waiting for him. She wiggled uncomfortably, and Harry hummed playfully. “This is better than my dreams,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her belly as he tugged at the hem of her sleep shorts. “Can I, baby? Let me see?”

She shivered at his pleading tone, nodding excessively. “Yes, yes, please, H,” she whimpered.

Harry guessed he deserved that nickname again.

He pushed her shorts down, pulling her undies to the side. She gasped at the cold air hitting her heat. He pushed her legs open, his hands exploring her legs as he tried to warm her up as goosebumps erupted on her skin. “Please, Harry,” she whispered, closing her legs before opening them to try and find some sort of relief.

He ducked down, pressing the softest of kisses to her clit. She jumped, her body bouncing back as she covered her mouth with her hand, not wanting to disturb the serenity of the quiet beach. She could barely spare a glance down at Harry—the surf crashing against the sand behind her bodyguard who was unraveled with hungry eyes was almost too much to bear.

His long hair was tied back, but she pushed her fingers through his curls to hold some semblance of control. He pushed his tongue through her folds, his eyes holding onto hers as he puckered his lips over her. Her jaw dropped and her eyebrows furrowed as she struggled to hold onto his eye contact.

The feeling was ethereal. Harry was groaning against her like this was his first drink of water after days of drought, his hands holding her hips down into the sand to stop her from squirming. “Harry,” Charlotte whispered, unable to say anything other than his name. “H, want to f-feel you—fuck,” she dropped her head into the sand, her legs going lax as her body struggled to comprehend the pleasure.

“You are feeling me, baby,” Harry pulled away slightly, his mouth dripping in her arousal. Charlotte whined out at his teasing, though it quickly turned to gasps when he dove back into her, pressing wet kisses to her clit before climbing up her body. “You wanna feel more of me?” He hummed, watching as she nodded mindlessly, her eyes closing in a daze. “Say it,”

Charlotte started to shiver as she looked up at him, concentrating on his features. “Please, please want you to fuck me,” she whispered, her hands climbing up his chest to squeeze his shoulders, wanting to be as close to him as possible.

Harry seemed lost in her for a moment, looking possessed as he leaned down to kiss her tenderly before pushing her thighs up to her chest and pushed his boxer briefs down his legs. She was so wet from his mouth and her arousal he could practically feel her welcoming him in. “I love you,” his voice was gruff, his eyes wild as he pushed into her. She gasped out at the intrusion, gripping his sweater.

“I love you,” she whispered back, feeling equally as wild. “I don’t want you to leave.” Charlotte’s nose nudged against his, forcing herself to stare at him despite the feeling of his soft thrusts wanting her to collapse against the sand, sandwiched between her bodyguard and the earth.

“I won’t, Char,” he held her close to him, almost like he was afraid she’d wither away in his arms.

They fell into a mess of moans and whimpers as he picked up the pace, trying to show her how he’d always take care of her. He was pushing into her at a damning place, his thumb brutally touching her clit, placing harsh and unrelenting pressure against it. Charlotte could feel herself slipping away as he manhandled her, a smile playing on her face as he showed her how hard he loved her.

“That feels good, princess?” Harry smirked breathlessly. “Is my baby smiling because she knows she has someone who would kill for her?”

Charlotte threw her head back as he tweaked her nipple. “Mhm,” she managed to cry out, squeezing her legs around him tighter. She had seen Harry in action before, and he had the same unhinged look on his face now. He was uncontrollable, almost animal-like. 

Without thinking much, she took his hand from her belly, bringing it to her neck and encouraging him to squeeze it. His eyes dilated and his hand wrapping around her petite neck easily. She opened her mouth in a soft whimper, arching her back as he picked his face, the cold water tickling their legs as the tide seemed to rise.

“G-gonna cum,” she looked up at him, her voice hoarse from the pressure on her throat. “H, please,” Harry used his free hand to rub her clit, his hips stuttering as he tightened his grip on her windpipe. They both released together, Harry dropping his head to her chest as euphoria filled his head, his hands holding her hips and rubbing soothing circles on the skin there.

They laid in silence for a few moments, until Isa played with his hair and tilted his chin up to look at her. “The water is freezing,” she said quietly, studying his beautiful, fucked out face. She loved him. A lot. “And my back hurts.” She added in a teasing tone.

“We can’t have that,” he hummed, kissing her jaw and pulling them both up from the sand. He scooped her up, watching as she buried her head in his chest as he started walking across the beach, stepping into the woods beyond it as he spotted the small cottage.

“We should live here forever,” Charlotte said dreamily as Harry fumbled to unlock the back door. “It has a garden and there’s no Eric and you’re here.”

Harry kicked the door shut behind him, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “That sounds perfect, Char,” he smiled, carrying her to his bedroom and dropping her onto the bed before following behind her quickly. He kissed her jaw before flopping beside her. “We’re gonna get sand in my bed.” He groaned, and she lulled her head over to face him.

“Too sleepy to shower. Tomorrow,” she mumbled, her eyes closing before fluttering open and repeating itself. Harry pushed strands of hair out of her face, his thumb pressing against her cheek. 

Even long after she fell asleep, Harry laid awake, admiring her. The way the moonlight fell over the coves of her face, how her hair fell behind her in sandy waves, how her arms wrapped around one of his, cuddling with his bicep. She was a proper angel, he was so lucky she had forgiven him and given him another chance.

He didn’t want to sleep. He didn’t want to miss a chance to protect her, but his body was exhausted and he felt himself drifting away.

—

Harry woke up to an empty bed. He shot up, eyes widening as he felt around for Charlotte, though she wasn’t there. No one was there.

He quickly grabbed his gun and whipped open the bedroom door, eyes wild and fear constricting in his chest as he checked her bedroom to see it untouched. Then he checked the kitchen. It was eerily quiet in the cottage, and Charlotte was nowhere in sight.

He took a deep, shaky breath. “Char?” Harry called out, opening the front door.

She wouldn’t just leave. Harry knew that. Charlotte didn’t have anywhere to go—he drove her to the middle of northern California, he fell asleep with her tight in his arms. “Charlotte?” He called again to no avail.

Panic rose in his throat as he immediately tried calling her, though it went straight to voicemail each time. This was Harry’s worst nightmare, flashes of last night burning in his brain. He didn’t want to sleep because he was afraid she’d disappear. He called her phone again and again, then went to see if her clothes were still unpacked in the closet.

Everything was untouched, like Charlotte never lived there. He lost her.